-crouch over the wheel, round-shouldered and uncomfortable, from which he was not certain he could emerge. The smell of sour liquor,oozing with sweat out of his pores, it made me sick, it was a smell I could never forget. Andall the short stories! Cornell Woolrich! Jeeeezus, if Hans had said I was sitting next to ErnestfuckingHemingway it couldn’ t havecollapsed me more thoroughly. “Match, Charlie? You got a match?” He puffed his fat, wet lips at Qarlo, forcing the bit ofcigarette stub forward with his mouth.
Herolled with the tumble, felt the edge of a leech-bomb crater, and dove in headfirst. When that didn’t connect, Hans asked me to tell him thestories and the titles. Is it slower than New York? That’s what a few visitors from the Apple tell me. “ You look tired,” he said gently to Kostner, studying the man’ s wearybrown eyes.
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