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 . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
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.” . . .
You have to go down a lot of steps to get to what’s left of the furnaces, so not many people come here. That’s why I use this place, but it got me thinking all the same. This was where it started, where – like the historical marker says – we made the steel that won the Civil War. Now it’s four ruined rock walls. This used to be the heart of the city, or maybe the lungs for the great bellows it had. Now it’s broken and useless. The city’s own black lung . . .
The last time I saw my father was in October of 1972 . . .