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400 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published July 23, 1997
"Everyone is suspect. Everyone is suspect.
It was starting to become my mantra."
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Maybe honor was in its twilight. Maybe it had always been heading that way. Or worse, maybe it had always been an illusion.
Everyone is suspect. Everyone is suspect.
It was starting to become my mantra.
Once again, my perspective of prior events was reshaping, transmogrifying, reinventing itself until I felt increasingly stupid for ever trusting my initial instincts.
This case, I swear.
"Mr. Stone, you said you'd heard we had the two qualities you were looking for most."
"Yes."
"One was honesty. What's the other?"
"I heard you were relentless," he said as he stepped into the study. "Utterly relentless."
I turned to Angie. "How you doing?"
"My wrists hurt and so does my head."
"Otherwise?"
"I'm generally in a foul mood."
I looked back into the light. "We're in a foul mood."
"I'd assume so."
"Fuck you," I said.
"I'd say that's a clue," I said.
"Big or small?"
"Depends whether you measure by width or length."
I got a good dope-slap for that on the way out the door.
When the door closed behind them, I said, "Heel, Walter. Roll over, Walter."
"Poor Walter," Angie said as we reached the elevator bank.
"Poor Walter. Please. Could you have been any more breathy by the way?"
"Breathy?"
"'Sex months,'" I said in my best Marilyn Monroe voice.
"I didn't say 'sex.' I said 'six.' And I wasn't that breathy."
"Whatever you say, Norma Jean."
Angie was where most of me began and all of me ended.
"It bugs you."
"A bit. It doesn't feel right."
She leaned back in her chair. "We in the trade call that feeling a 'hunch.'"
I bent over my notes, pen in hand. "How do you spell that? With an 'h,' right?"
I looked up at the sky, such a rich dark shade of blue it seemed artificial. That was something else I'd been noticing down here: This state-so ripe and lush and colorful-seemed fake in comparison with its uglier counterparts up north.
There's something ugly about the flawless.