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From "the funniest important writer in America" (Miami Herald) comes a tale that is gleefully zany and incisively sharp and now available in trade paperback for the first time.
its chalky tail feathers, uncorked a prodigious bowel movement and flew away. With a woeful moan, Shreave rolled himself down the dune, over the cold fire pit and into the water. There he threshed in hysterics, trying to slosh off the pungent stickum of feathers, bones, fur, mullet scales, cartilage and less identifiable ingredients of the jumbo eagle dropping. It was in this frothing state of aggrievement that he was found by a passing park ranger, drawn to the scene by Shreave’s howls. After
radio, only to find that it was off. The music she heard was coming from inside her skull, one of the usual symptoms. Today it was two oldies-a wretched disco number, and the peppy “Marrakesh Express” by Crosby, Stills amp; Nash. The static, over which Honey had no control, was worse than on the Cuban stations from Miami. Her mouth was dry by the time she pulled into Perry Skinner’s driveway. The house sat on the Barron River, up the bend from the Rod and Gun Club. It wasn’t a huge place but she
friends were sleeping where they’d dropped, not far from the wisping campfire. Sammy Tigertail raised the gun and fired a shot over the beach. Quickly he stepped back into the tree line. As soon as he heard voices, he fired twice more. Now the college kids were all on their feet, yelling and scrambling for their belongings. A male voice called Gillian’s name, and soon others chimed in. The Seminole squeezed off another round and the kids fell silent as they clambered into the remaining canoes.
appealed immensely to Shreave. “Tell me an enthralling life story,” she said, “so I can understand you better.” “Not a problem.” Shreave misread her interest in the predictable way. His jaw was throbbing but if she wanted to talk, he’d talk. Whatever floated her boat. Honey said, “First, you should get up off your knees-no, never mind. That’ll work.” Turning away, she opened the remaining duffel and removed some items out of Shreave’s sight. She asked him to shut his eyes and, idiotically, he
‘weather personality’ is what they call the job. I’d have to take some, like, meteorology classes and probably switch majors, but that’s okay.” “So you’ll go back to school?” Gillian glanced at the Indian, who was lying mute and miserable next to Lester on the ground. She said, “I guess. If this thing with Thlocko doesn’t turn serious.” Eugenie said, “His kind of serious is too serious, trust me. You got a flashlight I can borrow?” Gillian found one among the Indian’s supplies and handed it