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.
I always knew the kid was going to kill somebody, but no one believed me, especially my brother.
The cop listened. He pulled it together long enough to ask the caller to repeat himself. “It’s not funny. It’s theft. Someone took a porta potty!” . . .
She loved the sound of her high heels on the pavement. A casual unhurried I’m in control sound. She knew the higher the heels, the more elegant her walk . . .
I was quiet. I was able to be quiet. My sister more than made up for my absence of audible response to every situation. . .