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The Piano Player's Other SelfThe salon on Stephansplatz was not, technically, a gambling house. It was a "social club," as Isabella Novak told the customs officials when they asked about the collection of diamond-studded roulette wheels and stacks of五百 franc notes that occupied the basement of the Palazzo Harms. The Palazzo was a noble building—three stories of stucco and wrought iron, with windows that looked over the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 2 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Detective Who Wouldn't BowThe woman who walked into my office had hair the colour of rust and eyes the colour of something that had been crying recently. She wore a black dress that cost more than my annual rent and shoes that had never walked on broken glass. She was everything Los Angeles pretended to be and was not. "I need you to find my husband," she said. I lit a cigarette. "That's what everyone says." "My husband...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Man Who Walked With EliasMarch 12 I have been keeping a journal for three weeks now. Not because I have become a man of letters. I have become a man with nowhere else to direct his attention. Music stopped being something I made and started being something I used to get through bar gigs and forgotten piano lessons. Now the instrument sits in the corner of my apartment like a piece of furniture I forgot existed. The...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 5 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Watchman's TaleI've been watching the Ashfords from this porch for forty-seven years. Forty-seven years of the same stretch of Long Island Shore — dunes, beach, the water always moving, always leaving, never asking permission.Julian first sailed into my sight in the summer of 1920. He was twenty years old, standing on the deck of a twenty-two-foot sloop his father had given him, and he had that particular...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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What the Machine RememberedI was built in a laboratory in Yokosuka, Japan, in the spring of 1944, by a team of naval engineers who had been told to solve a problem that no one wanted to name aloud: how to make men forget things they could not stop remembering. Or, failing that, how to make them remember in a way that did not destroy them. The war was going badly, which was the only way wars ever went when you were...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 4 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Dust on the WhipThe four mules were old but sound. Zech knew them — knew which one favored the left hoof, which one stopped for every fence post within reach, which one would stand perfectly still if you scratched behind the ears the way his great-grandfather used to scratch them.He was twenty-three and the mules were the last thing his great-grandfather had left him that wasn't tied up in a lawsuit. The...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 4 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The Silent Observatory - V3: Southern Gothic Mystery======================================================================== ## ACT I: THE KNOCKING There comes a moment in the life of any creature that has lived long enough beneath a Mississippi sky when the air itself thickens into something one might cut with a knife and spread upon bread, and it is at such a moment, in the heat of a July that settled over Rankin County like a wet wool blanket...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 5 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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Two Rivers Running Side by SideThe Mississippi River runs south from Minnesota to the Gulf of Mexico, and for most of its length it does not mix with anything. It carries its own sediment, its own temperature, its own particular shade of brown, and when it meets the sea it spreads outward in a fan of silt and freshwater that takes miles to dissolve. But there is a stretch of the river, just below New Orleans, where the...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 4 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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The first time Hazel Delaney heard herself sing in front of another human being, it was in the basement of Longworth Academy, and she was nineteen years old, and the piano was out of tune, and the girHazel stopped. "Was it bad?" Roxy opened one eye. "You sounded like your mother." That should have been an insult. Coming from Roxy, it was the highest compliment Hazel had ever received. Her mother had been Billie Delaney—Billie Duval, born in Harlem, raised on jazz and cigarette smoke and the kind of music that didn't care whether you were good, only whether you were honest. Billie had died...0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 580 مشاهدة 0 معاينة
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