The skinhead wipes the rain out of his eyes and cackles. “I’m glad I’m not the poor bastard that has to try and identify your body.” His pump-action shotgun is wedged against my throat. He is going to make one hell of a mess . . .
Once, I lived in Tarrytown, in a six bedroom Tudor set high in the hills. My living room windows looked out across the Hudson to the green expanse of Rockland County on its far side. This was back when I was married; before Floyd Flake bit off my left ear and won the World Heavyweight title by a “knockout.” . . .
You have to go down a lot of steps to get to what’s left of the furnaces, so not many people come here. That’s why I use this place, but it got me thinking all the same. This was where it started, where – like the historical marker says – we made the steel that won the Civil War. Now it’s four ruined rock walls. This used to be the heart of the city, or maybe the lungs for the great bellows it had. Now it’s broken and useless. The city’s own black lung . . .
The last time I saw my father was in October of 1972 . . .
Yuri pulled his Nissan Maxima into the shopping center and waited . . .
I hadn’t been out for a while. There were four of us. Bill was the president of a motorcycle gang. His friend Rangi was a big maori guy. They had been in prison together . . .
Earl felt the warmth of his extra hot coffee seep through the cup onto his hand as he leaned over the second story railing of the shopping mall and reflected on how many times he’d taken in this view over the years . . .
Festival de la Palabra and the Loisaida Center present: San Juan Noir —A Reading and Book Signing Celebration.