Her message said eight and so I was there eight sharp like a good little lapdog. Marla had a way of reaching inside of me and ripping out my backbone . . .
The grave is waist-deep when the cramps start . . .
After the meal we headed back to the Groucho Club. We were a few drinks in now. We went upstairs and had some cocaine in the restroom . . .
University College, London. Johnson marched me through the clipped campus, down echoing corridors, past alabaster busts and locked doors. At the end of a long corridor, he stopped at a door marked Private.
“It’s never too late for university, Cartier,” he said, knocking.
The stink of Thames mud woke me and I knew he was back . . .
It took the bulky female bouncer all of five seconds to find the stash in Sallie’s bra: “Now, what’s this, love? Next time keep it in your knickers.”
Damn it—now she’d have to try to score inside . . .
It’s happy hour at the Dirty Lemon, but I recognize the same lipstick smear on my glass from when I was in here this morning. It’s 9 pm, but the room is still hot and my half-drunk beer is already warm . . .
To celebrate the release of The Family Mansion, Hirsh Sawhney asks Anthony C. Winkler about his writing process; what he thinks should be required reading for people interested in the Caribbean; and why writing screenplays is so different than writing a novel.