Characters
Miss Millie
A Model T came over the hill. They gawked as it approached making a distinctive pockity-pockity-pockity sound. When the driver leaned out the widow to wave, red hair flashed in the sunlight. It was the first glimpse any of them ever had of Miss Millie, but it burned into their memories forever. She was gorgeous. And she was driving the most unusual car in the world.
Brick Donovan
My birth name is Byron Donovan. It says so right on the paper. But everyone around here calls me Brick. It pisses me off. In high school, a hot shot named Raymond Thornton threatened to bash my head in with a brick. The principal told him, “Thornton, if you brick Donovan, you’re out of here.” The name stuck. It’s just one reason why I hate him.
Tiltin' Stilton
Melanie watched the battle-scarred Lincoln pull into the lot and turn around. The driver backed up against the fence and parked, hood ornament aimed at the gate. An overweight man with his hair combed back and a rumpled suit opened the door and struggled to get both feet on the ground. With considerable effort, he pushed himself to a standing position and headed toward the office, slamming the car door behind him. He walked funny. Melanie started analyzing it. By the time he reached the door, she had a theory. He walked with his feet splayed out. One foot seemed floppy, and the leg on that side moved awkwardly. If she had to guess, she’d say hamstring.
Red Tie
For Italian food, the best place in town was Giorno’s on the Hill. The man in the back corner wearing a shiny suit and red tie was enjoying his Bucatini con Guanciale Saporito. He didn’t want to be disturbed right now. When he saw the guy coming his way, he took another bite and stared him down like a lion warning off a jackal. The intruder nodded and raised his hand and then took a seat at the bar to wait. He would simply have a beer and let the man enjoy his meal.
Junior Petiole
Without a word Junior opened the drawer on his right and pulled out a .44 magnum and thumped it down
hard on the desk. His eyebrows twisted into knots and the fierceness in his face made Brick swallow hard.
“Save the goddamned hate face for somebody who cares, . . . and listen real nice to
what I am saying to you. Some of the things we got going on here, we don’t need no cops snooping
around. Do I make myself clear?"
Clyde Dewey
A few minutes after eight, Clyde Dewey sloshed down the alley in his overshoes. He fished around in his pocket for the key to unlock the back door. Then he let himself in. At fifty-four, he walked like a man in his seventies. Years of fumes had taken their toll. He was rail thin with a dowager’s hump. He face was gaunt, with brown leathery skin that made him look like a walking mummy. Food hadn’t had flavor in years—not since his wife died.
Clarence Biederman
Raymond had just finished brewing coffee over the camp stove in bay number two when a pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. The driver’s door creaked open, and an old man in coveralls got out and slammed it shut. He headed towards the boarded office. He shoved the door open slightly and jingled the bells hanging on the push bar, calling inside through the crack. “Hello? Anybody here?”
The Tunnel Rat
Sir, let me see if I got my chronology right,” Jacoby said twisting further around in the front seat. “As soon as you found out the gun had gone missing, you called the MPs, right?” “What?” “That’s what he said, isn’t it?’ Jacoby asked the driver. “That’s what I heard him say, Sergeant,” the driver answered. Jacoby looked at the two MPs in the back seat and said, “Well?” The one on Raymond’s left shrugged. The other said, “That’s how I remember it.”
Melanie Griggs
“Okay. That’s all I need for now.” Bud swiveled back and forth in his chair and waited. Melanie had a ritual.
“Damn it, Bud. You call and get me all aflutter, and then you hang up on me, just like that?”
Bud waited a decent interval. “You should know by now, Melanie. That’s how I am.”
She took a noisy sip of coffee. “Always breaking my heart. Thanks a lot for calling.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s busy tonight,” Bud said. He was grinning.
This time she made sure the sheriff heard her slurping her coffee.
“Yeah, but you never even asked me to call it off.”
Bud, Raymond, and Wally
It was a ritual. Every afternoon the paperboys perched on the curb outside the office. They told lies while folding the newspapers stacked at their feet. The secret to an accurate backhand was the Journal- Messenger tuck. Like a Frisbee, it could be made to sail left or right. Speed and accuracy were everything. After all, none of them liked to lose time by dismounting to retrieve a paper from a hedge. It was always a race to claim the right stack, a race to fill the canvas bag, a race to mount up, and a race to hit the last porch before sundown.
Strong Women
For some reason, Betty Ann expected the morgue to have gray walls. These were light yellow, almost cheery. She expected some kind of viewing window. Instead, the detective from Raleigh and a guy in a lab coat escorted her through double doors. They entered a room with a wall of stainless steel lockers. She wondered how they kept the bodies cold. She remembered the meat locker in town. There, everything was covered with frost. Here there was no frost. How did they do that? It didn’t smell the same, either.
Linda Leary
If Linda Leary knew anything, it was how to compartmentalize her life. This hour belonged to politics. The half-hour slot afterwards belonged to business. For now, it would just have to wait. All the fine ladies in the room recognized the president of the Indiana League of Woman Voters. She carried herself regally as she entered the tea room. Her black tailored skirt made her blue silk blouse pop. Her tiny diamonds and perfectly coiffed silver hair announced that she was a lady of wealth and power. As she performed with all the charm of a beloved queen, not one of her subjects would guess that moments ago she had received distressing news.