“Hamptons Beach Bash” by Howard Gimple
We’re parked at the end of a long driveway. Pristera wags a finger at me. “Stay in the car . . . “
We’re parked at the end of a long driveway. Pristera wags a finger at me. “Stay in the car . . . “
She was right, I just got him seven minutes ago, but it was my turn again . . .
Lars Thompson opened the fridge and looked for something to eat. It had been several days since he’d had a real meal that didn’t come from a garbage can . . .
Now that R.I.P knew how to achieve his goal, he just had to find the means. So he got into his clunker of a car, which was parked on one of Detroit’s countless seedy, run-down streets littered with as many broken streetlamps as broken dreams . . .
We are supposed to meet beneath the stars, while the ocean whispers. I’ve stripped to my briefs and sampled the water with my toes . . .
The first thing out of his mouth when I sat down was about the High Park. I hadn’t been in maybe a year or so since I’d moved out of the neighborhood, but my brother was a regular . . .
Now Available: Oakland Noir, edited by Eddie Muller and Jerry Thompson.
I always knew the kid was going to kill somebody, but no one believed me, especially my brother.