Quotes from Books I'm Reading in 2009

Oh boy, what a week.
Fourteen muggings, three rapes, a knifing on Culver Avenue, thirty-six assorted burglaries, and the squadroom was being painted.
Not that the squadroom didn't need painting.

Judging from Edward Ehrbach's apartment, the man had been a highly successful burglar. One could, of course, argue that anyone who had already taken two falls for burglary could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be considered a successful burglar.

No one knew why brawling, boisterous Calm's Point was called that. Perhaps at one time, when the British were still there, it had indeed been a peaceful pastoral place. Nowadays, the name carried with it a touch of irony bordering on sarcasm: Calm's Point was the noisiest section of the sprawling city, and the spin its residents put on the English language was the cause of derision, amusement, and gross imitation everywhere else in the United States. As a native of Calm's Point where he came from, and he would proudly and unerringly tell you 'Carm's Pernt.'
The officers who answered the radio call had been told only to investigate a complaint of 'loud music' coming from apartment 42 at 2116 Nightingale Avenue in a largely Colombian section of Calm's Point.They could hear the music blasting the moment they entered the building. They were experienced cops; itwas with a sense of foreboding that they climbed the steps to the fourth floor. They knocked. They knocked again, using their batons this time. They yelled 'Police!' over the blare of the Spanish music coming from inside the apartment. They banged on the door again. Then they kicked it in.
A man later identified as Escamilio Riomonte was lying on the floor with a bullet hole in the back of his head.
A woman later identified as Anita Riomonte, his wife, was found lying beside him, a bullet hole in the back of her head.
A four-month-old baby later identified as their daughter, Jewel, was found alive in her crib.

Sylvia Plath's gravestone has been replaced a number of times because her fans keep scratching off the surname "Hughes", having blamed Ted Hughes for her downfall and death. Sylvia's full name now appears in bronze lettering on a replacement. Gravekeepers hope this will make it easier to repair.

Everyone's had too much Pabst. Erin's trying to convince us to hop the fence and go skinny-dipping in the neighborhood pool and I mention my Headline Theory--how there are headlines out there, floating in the ether, generically tragic headlines just waiting for some sucker to attach themselves to. "Drunk and Naked Arbor Dayists Drown in Community Pool" is a good example. Erin counters with her own headline: "Boring Old Man Known for Stupid Theories Dies After Long, Boring Life." I tell Erin that, technically, she hasn't contradicted me. She tells me to shut up.

Marion Barbara Carstairs was an elegant and adventurous cross-dressing heiress who spent her millions on beautiful women, a manse on the Bahamian island of Whale Cay, and speed boats. Lots of speed boats. Racing for Britain in the 1920s, she established herself as the fastest woman on water. It was an avocation Carstairs pursued with total dedication and regard for money.

"Stephanie! Don't do this! You don't want our blood on your hands!" Edgar pleaded.
Stephanie patted Edgar's shoulder. "Of course I don't," she said. "That's why I'm wearing gloves."

I don't remember ever seeing Tony with a camera though, but he did have huge eyeballs.

"I don't blame you at all; I believe that it happened exactly like you described. There have been several of little things going on that are out of the ordinary. Also, in reading my uncle's journal, I've found that there were similar events occurred in the past."
"Fucking unreal. Do you want your breakfast?"

"You so don't get the point of a day off, huh?" Jess groused, his breath sparking in the chill dark air. Stamping his feet and jamming his hands into his pockets, he added another complaint as he walked around the front of the truck. "Shit it's cold." It wasn't Oklahoma in the middle of winter cold, but it was too chilly for his nuts this morning. Why had he let Manuel talk him into getting out of his nice, really warm bed for this?
A silent ranch slept in the predawn of a Sunday. For the first weekend in ages, the entire two days had been theirs to spend how they pleased...and where were they? At the ranch.

Did we mention this was not easy? Many original punks guarded their heirlooms, the anecdotes, the gossip, the cabalistic history, and the rare photos with shotguns full of attitude. To those, we say we understand your point of view...and please feel free to write your own book (hard). Others were angels. Those who believed that our project was possible and necessary drank with us. Smoked with us. Supported us. Opened their scrapbooks and diaries for us and because of them, you are reading this. Some were simply impossible to find. We knocked on strange (and wrong) doors and frightened old women. We drove to Pasadene at night with no headlights to corner Peter Case and Dave Alvin backstage at a sold-out gig. We staked out a tag sale on a Sunday morning at a notorious Hollywood drug pad in search of Rick Wilder of the Berlin Brats (later the Mau-Mau's) only to find it canceled for fear of hurricanes and tornadoes.

Sunlight spilled like honey over their shoulders, gilding the water and gleaming on domes and tilting spires. Buildings crowded together, walls of cream and ocher stone, pale blues and dusty pinks, balconies nearly touching over narrow alleys and waterways. Bronze chimes flashed from eaves and lintels. Vines trailed from rooftop gardens, dripping leaves and orange blossoms onto the water. Birds perched in potted trees and on steep green-and gray-tiled roofs.
Invaders the Assari might be, but they had built a beautiful city. Isyllt tried to imagine the sky dark with smoke, the water running red. The city would be less lovely if her mission succeeded.

I was trolling off Hollywood Boulevard searching for a cheapo space when I spotted an open doorway in a grimy alley, went down a flight of greasy stone stairs, and, just like Theseus stalking the Minotaur, dragged string and some old hose pipe behind me, fearful of not being able to find the way back out from this pitch-black, seemingly endless labyrinth of doors, corridors, passageways, stairwells, tunnels, and musty, odd-shaped rooms.

In Skullport, water was everywhere. Although it was a port city, it was entirely underground, far below sea level. Water dripped from the cavern ceilings and puddled on the walkways. It gave sustenance to the strange creeping molds and glowing fungi that writhed on the walls of the ramshackle buildings or inched along the walkways. The scent of rot and mildew permeated everything, and foul mist clung to the lamplight. Even after a few minutes in the city, Arilyn's clothes clung damply to her, and her companion's mood was becoming nearly as oppressive as the thick air.

He slipped from the bed and into his trousers, checked his boots for any critters, and tugged them on, and stole from the bunkhouse, careful not to wake anyone else. The sun was just tiptoeing over the horizon. The loner in him loved the morning hours, especially having them to himself, when he could savor the solitude and the silence.
Only, it was not really so silent. The hounds came bounding up, sniffling and wagging, and he knelt to pet them and slap their rumps playfully. The birds in the pepper trees argued noisily among themselves over questions of territory and social matters, and in the distant henhouse, the old rooster bawled the day's orders to his harem. The windmill over the water tank creaked and whirred lazily in the morning breeze. Homely sounds. It had been a while since he had heard their like.

Rik L. Rik: The Germs were never the most together band to begin with, but they had a couple of months during '79 where they were fairly tight. After the G.I. album, The Germs practiced less and less. It was chaos. Darby was fucked up, out of his mind every show. He wasn't even trying to present himself as an artist any more; he was just trying to present his pain and his pain had become this one long scream...one long, intoxicated primal scream of despair. It was obvious by '79-'80 that nobody was ever gonna get a real record deal, nobody was gonna be rich and famous, which is what I think everybody wanted, really, if they were honest, and so he got into the drugs more, and the stage show just sort of became like an Evel Knievel spectacle. Only Darby never made the canyon.

I parked the cab at a hack stand, pulled my gym bag off the front seat and walked along until I found a bar that didn't have ferns in the windows.

"Early in our marriage I told him that if I ever learned he'd been unfaithful they would find me standing over his bleeding body, asking, 'How do you reload this thing?'"

Tor kissed him again and then they were rolling on the grass, the night making it damp and cool, and they managed, between them, somehow, to get the boots off. Then everything paused while Tor went back to loving Jake with his hands, holding him and stroking his thighs, and just being everywhere. It was still slow and cool and hot and Jake was beginning to shake with the need for more, but not for an ending. He wanted to crawl right into Tor and stay there for a hundred years, warm and safe, and share the complete focus of their attention.

"Oh? So now the flatfoot is more than a passing law enforcement fetish? He's potential husband material? And this happened after a month of his not sleeping with you?"
I threw the second shoe.

From grandmother to neighborhood bully, to Antoine, to Evangeline, Bucky and Janet Guitreau went through the Arceneaux family like a school of angry piranha through anything that might piss off killer fish.

The midrise apartment complex stood proudly just inside the ribbon of light, two blocks over from the crosstown darkness. The two-block safety cushion was called Bordertown by the good citizens who walked through it on their way to work every day. But the cops who patrolled it at night called it by another name--the DMZ.

The day it rained feathers in Job's Crossing, J.R. and Rosebud were gathering pecans in the front yard.

I've never seen a Jade in full feral mode before. Candy's nails have curved out into thick claws. Her eyes are red slit pupils in a sea of black ice. Her lips and tongue are as black as her eye. Her mouth has a slightly different shape. Like she has a few more teeth or the ones she has are wider and sharper than before. A mouthful of pretty white shark's teeth. She's the most beautiful thing I've seen in eleven years. I want to have monster babies with her right here and now. But something explodes, someone screams, and I remember my other friends and the end of the world.
"Parker probably has Vidocq and Allegra at the center of the club, near the sacrifice," I tell her. It's just a guess, but with D-day going on in the front parlor, it's where I'd go.
Candy helps me to my feet. My knee is knitting itself back together. It can almost take my weight, but it's not there yet. Candy slings my right arm over her shoulders, puts her left arm around my waist, and practically picks me up. I didn't know Jades were that strong. So far, this is the best first date ever.

"What brings you by, Evanelle?" Claire asked. Bay cracked an eye open. They had their backs to her now. "I thought you and Fred were having lunch with Steve today."
"We are. I can't wait. Steve is going to make something fancy again. I told Fred he was lucky he had a culinary instructor in love with him. He looked at me like I'd told him he had bees in his hair."
"He still thinks he has to date Steve because of the mango splitter?"
"Oh it gets better. I might as well be dating Steve these days. Just about everywhere they go now, Fred wants me to come along. He's having a good time. He's happy. He just doesn't want to admit it yet. He's going to figure it out sooner or later. I'm not going to tell him what to do. And Steve is letting Fred call the shots, which is what he needs to do. In the meantime, I get to eat fancy cookin'. I ate snails for the first time last week! How about that." Evanelle gave a little cackle. "I like gay men. They're a real hoot."

On the morning following her dinner with Bill, Bundle woke full of energy. She had three distinct plans which she meant to put into operation that day, and she realized that she was going to be slightly hampered by the limits of time and space.

Faeryl perched on the northeast side of the roof. Outlined in blue, green, or violet phosphorescence, the homes of her wealthier neighbors glowed all around her. Had she looked from a distance, she would have observed her own residence shining in the same way. Fortunately, the luminescence only defined the silhouette of the tower and picked out several spiders sculpted in bas-relief. As long as she stayed away from the images, kept silent and enjoyed a measure of luck, it shouldn't reveal her presence.

'We only cover the high schools. You can imagine--boys, girls, baseball, softball, football, volleyball, soccer, swimming, track, and tennis.' He seemed vaguely oppressed by the tidal wave of youthful athletes.

Mrs. McCrea, Canon Pennyfather's housekeeper, had ordered a Dover sole for the evening of his return. The advantages attached to a good Dover sole were manifold. It need not be introduced to the grill or fry-pan until the canon was safely in the house. It could be kept until the next day if necessary. Canon Pennyfeather was fond of Dover sole; and, if a telephone call or telegram arrived saying that the canon would after all be elsewhere on this particular evening, Mrs. McCrae was fond of a good Dover sole herself.

Streetlights were coming on as I left my van on the street and walked along the edge of the Garden View Apartments' parking lot. The building was a wood and stucco U, two floors, with a swimming pool in the middle, remniscient of a sixties motel. I didn't see anything resembling a garden unless you counted the occasional bird of paradise and two Mexican fan palms next to the pool.

The peak of the noon rush had subsided at Tortilla Flats, an airy set of rooms with tile floors, bare blond-wood tables, hanging greenery, and big skylights that let in lots of sun.

Veronica Cray moved swiftly along the narrow path through the chestnut woods.
She came out from the woods to the open space by the swimming pool. There was a small pavilion here where the Angkatells sat on days that were sunny but when there was a cold wind.
Veronica Cray stood still. She turned and faced John Cristow.
Then she laughed. With her hand she gestured towards the leaf-strewn surface of the swimming pool.

The psychologist's office had one big window and a view of the bay, a stingy glimpse of Alcatraz if Niki stood on the couch. Nothing like a real doctor's office, velvet wallpaper the bottomless color of evergreen forests, hemlock green walls and Edwardian antiques, old books and the cherry-sweet smell of his pipe that always reminded Niki of her parents' tobacco shop in New Orleans. There was a small brocade pillow on the sofa, woven anemones and silver-leafed geraniums, and she hugged the pillow while she talked.
"Spyder hung herself," Niki said, finally. "While I was asleep, she hung herself."

Flying in autumn and winter was a chilly endeavor, but the blanket of smoke and soot that hung over Ondinium always thinned out in the cooler weather. The air over Tertius was never entirely clear, but today Taya could see the rest of the city as she wove between towers and factory smokestacks, delivering messages. Once she flew over the street where Cristof's shop was located. She circled, but its door was closed. She flew on.

'It looks like you've got an armful, Master Haven,' the god-emperor said, holding out the rolled parchment. 'I know you're eager to go, but I have to ask one more time: are you certain young Wren there isn't for sale?'
Haven gave the Tiberion ruler a level look. 'Your Majesty, I could more easily rip out my own heart and sell it to you than I could part with Wren.'
'That would be a no then, I take it.'

As is always the case, the network guys like to spray on the hydrant as much as possible.

'Who's "Whopper"?' I asked. I found the English fashion for absurd nicknames strangely irritating.
'Whopper Hunt. Rex's intended,' explained Boy.
'Otherwise known as Lady Diana Hunt, daughter of the Earl of Newington, a great friend of Daddy's,' Belinda said. 'We called her Whopper at school because she was awfully good at hockey and used to whop the ball all the way down the pitch. You didn't want to get in the way when Whopper Hunt was on the warpath.' Belinda rubbed her shins in memory of long-faded bruises. 'Frightful girl at the time, but Daddy says she's got a good head on her shoulders. And Rex is terribly smitten.'
'So they plan to marry?'
'Oh, yes! And I'm going to be chief bridesmaid!'

Shake knew his family was coming in for dinner, but he hadn't expected their arrival to be heralded by his father's loud and unmelodious voice singing the jingle that had advertised the family's pest control business since 1953. 'Don't let termites cave your WALL IN! Dial five two two six thousand, DAWLIN!'
A few minutes later the hostess ducked into the kitchen, a haunted look in her eye. 'My God, Shake, your dad--I just asked him where I'd heard your family name before, because it's so unusual, and he started, like, bellowing at me--'

When I was a little girl, Aunt Tullie used to bring me with her when she came to put fresh flowers on the graves. She'd point out the headstones to me, one by one, and we'd say the carved names until I knew them, and the relationships, by heart. She would encourage me to connect the characters in our family stories, to see them, not as individuals, but as part of our clan. It was like reading the Family Record page in the Bible. It was a family history lesson.
But now our family history had a much more ominous significance now that I had learned about Aunt Tullie's illness, and as I thought of this, another shadow seemed to wheel across the evening sky. I shoved my hands into my pockets and stood still, realizing that the secret of her frightful genetic inheritance--and Leatha's and mine, as well--was buried somewhere in this cemetary. Somewhere among these graves was the Coldwell who had sentenced those who came after to a dreadful end. Who was it? Where did Aunt Tullie's dying begin?

'Dear Lord,' I muttered, 'please don't let that door fly open.' And please don't make us come to a quick stop or hit a major pothole, or let Ruby whack her head against a signpost, or any of the hundred other calamities that loom when you're speeding along at fifty miles an hour behind a UPS truck with your right wheels up on the curb and your best friend dangling out of the window. Amen.

A week later, and Miranda is out of hospital. She enjoyed all the flowers, sweets and attention so much that she is trying to remain an invalid at home. Her sister is very cross.

She moved toward the doorway, all the while wondering at the absurdity of instinctively knowing the word vestibule, yet taking five minutes to remember what a wedding ring and a bathrobe were.
Cautiously, she walked closer to the statue, now really wishing she had the codes that would allow her access to those guns.

Strolling back toward her imaginary window, she stood against the stars and crossed in and out of existence--disappearing and reappearing in the form of all those who had died at the Works. Her milky skin mottled, becoming the stuff of rot and decay, morphing between male and female, faces contorting into impossible shapes that screamed eternal damnation. 'I still own them, you know,' Lyssa said, a chorus of the dead singing out of phase behind her. 'Their terror seeped in through the floors and walls, flooding the spaces in a rush to get to me. Pure, mental energy. Untold anguish. It was....astounding.'

He'd led a good life for the past year, loving his cowboy and working hard. They weren't hurting no one.

--BA Tortuga, "His to Save"

'Look,' said Harvey, 'is that miserable old goat Booger Tom still living?'
Du Pre looked at Booger Tom.
'I think so,' said Du Pre. 'He is breathing anyway.'

Actually, the reason professional caterers dislike brunch is that it means getting up at an ungodly hour. As I lay in bed at 4:45 the morning of June 3, I realized that in a little over four hours I had sixty people to feed. There were mountains of fruit to slice. Muffins and breads to bake fresh. Thick-sliced bacon to bring to sizzling. Egg strata to cook slowly until layers of hot cheddar melted over warm custard. And finally, there was coffeee to grind and brew. In this case, lots and lots of coffee that I would have preferred to have been drowning in.
With eyes closed, I imagined floating in a warm lake of cappuccino.

In terms of money, though, these days Tom took great pleasure in setting aside funds for Arch and Julian, whom he referred to as the kids, the guys, the boys. Our boys. And he didn't want any more children, he said when I asked. Two were enough. Which was fine by me. But now our two boys had college funds, savings funds, Christmas funds. All generously supplemented by Tom, who took a childlike pleasure in giving.

They climbed the rest of the way, using tumbled rocks for footing, following a faint path.
The mouth of the cave smelled dank and cold. They nestled their gear in the uphill nook of a Douglas fir, and Willo unlocked the padlock that secured the wire net. Peeling back a section of net, Willo took out two heavy-duty flashlights and handed one to Teddy.

Next noon, under the campus bus shelter, a tiny flutist played a melancholy phrase. She was having trouble with the grace notes and couldn't master their time. Teddy turned up the collar of her brown velvet trenchcoat and stared at the sumptuous purple lining of the flute case. She thought about grace notes, and rainy November days.

They say you only live once. This is a pity, because here I am in my thirties, and I haven't really got the hang of it yet.

Several hours later, Patrick pulled off his leather gloves and sucked on his sore thumb. Preoccupied men should not be allowed to work with sharp objects, he decided.

The sky was a fading red, and nothing remained of the day save for a line of molten gold slowly lowering on the western horizon. Locke Lamora trailed in the long shadow of the Thiefmaker, who was leading him to the Temple of Perelandro to be sold. At long last, Locke had discovered where the older children had been disappearing to.

Du Pre took the last packsaddle off the last horse and he turned it out in the pasture. Father Van Den Heuvel was loading their gear into the big SUV. Chappie and Booger Tom were sharing a pint while commenting on the priest's efforts.
'I didn't know you bastards worked,' said Booger Tom. 'I thought you passed collection plates and molested children.'
'Go bugger a goat,' said Father Van Den Heuvel. 'I'll give you absolution in advance. Hell, I'll up it to three goats. That should get you through the weekend.'

Madeleine nodded.
She put the Glock back together.
'Come on,' she said. They went out in back of the house. There was a piece of paper stuck on the side of a cottonwood stump.
Madeleine aimed and she fired.
The paper was untouched.
'I am doing something wrong,' Madeleine said.
'You are not hitting, the paper,' said Du Pre.
Madeleine looked at him for a long time.

They were supposed to be hunting deer.
Which meant that maybe Du Pre would shoot a deer for the old man, but the drunken old fart's gun was going to stay locked in the trunk of the car. Argue all you want, old man, the answer is no.

Madeleine ate snotty teenage badass kids like popcorn, spit out the hulls, make the hulls clean their room, Du Pre thought, she scare the shit out of me too.

Jake thought that the ranch was about to burst. Too many hired hands, too much work, not enough time. They were getting the last of the hay in and trying to get cattle ready for auction, so there were extra hands everywhere. Everyone was bone tired, working from sun up until long past dark, breathing in the dust and heat and smell of each other. Nowhere to sleep, really. So many people around it was a matter of grabbing a blanket and bunking in the loft, or out on the grass if the night was clear, on the porch if it wasn't. Most nights men just fell where they saw a flat spot and slept like the dead. A body could sleep well like that, tired from work, smelling sweet grass, listening to someone else snoring close by. And if the occasional slick sound of hand on flesh came you way, well, you did your best not to know where it was coming from. Even in close quarters a man deserved as much privacy as the darkness would provide.
But tonight wasn't a good night for sleeping. The air was electric and everyone was on edge. If it rained they'd have to wait for the hay to dry before putting it up, and they were so close to being done, Jake could taste it. He moved through the barn, listening to the men talk quietly, everyone falling silent when the first roll of thunder sounded. Far away, but damn, if it rained...

Van Den Heuvel grinned. He was in this remote posting because while teaching in a seminary, he remarked to an entire class of would-be priests that the Bible was a wonderful piece of literature, and no more than that. His superiors wished it was still possible to burn heretics at the stake, but it wasn't, so they sent Father Van Den Heuvel to deepest Montana. He loved it, and when asked by his superiors if he had had a spiritual awakening and therefore a better take on the Testaments he always assured them he had not, and that further, heaven was full of Muppets.
They left him alone after that.

Hopalong Cassidy watched the old banker count the money with careful fingers. Fifteen thousand dollars was an amount to be handled with reverence and respect. As he watched the mounting stack of bills, Hopalong saw them less as the long green bills they were than as the cattle they represented--the cattle and the work. Into that stack of bills was going money that had grown from days of cold wind and rain, nights of thunder and lightning, of restles herds poised for stampede, of rivers and washes running brim full with roaring flood waters, of dust, blistering sun, and the roar of rustlers' guns.
Into that pile so flat and green went more than money. Into that pile went months of brutal labor, the brindle steer that had killed a horse under him down in Lonetree Canyon, and the old mossyhorn who had fouled Lanky's rope on a juniper, putting him three weeks in bed with a broken leg. And into that pile went the kid from Toyah, who had ridden up to join them so full of vitality and exuberance, only to have his horse step into a prairie dog hole while running ahead of a stampede. They had buried what was left of the kid and sent his hat and gun to a brother in El Paso.

The Rocking R lay in a notch of the Antelopes, a rambling, Spanish-style house sprawling comfortably among the cottonwoods with a huge old log barn, a series of pole corrals, and a bunkhouse that trailed a lazy thread of smoke toward the sky. A great tank, almost a half-acre in extent, was placid with crystal-clear water. Green moss showed at teh edges, and a thin trickle dribbled into the tank from a pipe. After the trail Topper was ready for the water, and he sank his muzzle into it as Hopalong swung down. Sunlight reflected from the green leaves of the cottonwoods, and Hopalong heard a door slam from the house and looked across the saddle at the girl walking toward him.

For the first time since she'd started in the business she actually felt a deep sexual longing. She wanted to sleep with him, she yearned to have long, leisurely, unpaid-for sex, wake up in the morning to find herelf safely enclosed in his strong arms.

'No. You're not getting a gun. You're here to run the office. And for the hundredth time, we don't shoot people.'Jake had had this same damn conversation every morning since hiring the kid.
'Rhys shoots people.' Matt whispered and darted a glance towards Rhys' office. He leaned against the doorframe between Jake's office and the reception area.
Jake sat and shuffled through the messages on his desk, trying his best to ignore the kid. The next time Rhys suggested they hire pack, he was going to fire the man, best friend or not.

Lex Cranshaw clicked home the cylinder of his Colt revolver, tested the weight of the pistol in his hand, and then sighted at the fence rail some fifty feet away. An array of glass bottles, their dark brown made amber by the bright sun, lined the rail like spectators at a rodeo.

Cap and I rode through some of the wildest and most beautiful country under the sun, following the Rio Grande up higher and still higher into the mountains. It was hard to believe this was the same river along which I'd fought Comanches and outlaws in Texas--that we camped of a night beside water that would run into the Gulf one day.

Night after night our smoke lifted to the stars from country where we found no tracks. Still, cold, and aloof, the snow-capped peaks lifted above us. Cap, he was a changed man, gentler, somehow, and of a night he talked like he'd never done down below. And sometimes I opened up my Blackstone and read, smelling the smoke of aspen and cedar, smelling the pines, feeling the cold wind off the high snow.

Oswynn walked unsteadily out of the smoky gaming hell with his new companion. He tried to focus on the hackney that waited in the street. For some reason it was difficult to make out the vehicle, although he heard the stomp of a hoof and the rattle of a harness. He concentrated, but the outline of the carriage wavered ever so slightly. He'd had a fair amount to drink that evening, but no more than usual. In any event, he'd neversuffered this peculiar problem with his vision even when he was thoroughly foxed, and he'd had a lot of experience being drunk. Perhaps it was the light fog that blurred the scene.

Wistfulness was still his dominant mood when he took his seat in the railway carriage the next morning. Opposite him sat Stevenham, who had attained a recognized brevet of importance through the fact of an uncle having dropped dead in the act of voting in a Parliamentary election. That had happened three years ago, but Stevenham was still deferred to on all questions of home and foreign politics.

'Check the flow meter.'
'Huh?' Noah stepped toward the pump.
Cam came up behind him. 'I think we need to check the flow meter.' Cam put his hands around Noah's waist loosened the tie on his trunks.
'Uh--' There had to be people out in the pool area by now. The facility's lifeguard could be coming in here to check...anything. And the kid would find Cam's hand on...His own hand was cool, Cam's hot as their fingers wove together.

Dinner service had already begun and they were having an early rush when one of the waiters told him, "Rickey just got here. He said for you to come back to the office when you get a chance."
'OK, thanks,' said G-man, a sense of relief and happiness warming him. Just as Rickey had 'known' there would be a disaster in his absence, G-man hadn't truly believed Rickey would get home safely until this very moment. He finished what he was doing, then asked Tanker to take over his station for a few minutes and left the line.
'Hey, sweetheart!' Rickey said as G-man came into the office. G-man kicked the door shut and grabbed him. They kissed once, twice, three times, then just stood hanging onto each other, surprised by the intensity of their reunion. It had been more than a decade since they'd spent a night apart, G-man reflected; they were entitled to a little intensity.
'Wow,' said G-man. 'Damn, I missed you.'

They drove up the Claiborne Avenue overpass and headed for Mid-City. The next property was on Broad Street (its proper name was Broad Avenue, but nobody ever called it that) in a bleak-looking commercial neighborhood near the city government complex that housed the police headquarters, the courthouse, the Orleans Parish Prison, and the morgue. Auto shops, bail bondsmen, and convenience stores dominated the area. There were some residential streets nearby but the houses were very small and very poor. 'This used to be a paint factory,' Lenny said as they pulled up in front of the property, 'but it was a restaurant before that. Apparently the factory people never bothered to tear out the kitchen--they had more room than they needed, so they just sealed it off.'

The water hit Slocum like an avalanche. He felt his feet go out from under him and he dropped the pole, grabbing for the makeshift oarlock to keep himself aboard. The raft bucked and plunged, going so far under that for an instant the water was over his head. It surged back up with such force that he was driven to his knees, and he barley had his eyes clear when he saw a huge rock dead ahead, rushing toward them like the prow of a ship.
There was nothing he could do but hold on.

In the end, he got her angry enough that she phoned someone named Daisy to say she had a lawyer here who needed proof that you couldn't get out of the prison ward. She swept out of her office so fast that we almost had to run to keep up with her. Her high heels clicked across the tile floors as if she were tap dancing, but she still didn't move her hips. We trotted past the information desk, down a corridor where various hospital staff greeted Ms. Paxton with the anxious deference you always see displayed to the bad-tempered in positions of power. She didn't slow her twinkling tapping across the tiles but did nod in response, Queen of England acknowledging her subjects.

When Slocum left his hotel the next morning, he saw a wagon rolling through town. Five newly made coffins were stacked up in back of the wagon. Prufrock, wearing a black stovepipe hat, sat in somber silence beside the driver.
Damn, Slocum thought. A man could get rich in this town, just selling lumber for coffins.

Behind us, the stern-faced Buckaroo was doing his mental exercises with his sword, mental exercises which required of him strength of hand, and of us, stoutness of heart, as he brandished the razor-sharp blade dangerously near our heads in the cramped cubicle. It had something to do with absorbing energy, the Oriental yin and yang. Why it had to be done in a tiny room on a moving bus doubtless has implications in physics that exceed my love of science; at all events he performed always without the semblance of a flaw and held sway in so doing over certain inharmonious spiritual elements.

On the steamship voyage from San Francisco to Seattle, Finneas Bagley won three thousand dollars in a poker game while sipping his customary olive martini.

--Jason Andrew, "The Dead Man's Hand"

There were pyramids of tomatoes so achingly scarlet that they hurt the eyes, bushel baskets of eggplants like burnished purple patent leather, the verdant green of bell peppers and the delicate, creamy green of the tender little squash called mirliton. There were onions as large as babies' heads, red and gold and pearly white. There were nuts and ripe bananas and cool frosted grapes, fresh herbs by the bunch, great thick braids of garlic and dried red tabasco peppers hanging from the rafters. There were stalks of fresh sugar cane, sold by the foot so you could gnaw and suck out the sweet juice as you walked through the market smelling and marveling. There was homegrown rice, and barrels full of shining red beans to cook it with, and long links of smoky Cajun sausage to throw in for flavor. There was a fish market to the side where you could buy fresh crabs and crawdads and catfish, bright blue Gulf shrimp as long as your hand, even alligator if you liked.

The Eighteenth District Police Station is on Chicago Avenue, about ten blocks west of the lake. Like most east-west streets in Chicago, Chicago Avenue starts ritzy near the lake and then goes through changes. Chicago Avenue itself originates in the heart of the campus of Northwestern University, at the Law School and the Medical School, crosses Michigan Avenue between some of the priciest stores on earth, and then wends its way into a grittier part of town. By the time you get to the Eighteenth District station, nine blocks inland, you are in a mix of deli and hot-dog storefronts, jeans stores, an occasional dry cleaner, thrift shops, and the small upstairs rental offices where podiatrists, fortune-tellers and tailors hang out.

The first time I laid eyes on Eric, he was kicking a guy twice his size in the balls. Probably not the smartest move in the world. But that's Eric for you. He's all fire and temper and not much restraint. Not that I knew that at the time.