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.
She had been with him since he was a young ensign on his first leave in Manila . . .
It must have been a gunshot. I’d know the sound of a .45 anywhere.
Joe hesitated, then strode into the darkness of the bar. In the seconds it took for his eyes to adjust he could tell he would have the place virtually to himself for a while.
“Vultures.” On the roof again today.
Me and my best friend hung out every night on the streets, smoking cigarettes and talking to older boys in cars.
“Mr. Funderburke, I think my cousin is trying to kill me.”