Marjorie Kellerman hoped for a prince for twenty-nine years, beginning at age five thanks to Disney. She was tired of kissing frogs. Most men were disappointments in ill-fitting suits, but Jay Orbin really did seem different. This was at the Moulin on Fremont one mild August night in 1963. He
The rain wasn’t letting up … three days without a break, driving grime down the smokestacks to dump into the gutters, then into roads and alleys and sidewalks, onto rivulets and oily puddles, then clinging to the coats of rodents and cats and the hands of trash pickers and the
Randall stood in his own hallway like a stranger on the subway, overcoat on shoulder, briefcase in hand, breathing the faint and familiar odors of domestic bliss — a whiff of Shalimar and Glo-Coat; a hint of caramelized onions; the earthy comfort of collected coffee grounds. Estrangement made this blend become
The evening began like any other Tuesday after ten: rain drumming against the windows of the Moulin Bleu, smoke creeping along the ceiling like a wayward shroud, Blake nursing his first bourbon to the right of the stage, keeping an eye on the wise guys and riffraff. But when the
The sun had just begun its dip behind the splinter-bricked skyline, casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to reach down to claw at the pavement. The city was a kaleidoscope of neon and fractured brick, but his business this night was in a flower shop. Not the kind where hopefuls
