The bell above the door jingled. Clark Tennyson looked up and smiled. “Hello Mrs. Hanniford, good to see you again. What’ll it be today?” he asked.
Tag: Bruce Harris
The cop listened. He pulled it together long enough to ask the caller to repeat himself. “It’s not funny. It’s theft. Someone took a porta potty!” . . .
Imagine hitting four home runs in nine innings and losing the game . . .
Big Lew’s ample hips flopped over the sides of the wooden chair. The lunch crowd hadn’t yet begun to stream in . . .
“More powerful than a locomotive!” screamed the headline in Maine’s Portland Press Herald. Ted Schultz feasted his eyes on the front page, and then turned his attention to the meat eaters’ breakfast special in front of him. “It’s got bacon, ham, sausage, and corned beef hash over three eggs,” pined the diner’s waitress minutes prior. “Breakfast special number two, a meal fit for a hero. And it’s on the house! . . .”
Here I am, ten minutes after five in the a.m., standing on Fowler Street, one of Trenton’s meanest, a shit-eating grin on my face. How did I get here? It’s like this . . .
Soaking rain had stopped, typical of an August afternoon. It hadn’t cooled things off, only made the air more steamy and humid . . .
“I busted whores here years ago. Now? Minnie Mouse . . .”
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