The man sitting in my living room says to me, “I heard what you did for that other guy.”
Paul steered the deadrise boat around the shoals, keeping his distance from the shallow Chesapeake waters around the barrier island. Wouldn’t do to get stuck in the muck. Not today.
Another doorway opens and two more guys come through the door with guns. “What is this?” one guy says.
“This is our room. We’re here to get Ed.” “So are we.”
I’d been in Stateline for four days, trying to find a coke dealer named Daniel Fowler. He was the reason my friend Powell was headed to San Quentin, or so I’d been told.
“Let’s not think about it,” was what he kept telling her. She knew he might kill her. She knew too much.
Pepper, it’s you and me now. Haven’t we been happy long as we stayed close?
After a few weeks the VW bug I drove, which I parked at night out by the gravel road a third of a mile from my house in the woods, was burgled.
“Thieves,” Officer Summers said, “are generally lazy.”
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