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Clint Eastwood would have been jealous of that kind of quick-draw accuracy.
Bushy heads turned and from that clutch of lanky, narrow-eyed trouble stepped Pete Decker of all people, who looks in my memory like a seventh-grade Clint Eastwood and who, it was rumored, had been kicked out of Golden Gloves boxing for cheating or biting or paralyzing a kid, depending on which version of the story you heard.
Also saloons, beer, whiskey, red-eye, and a falling-down-drunk Lee Marvin (who couldn't sing or dance, but then neither could Clint Eastwood or Jean Seberg, and who cares?
The drummer, forearms resting on the bar’s polished surface, chatted amiably with the tall, ginger-haired and handsome Clint Eastwood lookalike—Christ, Annie was right on the money about that—both men’s expressions relaxed and full of eye-crinkling smiles.
Merri had always thought he looked like a pre-squint, pre-scowl Clint Eastwood in his rugged and handsome prime—all hard angles, cabled muscle, and lethal calm—with eyes the deep blue of a sunlit summer iris.
John Berendt had written his wildly successful book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, and Clint Eastwood had come to town to make the film.