The sun is only just getting tired, sliding itself down behind the row of houses on the other side of Missouri. The sky is gray and restless. “Might be one of them derechos tonight . . .”
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
Every South London borough has a murder mile. A stab alley. A no-man’s land patrolled by kids steeled with knives . . .
At 8:55 am, I was waiting for her. Like a vocation. As any man with a woman will confirm—waiting on her is a gig. Maybe me more than most . . .
“You must smoke crack if you think we’re riding with y’all.” . . .
Wearing a blue TSA uniform, a LaGuardia Airport security badge and large wraparound dark glasses, Jay drove to the south runway, where Morrison and his pilot were preparing for a pre-dawn flight . . .
In the 1950’s, I lived on The Barbary Coast—a five-block stretch that separated the “men only” taverns of Jersey City from the “women welcome” honkytonks of Union City . . .
Roberts stood silently until the man nodded, said, “That’s my brother.” . . .
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 . . .