Rheinhardt, attempting to follow Noonan around the periphery, was suddenly confronted with the presence of King Walyoe. Grotesquerie, he thought, madness. The first movie he had ever seen, some twenty-five years earlier, had featured King Walyoe: he had passed representations of this lean tanned countenance a thousand times. Now it swung before him, sagging slightly and a mite liver-eyed, with an expression of curious displeasures as though he were John Carradine or Barton MacLaine.
“King,” Noonan said nervously, “I don’t think you know Rheinhardt.”
Rheinhardt decided to simply walk around him on the theory that movies were necessary and nourishing in their place, but life, whatever it was, something else. It was like finding Sidney Greenstreet waiting for you in your hotel room.
“Hey,” King Walyoe drawled, “hey you disc jockey.”
Shit, Rheinhardt thought– what to do. Break a chair over his head? That never worked.
“Hi,” Rheinhardt said.
“Hi?” King Walyoe asked, outraged.
“Yes,” Rheinhardt said. “Hi. Aren’t you King Walyoe?”
“King Walyoe,” King Walyoe declared.

from Robert Stone, A Hall of Mirrors, p. 293.

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