“It isn’t ever hard to start—not stories, not jobs, not flings. It’s the finishing that sticks in your jaw. Frankie always liked starting a story best. Putting a hat on his detective, grey or white or black or buff or blue. Deciding who’s dead. Deciding who wants them not to be dead. Putting shops on the street where Hank Hart or Ken Sharp or Walter Bent keeps his office. Good old Wally. Does he like bourbon or opium? Is he a teetotaler? Will he survive the story? It’s good to live in the beginn...ing. In the Not-Yet, like Zelda said. So right now, Frankie is all right. He hasn’t screwed up yet. He hasn’t rushed the ending or blown out the plot like a flabby tire. He has a place to go, first off. He hasn’t got a hat, but he’s got a mysterious girl love interest and one pair of good shoes and that’s a start. He’s worked with way less than that. Frankie goes to the only secret place he knows in the Artemisia. It’s where he gets his paychecks. A little room in the lobby, past the fountain full of gargling seals and their balls all covered with stars, past the soda fountain and the concierge desk and the check-in counter, between the Silver Umbrella restaurant (French and Continental) and the Blue Heart Cafe (Hungarian).MoreLessRead More Read Less
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