Roberts stood silently until the man nodded, said, “That’s my brother.” . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
This morning, the front page of the East Hampton Star headlined the robbery and spectacular murder of a local resident in her home. Strangled with fishing line . . .
She brushed her hair, watching her hazel eyes, her wide lips, and her creamy dark complexion. The card lay on the vanity: John P. Fletcher. She put on the white dress she had laid out on her bed. She opened her purse, slid in the compact Ruger, silver with a black handgrip, and walked slowly to the corner . . .
Jack had been living the good life for a long while but still hadn’t made it out of the day to day dealings his position demanded of him . . .
On Columbus Day weekend my brother and I had gone to a mass dedicated to our father who’d died of a heart attack in the back room of 1998 Niagara Street . . .
Tal Afar Town is what they call us, but we’re not the real deal. The casting agency had to open it up to “actors of Middle Eastern or Mediterranean descent in good standing with the Union.” Who cares if we’ve got a few Armenians, and even a Steinberg from Scarsdale . . .
The skinhead wipes the rain out of his eyes and cackles. “I’m glad I’m not the poor bastard that has to try and identify your body.” His pump-action shotgun is wedged against my throat. He is going to make one hell of a mess . . .
Once, I lived in Tarrytown, in a six bedroom Tudor set high in the hills. My living room windows looked out across the Hudson to the green expanse of Rockland County on its far side. This was back when I was married; before Floyd Flake bit off my left ear and won the World Heavyweight title by a “knockout.” . . .