“Del had a show at the American Indian Center in Minneapolis. The man on it had been dead, she guessed, at least a week. Let me show you. The other night.
It’s not like you could trust anything you heard on the radio. “Tough times ahead. Garrett shifted, running a hand down my back, arranging his arms to pull me tight against him. On the stage, a horse-faced Doctor-Colonel, very drunk, was crooning a lugubrious love ballad into a microphone for an audience of orderlies, junior officers, and Antilian prostitutes.
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