Maxie Dash, a famous beauty, a fashion icon, the face of many national TV ads, finds the perfect man for her second husband. All he asks in return is that she give him her love and her unswerving loyalty and agree to know nothing -- absolutely nothing -- about his business.
Rigoberto did not respond. Then Cynthia looked at him, properly looked him up and down, and that was when she noticed the dart sticking out of his neck.
Mateo was barefoot and had no trouble walking on a narrow path covered with raised, gnarled tree roots and undefined decayed matter. She was glad to be behind him so that he didn’t see her trip every few feet.
David Menard’s mission is vengeful and deeply personal and he is finally given every chance to carry it out. The story involves the Israeli Mossad, the CIA and the help of many kindred spirits.
Mathews has been teaching at Simon’s Rock since 2007 and also serves as head of its division of language and literature. His book was named an editor's choice by The New York Times Book Review.
The Bookstore in Lenox will be celebrating the publication of Wesley Brown’s new novel and audio book, “Dance of the Infidels,” on Friday, Sept. 22, 2017, at 5:30. Brown summons up the smoky clubs and gritty streets of a long-gone New York City, one that moved in the frenetic rhythms of jazz.
After he unlocked the door with the key offered him, he warily stepped into a room very much like the bedroom of the house he lived in with his most recent former wife.
Installment 32, the last chapter: “I ran down the street as soon as I heard the announcer on the radio. ‘John Lennon’s been shot as he was entering the Dakota,’” Hana continued. “There were hundreds of people in front of the gates, holding candles, playing guitars, singing.”
How many times had he made the identical trip to the hotel? Every morning for nineteen years minus weekends, and returned back the same way, every evening, five times a week. 52 weeks. 4,940 times. Minus vacations, days off. 4,800. And this time was the last time. He exited at 60th Street and turned up Third Avenue.
Luba never liked the Last Hotel. For one thing, the neighborhood scared her to pieces. During the short walk from the Broadway 72nd St. subway, bums accosted her, filthy palms open. Drug addicts hanging outside buildings, passing back and forth a cigarette, women dressed like men, garbage everywhere.
He opened a large navy blue bowling bag with red letters that spelled BROOKLYN BOMBERS. Turning it over, dollar bills of all denominations flowed out of the bag, floating on to the bed like greenish butterflies.
Dr. T wins the sleaze award. The shrink, announces he is moving out of the hotel. The building manager responds: “I’d never come to a stranger, sit in an office, talk about my problems. I was in Auschwitz. This is my number.” He raised his sleeve and showed his tattoo.
