Jay was sure that he didn’t know a single person in the bar . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
A white Prius squealed up the driveway of the Chevron station and pulled around back. Dark, syrupy blood dried to the grill . . .
You sit with your back against the bronze statue of Ken Kesey in the square bearing his name, a box of Voodoo Doughnuts between your feet and an aluminum baseball bat leaning against the inside of your right leg . . .
I never relaxed during the week I spent in Rishikesh . . .
Kelleher piloted the small motorboat out of Mullaghmore’s famous stone harbor to establish an alibi. McMahon and McGirl, the IRA men, sat stiffly in the back . . .
Here I am, ten minutes after five in the a.m., standing on Fowler Street, one of Trenton’s meanest, a shit-eating grin on my face. How did I get here? It’s like this . . .
Right when I thought things were getting better, the stranger showed up . . .
January in the North Country—the dark comes on quick. In the moonrise, the skeletal branches of the birch trees throw thin shadows on the glowing blue snow . . .