Odd times in my blasted life, I would meet a thin weather-beaten man who,
Rumor had it,
Was a mid-list crime author (i.e., didn’t sell)
And had served time in jail in South America.
We had a slightly civil acquaintanceship and had shared the rare pint and even rarer to rarest conversation.
He was to be the last person I spoke to in Galway before my great escape.
He was wearing a pea jacket with the collar turned up, and an air of violence barely suppressed emanated from his whole being, but the strangest thing was
. . . That vibe seemed to be turned in on himself.
I said,
“How are you doing?”
The question amused him, as we stood on a deserted street after a raging storm. He said,
“I’m doing what little I can to stay on the dry side of things.”
Me neither.
I asked,
“And how is
