Sublime

Frank Donovan, a lifetime close friend and a lawyer from Detroit. He was known among his friends and clients as a brilliant legal analyst with a nonaggressive temperament. No litigator. When we were both twenty, I remember him saying: "When there's a fight, I pick up my hat and go home." He had a large head, somewhat out of proportion to his medium

“Clyde Waggoner. I’m Martin’s father.” The man from Okeechobee was wearing a white rayon tie with a blue chambray work shirt, and khaki trousers. There was a thin nylon Sears windbreaker folded over his left arm.

“My old friend,” Albert said. “The one I wake up every morning thinking about.” “How do you know?” “Same way I know everything. CNN.” “Harvey said he was dead.” “Yes, well, he looked pretty healthy to me. Before he got shot anyway.” “Someone shot him?” “A little gangster, in L.A. somewhere.” “You positive?” “There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

Mike went into the back, and Hoke quickly downed the second shot, finished the beer, and left the bar. He was depressed enough already without being hit for an $85 bar tab. Hoke didn’t drink all that much, but when he wanted a drink he hated to drink alone in his room. Fortunately, he had a bottle of El Presidente at home. This was one time when he