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What happens when one good-and-angry man fights back is murder—and then some….
Bart Dawes is standing in the way of progress. A new highway extension is being built right over the laundry plant where he works—and right over his home. The house he has lived in for twenty years…where he has made love with his wife…played with his son…. But before the city paves over that part of Dawes’ life, he’s got one more party to throw—and it’ll be a blast….
With an Introduction by the Author, “The Importance of Being Bachman”
Cypress Street, White Pine Blister Street. Each house has a full bathroom downstairs, a half-bathroom upstairs, and a fake chimney on the east side. And if you come home drunk you can’t even find your own fucking house. But George— Shut up, Fred, I’m talking. And where are your neighbors? Maybe they weren’t so much, those neighbors, but you knew who they were. You knew who you could borrow a cup of sugar from when you were tapped out. Where are they? Tony and Alicia Lang are in Minnesota
hands on the wall,” Mansey said, his mouth beside his ear. He smelled like Listerine. “Feet out behind you. Just like on the cop shows.” “I don’t watch the cop shows,” he said, but he knew what Mansey meant, and he put himself in the frisk position. Mansey ran his hands up his legs, patted his crotch with all the impersonality of a doctor, slipped a hand into his belt, ran his hands up his sides, slipped a finger under his collar. “Clean,” Mansey said. “Turn around, you,” Magliore said. He
hi-impact plastic construction hats and green rubber boots were climbing into their machines, frozen breath pluming from their mouths. The engine of one of the orange city payloaders cranked, cranked, kicked over with a coughing mortar-explosion sound, cranked again, then roared into a choppy idle. The driver gunned it in irregular bursts like the sound of warfare. “From up here they look like little boys playing trucks in a sandpile,” she said. Outside the city, traffic smoothed out. She had
over his howls of protest) to their own joint account. They had burned his bedding on Mamma Jean’s advice—he himself had been unable to understand that, but didn’t have the heart to protest; everything had fallen apart and he was supposed to argue over saving a mattress and box springs? But the clothes, that was a different matter. What had they done with Charlie’s clothes? The question gnawed at him all afternoon, making him fretful, and once he almost went to the phone to call Mary and ask
my own without diddling around in yours.” “I agree to that condition.” He stuck out his hand, not sure that Magliore would shake it, but Magliore did. “You make no sense to me,” Magliore said. “Why should I like a guy who makes no sense to me?” “It’s a senseless world,” he said. “If you doubt it, just think about Mr. Piazzi’s dog.” “I think about her a lot,” Magliore said. January 16, 1974 He took the manila envelope containing the checkbook down to the post office box on the corner