Worth ⋯ The Hill rose from the rivers as if caught in the jaws of enormous poisonous pliers. It sat atop Downtown, smudging the sky, a mangle of rooftops and chimneys and wires thrown together in a permanent refusal of gravity. From certain angles it almost looked noble ⋯ an intrepid working
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
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
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
Blake sat slouched at the end of the bar, nursing the last of his downmarket bourbon. The place was quiet, the kind of quiet that came with weight, as if something bad had just happened or was soon to. He took a tight sip and scanned the room, dwelling on
In the flickering neon glare of a city that never quits, a battered van delivers newspaper bundles each morning to a labyrinth of century-old alleys. The headlines snarled, like rabid curs, to the frightened few left of the late night wanderers. Gutters, overflowing with oily rain scum, caught the
