We’re parked at the end of a long driveway. Pristera wags a finger at me. “Stay in the car . . . “
Tag: Howard Gimple
Eammon Doyle wrapped his fist on the bar. “This is Col. James Kelleher, Jungle Jim to his friends. He’s just back from Belfast. I know some of you lads are thinking of joining the fight, so I asked him to talk to you.” . . .
Jay sat cross-legged under a cobia tree, the majestic Mayan tree of life, where the gods hung out to keep an eye on their minions below . . .
Kelleher piloted the small motorboat out of Mullaghmore’s famous stone harbor to establish an alibi. McMahon and McGirl, the IRA men, sat stiffly in the back . . .
Brigid Quinlan clutched the corduroy sleeve of Russell Townsend’s blazer and sneered at the herd of journalists being restrained by two burly policemen. She smiled smugly as she and Townsend breezed past them. “Fuck you all,” she whispered under her breath . . .
Marlowe felt his life crumbling around him. He had recently been called before the Privy Counsel, a combination grand jury, federal prosecutor and Supreme Court. His friend and roommate, the playwright Thomas Kyd, had been arrested for treason . . .
Kelleher ran towards Nathan’s, Coney Island’s legendary wiener wonderland. The Ukrainian’s final fetid breath was still stinging his nostrils . . .
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