![]() The constant noise, mostly men arguing and complaining in abundantly loud voices, was a vestige from their time in prison. As part of his release, the authorities required him to stay six months at this halfway house run by the Salvation Army, a decaying three-story red-brick building on the city’s near West Side. Five months earlier, George had been released from a federal prison in West Virginia after serving ten years for possession of a handgun while guarding a heroin sale. He wanted to do nothing to alter its impermanence. And a Fender bass guitar leaning against a wall. A portable color television and a radio, along with three cans of pop and a bag of potato chips, sitting atop a scratched wood desk. A dog-eared Bible resting on a bedside table. George Spivey purposefully kept his room bare. ![]()
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