Whiskey Sour

Sorry to hear about your Dad." He shrugged. "He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him." "Heart attack?" "He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.

I wish I was like that. More carefree." "Anyone can be. People aren't carved out of marble. We're all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

People aren’t carved out of marble. We’re all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

Mothers shouldn’t be allowed to get old and fragile.

Slippery Dick.” I told him the drink wasn’t stiff enough. He didn’t laugh. I should have known then.

When I was twelve, my mother taught me the two skills essential to my adult life: how to use a liner pencil to make my thin lips look fuller, and how to group my shots from forty feet away with a .38.

Melissa Booster answered after the first knock, apparently having seen our approach. She was robust—add a hundred pounds to Rubenesque and you’d have her figure. I suppose the PC term would be glandularly imbalanced or calorically challenged. She wore a red housedress that hung on her like a set of drapes. Her makeup was simple and expertly applied, and her brown eyes crinkled at us through the layers of doughy skin that made up her face. Her three chins waggled in a cheerful smile and she invited us in.

Benedict nodded, finishing his coffee. “You look like a bowl of crap, Jack.” “That’s the poet in you, fighting to get out.

I’m a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants.

The order, for completists, is WHISKEY SOUR, BLOODY MARY, RUSTY NAIL, DIRTY MARTINI, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB, SHAKEN, and STIRRED. She’s been the subject of many shorts (JACK DANIELS STORIES, BURNERS, FLOATERS) and has appeared as a supporting character in many of my other novels (SHOT OF TEQUILLA, THE LIST, SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, BANANA HAMMOCK, FLEE, SPREE, THREE, TIMECASTER SUPERSYMMETRY). Due to popular demand, she’ll be back again in another novel, LAST CALL, being co-written with Blake Crouch.

I tried counting backward from ten thousand. I tried deep breathing and relaxation exercises. I tried to imagine myself asleep. Nothing worked. Time marched forward, taking me with it. By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.

I was overworked, underpaid, and socially retarded. But

Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.

You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.

That’s why I refused. But after the media