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 . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
“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 . . .
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 . . .
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