"You're drinking again," Harry answered, half asleep and fumbling the receiver, and Bud's reply was drowned in a clatter of truck traffic. He focused and asked: "Where are you?"

"Where the hell do you think? Up north in a phone booth. On the highway."

"Ten years ... " Harry said to the dark, very calm now, because he could taste Jack Daniel's ooze in Bud's voice and smell it in the nightcrawlers of sweat that wormed through his own chest.

Bud giggled. "Fuck Minnesota Harry. I wanna talk to Detroit Harry."

"Wonderful, you blew ten years of sobriety," said Harry.

"Don't pull that crap. I love you, man ... "

Out there, in the drunken night, the phone slammed down and the line went dead. Harry exhaled, hung up the receiver, and rubbed his eyes; then he dropped his feet to the floor and pushed off the bed. He wandered over to the window and stared out into the dark. H ... read full excerpt from Hunter's Moon ebook