in memoriam: James E. Davis (1962-2003)

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He always came on with a bounce, the way a sparrow hops on pavement. His psychic elasticity, as much as those granite muscles bulging in the sleeves of his suit, grabbed you in a lung-shriveling embrace and you knew he was 24-carat when he said, "So glad to see you, Brother!" Even on the hottest days he kept his jacket on, for it concealed the firearm that as a retired police officer he was licensed to carry.