“Let’s not think about it,” was what he kept telling her. She knew he might kill her. She knew too much.
I’d been in Stateline for four days, trying to find a coke dealer named Daniel Fowler. He was the reason my friend Powell was headed to San Quentin, or so I’d been told.
Norman drove towards his home town of Sycamore, Missouri. It was about sunup on a Sunday. He had been driving for many hours.
Pepper, it’s you and me now. Haven’t we been happy long as we stayed close?
After a few weeks the VW bug I drove, which I parked at night out by the gravel road a third of a mile from my house in the woods, was burgled.
The house had been vacant for a long time, the realtor told me, but she wasn’t sure why.
Detective Almodovar, half Polish, half Puerto Rican, sits in the playground at the corner of Borinquen Plaza and Rodney Street.
Today, Ultras threw rocks and policemen fled. Tonight, Ivana is still standing, the breeze tickling her skin.
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