“Hey, thanks, man,” he says. He has the two pathetic stripes of a seaman deuce, a sunburned face, crooked teeth. A kid.
“Where you going?” I ask, pulling onto the highway.
“New Orleans,” he says.
“It’s a good town.”
“The best,” he says. “My girl’s there.”
“So’s mine,” I say, driving fast across the dark tidal fields of the Gulf. My heart is racing. My palms are damp. I am no longer old.
Also by Pete Hamill
FICTION
A Killing for Christ
The Gift
Dirty Laundry
Flesh and Blood
The Deadly Piece
The Guns of Heaven
The Invisible City
NONFICTION
Irrational Ravings
To the Memory of
About the Author
PETE HAMILL was born in Brooklyn in 1935. He has been a professional writer since 1960, when he gave up a career as a graphic artist to become a general assignment reporter for the New York Post. He has since published six novels, one collection of short stories, one collection of journalism, and has written many movie and TV scripts.
He is the father of two daughters, Adriene and Deirdre, and is married to writer Fukiko Aoki. They live in New York City.