Fiction

    On the short walk from the Metro I thought, today Paris ought to have been filled with grey fog or rain, as it often is in November. It would be less of an ache for Ned to be leaving. Instead the sun sailed in and out from...

     The pool water was cool as I stretched my arms in a side crawl, returning down the lane with the backstroke. The Olympic-size pool at the Executive Fitness gym was on the top floor of the Marriott Hotel, between the two...

    Pinchik sat hunched over the kitchen table. He stared at his plate. He stared for several minutes. He said nothing. He stared at his plate.     Mrs. Pinchik sat opposite him. From long experience, she knew it...

-Part Two     Ian took Mandy to dinner at a restaurant not far from their resort on Saturday night. Rather formal, it featured good wines, sophisticated courses, and large Rousseau-like paintings of jungle animals, peaceable...

Part One

    The Jan. 4, 1968, edition of The Star led off with the tale of a theft at the Sagaponack home of Truman Capote, author of “In Cold Blood,” the sensational nonfiction novel about a Kansas community held hostage by the...

    The hotel in Westwood was set back off the street and the entrance was up a dozen cement steps, cracked and precarious, like the residents’ collective state of mind. This was old Hollywood, and the hotel’s claim to...

     By the time we left and got to the funeral home we were just a little bit buzzed. The funeral director was a 60-something guy in a black pinstriped suit with his hair slicked back like one of the Stray Cats. Between the...

    This southern shore of Long Island has much sand and few stones, in contrast to the rock-strewn coastline of the west. There, one will hardly notice a particular stone for the mass of them. Here, a solitary stone against the...