Fiction | March 01, 1994

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Van Cleuve usually got the best women. It was a given. It started when he and Harry Durance and I were classmates at West Point. Harry and I would meet our Brooklyn or Bronx girls at Penn Station, but Van Cleave would usually vanish for a while and show up later with some pale blonde who you could just smell the money on. Some girl that would fix her icy blues on the view outside the cab window just so, and ride all insulated by her nickname and good fur.

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