On narrow Saunders Street, in the shoddy suburb called Caraleigh at the southern fringe of Raleigh, N.C., stands the Windmill. Its dragon-green neon arms whirl day and night, its sexy carhops skip out in black slacks to take orders on the big, asphalt parking space, its gigantic jukebox, hitched up to outdoor amplifiers, drenches the area with blare: Pin Ball Boogie, maybe, or Jo Stafford's plangent yearning for someone to Make Love to Me —and always plenty of hillbilly.
Presiding over the Windmill's pleasures is 38-year-old ex-Marine Sam Bell, a hard and practical man....
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
