I think the sun was just peeking over the horizon—dawn patrol, as the coca-nuts termed it—when I finally fell off to a troubled sleep.

Six months out of college and I was already questioning my occupational direction. Screenwriter? Actor? Director? Movie and television producer? What the hell was I thinking?

She left the doorway, the brush idly in her hand—like a grenade, waiting to go off—and sat on the arm at the far end of the couch.

Anything good in the briefcase?” he asked. I smiled back at him. “Everything’s good in the briefcase, Walter.

So before we sent his ashes up to Iceland, Duke suggested that we have a little wake for Oslo at Ur-Place. Where else?

The full moon affected people. Sometimes in aberrant ways. Mix in an abundance of alcohol, a sprinkle of blow, and voilà—trouble!

Sure, I’d thought about it—Go northeast, young man! To Cody. You know, to win her back. Like Dustin Hoffman chasing Katharine Ross in “The Graduate.” But what was the use in that?

I bent down and felt her neck for a pulse, as I’d seen the paramedics do with Philip.

To be truthful, Mike, we’d like to kill you. The vote went two-to-one.

I know when someone’s trying to get me in bed, babe,” she huffed, crossing her arms under her breasts. “They were acting all giggly about it, trying to buy me shots at the bar to get me drunk.