On the Road
As we passed drowsy Illinois towns where the people are so conscious of Chicago gangs that pass like this in limousines every day, we were a strange sight: all of us unshaven, the driver barechested, two bums, myself in the back seat, holding on to a strap and my head leaned back on the cushion looking at the countryside with an imperious eye - just like a new California gang come to contest the spoils of Chicago, a band of desperados escaped from the prisons of the Utah moon.
When we stopped for Cokes and gas at a small-town station people came out to stare at us but they never said a word and I think made mental notes of our descriptions and heights in case of future need. (III.9.25, III.9.26)
To make up lost money he pulled tricks in the lot, a change artist of the first order. I saw him wish a well-to-do man Merry Christmas so volubly a five-spot in change for twenty was never missed. (IV.1.3)
Henry Glass was riding the bus with me. He had got on at Terre Haute, Indiana, and now he said to me, "I’ve told you why I hate this suit I’m wearing, it’s lousy - but ain’t all." He showed me papers. He had just been released from Terre Haute federal pen; the rap was for stealing and selling cars in Cincinnati. A young, curly-haired kid of twenty. (IV.2.2)