“One A.M., Grace Tuxedo Park” by Jim Naremore
The Del Coronado is a stupid name for a bar in Indianapolis. Especially in Grace Tuxedo Park. Especially in March . . .
The Del Coronado is a stupid name for a bar in Indianapolis. Especially in Grace Tuxedo Park. Especially in March . . .
The grave is waist-deep when the cramps start . . .
He wasn’t sure of the name—Michelle, Danielle, one of those. They’d only meet eight hours earlier . . .
I can’t get out of my seat belt fast enough. . . .
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February is like Tuesday: second best, like me. January at least has the distinction of being first and has that New Year’s resolution hype going for it, and Mondays are loved for being hated. But February is just dirty snow with sky to match, and Tuesday is Monday’s everlasting yawn . . .
Fast Freddy died slow. He’d been on his way out for damn near two decades. In most respects he’d died with Lucky . . .
7:28 a.m. Geneva grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder as he stood at his locker and turned him around. He rolled his eyes and went back to rummaging through his books. “We need to talk,” she said . . .