Garden of Beasts
A Novel of Berlin 1936
Chapter One
As soon as he stepped into the dim apartment he
knew he was dead.
He wiped sweat off his palm, looking around the
place, which was quiet as a morgue, except for
the faint sounds of Hell's Kitchen traffic late
at night and the ripple of the greasy shade when
the swiveling Monkey Ward fan turned its hot
breath toward the window.
The whole scene was off.
Out of kilter ...
Malone was supposed to be here, smoked on booze,
sleeping off a binge. But he wasn't. No bottles
of corn anywhere, not even the smell of bourbon,
the punk's only drink. And it looked like he
hadn't been around for a while. The New York Sun
on the table was two days old. It sat next to a
cold ashtray and a glass with a blue halo of
dried milk halfway up the side.
He clicked the light on.
Well, there was a side door, like he'd noted
yesterday from the hallway, looking over the
place. But it was nailed shut. And the window
that let onto the fire escape? Brother, sealed
nice and tight with chicken wire he hadn't been
able to see from the alley ... read full excerpt from Garden of Beasts: A Novel of Berlin 1936 ebook
