They were standing in front of the old boarded-up church on Bristol Street.
“Gimme a light,” said Kitty, leaning toward Isley, cigarette trembling in the corner of her mouth. Isley snapped a flame from his big silver lighter after three false starts and held it to the tip of her cigarette. His hand was numb and shaking from the cold.
It was one of those bleak November Sundays when everything is dead and the sky is full of sleet and you’re just waiting for the full weight of winter to come down.
“Thanks,” said Kitty.
Peachfuzz was vomiting warm champagne on the granite steps; it hit the stone with a slap, and steam wandered up toward the
“You okay, Peach?” Kitty asked, drawing on her cigarette.
Peachfuzz wiped her lips with the back of her glove.