exercised their power. The blonde was trying to flirt.
"The reading thing?" She coaxed him with body language, leaning forward so her breasts were accentuated.
Burke allowed her a thin smile. "I was in the service for a while. I always read a lot, but they had a course in speed-reading and I took it twice."
The blonde widened her eyes, batted those lashes. "Oh, I do love uniforms." Scarlet O'Hara came to mind. Her friend seemed embarrassed.
"That so?"
"I'm serious." She extended her hand like a princess. "My name is Tiffany."
But of course it is, Burke thought. And this is 'mysterious older man day.' He took her hand. "Kevin O'Brien." He gave the name of a long-dead cousin.
The girl moved in for the kill. She edged her chair closer. Her friend sought shelter in a make-up mirror and doodled in the foam of a latte. To her credit, she appeared mortified. Meanwhile, the blonde purred. "And what did you do in the service, Kevin?"
Burke's eyes were slate, face leaden. "Oh, I killed people, Tiff," he said. "Sometimes civilians. Quite a few, in fact."
Her smile froze and soon wavered. She eased away from him, mouth working furiously, like an anal retentive housewife who just found a roach in her broth. Her friend snorted and leapt to her feet. A man at a nearby table struggled not to laugh. Burke looked down and resumed reading. He did not give the girl another thought.
Burke found Passageway a pile of crap. It was easy material to speed through. He could see the so-called scary moments coming a mile away. Stryker's first novel was flat and derivative, although the author did have a decent flair for language. Burke finished the book in a few minutes, put a few reminder notes and page numbers on the pad, and started on the next book. It was marginally better, but junk nonetheless. The author tried to write about Native American rituals but got many of his facts wrong. The characters were almost laughably cardboard, the ending cinematic in the worst sense of the word. As Burke read, the real world faded away.
He was on his third coffee when he started the next-to-last novel. It had more depth of characterization and a lighter writing style, and something had begun to resonate deeply within the structure. It was existential angst, something with which Burke was quite familiar. The author had a macabre preoccupation with concepts like the existence of random chance, and the fact that life may have no intrinsic meaning. Even speeding through these pages, Burke found them disconcerting. Not only did the lead character confront an utter pointlessness to his life and the failure of feeble attempts to be moral and courageous, but evil forces won out at the conclusion. The book was well done, and profoundly disturbing.
As Jack Burke put the book down, he was suddenly cloaked in a gray, weighted melancholy. Peter Stryker may have started out a hack, but he ended his life as a novelist of considerable talent.
Burke had one book to go, the latest and last novel. He turned the book over in his hands. The title was A Taste for Flesh . He studied the needlessly inflammatory copy on the back, which described TERROR UNLEASHED and a DEPRAVITY BEYOND DESCRIPTION. The print size and color seemed reasonably restrained, but the jacket hyperbole reminded him of a B movie poster from the 1950s. Despite that, Burke knew that this book was likely to be far better than it appeared.
"Sir?"
The coffee shop was crowded. Burke set the book on the table. A pimple-faced kid in an apron festooned with dancing coffee beans was doing his best to be assertive. "Sir, you've been sitting here for a long time, and there are others waiting for a table."
After a brief flash of irritation, Burke sighed and got to his feet. To his dismay, the kid was spooked by his size and backpedaled rapidly, bumping into a pair of customers still standing in line. Embarrassed, Burke took the final novel but left the others on the table. He walked away.
"Sir, you forgot your
"The reading thing?" She coaxed him with body language, leaning forward so her breasts were accentuated.
Burke allowed her a thin smile. "I was in the service for a while. I always read a lot, but they had a course in speed-reading and I took it twice."
The blonde widened her eyes, batted those lashes. "Oh, I do love uniforms." Scarlet O'Hara came to mind. Her friend seemed embarrassed.
"That so?"
"I'm serious." She extended her hand like a princess. "My name is Tiffany."
But of course it is, Burke thought. And this is 'mysterious older man day.' He took her hand. "Kevin O'Brien." He gave the name of a long-dead cousin.
The girl moved in for the kill. She edged her chair closer. Her friend sought shelter in a make-up mirror and doodled in the foam of a latte. To her credit, she appeared mortified. Meanwhile, the blonde purred. "And what did you do in the service, Kevin?"
Burke's eyes were slate, face leaden. "Oh, I killed people, Tiff," he said. "Sometimes civilians. Quite a few, in fact."
Her smile froze and soon wavered. She eased away from him, mouth working furiously, like an anal retentive housewife who just found a roach in her broth. Her friend snorted and leapt to her feet. A man at a nearby table struggled not to laugh. Burke looked down and resumed reading. He did not give the girl another thought.
Burke found Passageway a pile of crap. It was easy material to speed through. He could see the so-called scary moments coming a mile away. Stryker's first novel was flat and derivative, although the author did have a decent flair for language. Burke finished the book in a few minutes, put a few reminder notes and page numbers on the pad, and started on the next book. It was marginally better, but junk nonetheless. The author tried to write about Native American rituals but got many of his facts wrong. The characters were almost laughably cardboard, the ending cinematic in the worst sense of the word. As Burke read, the real world faded away.
He was on his third coffee when he started the next-to-last novel. It had more depth of characterization and a lighter writing style, and something had begun to resonate deeply within the structure. It was existential angst, something with which Burke was quite familiar. The author had a macabre preoccupation with concepts like the existence of random chance, and the fact that life may have no intrinsic meaning. Even speeding through these pages, Burke found them disconcerting. Not only did the lead character confront an utter pointlessness to his life and the failure of feeble attempts to be moral and courageous, but evil forces won out at the conclusion. The book was well done, and profoundly disturbing.
As Jack Burke put the book down, he was suddenly cloaked in a gray, weighted melancholy. Peter Stryker may have started out a hack, but he ended his life as a novelist of considerable talent.
Burke had one book to go, the latest and last novel. He turned the book over in his hands. The title was A Taste for Flesh . He studied the needlessly inflammatory copy on the back, which described TERROR UNLEASHED and a DEPRAVITY BEYOND DESCRIPTION. The print size and color seemed reasonably restrained, but the jacket hyperbole reminded him of a B movie poster from the 1950s. Despite that, Burke knew that this book was likely to be far better than it appeared.
"Sir?"
The coffee shop was crowded. Burke set the book on the table. A pimple-faced kid in an apron festooned with dancing coffee beans was doing his best to be assertive. "Sir, you've been sitting here for a long time, and there are others waiting for a table."
After a brief flash of irritation, Burke sighed and got to his feet. To his dismay, the kid was spooked by his size and backpedaled rapidly, bumping into a pair of customers still standing in line. Embarrassed, Burke took the final novel but left the others on the table. He walked away.
"Sir, you forgot your
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