Teammates on the Watertown High hockey team called them The James Brothers. James Rogers was a blue-eyed white teenager while James Brook was the only African American on the team. The two friends were inseparable and after high school graduation, they decided to hitchhike together across the USA . . .
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.