““Don’t touch her!” Sam had thought the man was saying, over and over. “Don’t you touch her!” He’d first spotted the homeless man quite a few blocks back, as he and Alyssa had walked—slowly, because his entire right side was stiffening up and hurting like a bitch—from Margaret Thorndyke’s digs, which overlooked Central Park, to this comparatively crappier neighborhood where Maria Bonavita resided. And that crappier was a relative one. Because it was a case of super-fucking rich versus merely fuc...king rich, with a universal truth that the streets below both majestic buildings belonged to everyone. Including Don Quixote de la Crazy-Face, here, who was shouting what definitely sounded like, “Don’t you dare touch her!” It was Sam’s fault, completely. He’d stopped with Alyssa, there on the sidewalk a few blocks shy of Maria’s apartment building, because he hadn’t had time, during the long, frozen walk from Central Park, to say what he’d wanted to say. I’m not going to ask you not to go to Afghanistan.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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