Other people’s success always made M. drink way too much. Weaving slightly as he walked across the hard wood floor, he felt each of the three dirty martinis he’d gulped within the hour of arriving at his friend David’s book party. The restaurant was already crowded, and a few folks stood outside in the spring coolness smoking cigarettes and chatting. Years ago, the rowdy bar where he unsteadily stood was he and David’s former hangout spot the Saloon, a place where once the crew of beauty queen waitresses who worked there were required to wear roller skates. M. often journeyed to the restaurant on 64th and Broadway from his Harlem hood to meet dates for Sunday brunch. Continue reading Killer Heels by Michael A. Gonzales
Diamonds Inc’ By U.V. Ray
Norton saw a spider crawling across his desk. He bought down his glass of Scotch and crushed it. He buzzed his secretary and said, “Send in Offenbach .”
Offenbach came in and leaned his black umberella against the wall in the corner of the room. He adjusted his suit and sat down in the leather chair opposite Norton, crossing his legs.