There was a stable door separating the paperboys' area from the back shop. It was always locked; scud books. Saturday morning was payday. We'd be sitting on the benches, waiting for the boss to turn up. We knew when he was there - cigar smoke would come seeping through the crack between the top and bottom halves of the door. Thinking back on it, I can picture him, bent double, blowing smoke through the gap. The man with the money. And the scud books.
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