Excerpt
The call comes over on a Sunday morning. It comes while we sit in this old
Denny's restaurant, now kind of weather beaten with a couple of broken,
boarded-over windows, out toward the western part of the city, and wait for our
Grand Slams.
"Buck ninety-nine," Bank says. "Who can afford not to eat this shit at that
price?" He's said this over the years maybe fifty times in this restaurant with
me.
The place has grown suddenly crowded with the church people. I remember that
this is Palm Sunday for the Christians.
Neither Bank nor I say much anymore. We've been talking for nearly thirty years
and have pretty well said what we have to say to each other. So we listen to the
radio that Bank has carried in. Even here, off shift, after a long night of
hammering, he can't let it go, cannot step out of the flow of garbage and pain.
And when we hear an "All units" come over on channel four, we both sort of
freeze and wait for it, alt ... read full excerpt from Four Corners of Night ebook
