Zina and Veronica are on a train traveling east, though the direction doesn’t matter, because north or south or west would take them just as surely away from home and toward somewhere else, which is the only place they want to go. They think they are dreaming.
The fat guy smoking Pall Malls, he says he almost married one of those girls. Honest. He met her in a bar one of the last times he was in the Philippines and fell in love, almost bought her a ring and took her home. It didn’t work out, though, and he doesn’t say why because it doesn’t really matter. He shrugs.
I was raised in an Orthodox Jewish household in New York, where the Old Testament was believed to be the literal word of the Almighty God and where we obeyed, as closely as we could, all 613 commandments elucidated within its holy pages. To us, God was not simply a concept, but a very real, everyday presence in our lives and our community.
It was a Saturday night, not much happening in her Long Beach, California, neighborhood, so high school senior Melissa Young was home messing around on her computer
Late one cold, wet November night a couple of years ago, maybe 3 a.m., I was sitting on my bed in a Motel 6 just south of Austin, Texas, brushing my teeth and watching the closing moments of a college basketball game on ESPN2 that had been played earlier that night but was being rebroadcast and whose outcome was still a mystery to me, when the phone on the night table besides me jangled to life.
Mr. John Susor—husband to nine wives and lover of all ladies—was sitting beneath a bevy of brassieres strung like prayer flags from the ceiling of his dark Florida bar. It was cold, even for February, and he poked the fire in front of him, sending a shiver of glowing embers aloft.
There were three bombs that October night in Bali: The first exploded near the U.S. Consulate in Denpasar, meant only to signal who was being targeted. The second was strapped to the body of a young Muslim from Java who approached a place called Paddy's Pub in Kuta and walked through the door, went directly to the dance floor, white robes flowing among barely clad tourists, and detonated himself.
Years of running drugs and boosting cars left FRANK BOURASSA thinking: There's got to be an easier way to earn a dishonest living. That's when he nerved up the idea to make his fortune. (Literally.) Which is how Frank became the most prolific counterfeiter in American history—a guy with more than $200 million in nearly flawless fake twenties stuffed in a garage.
It is November, and 5 a.m. feels like winter. As he has on many mornings these past four months of 2011, Brogan Rafferty, age 16, wakes up early to help his friend and mentor, Rich Beasley, on an errand of Rich's design. Brogan doesn't need to pick up Rich until 6, but unlike your typical teenager, Brogan likes to get up early and drink coffee in the morning so he has some time to himself before he leaves the house.
It was a gift, the way he could get bad guys to open up. "Really good detectives," he said once, "are born with this sixth sense, that crystal ball in their stomach. It's having the ability to get inside that person's soul whatever way you can and get the person to say what you need to hear." What else could explain it?