Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.
It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in.
I been shaking two nickels together for a month, trying to get them to mate.
It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.
She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket.
The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.
She had eyes like strange sins.
Until you guys own your own souls you don’t own mine.
I looked back at Breeze. He was about as excited as a hole in the wall.
I’m all done with hating you. It’s all washed out of me. I hate people hard, but I don’t hate them very long.
She looked playful and eager, but not quite sure of herself, like a new kitten in a house where they don’t care much about kittens.
“I don’t like your manner,” Kingsley said in a voice you could have cracked a Brazil nut on.
She smelled the way the Taj Mahal looks by moonlight.
Leave us do the thinking, sweetheart. It takes equipment.
California, the department-store state. The most of everything and the best of nothing.
I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars.
The French have a phrase for it. The bastards have a phrase for everything and they are always right. To say goodbye is to die a little.
I belonged in Idle Valley like a pearl onion on a banana split.
I’m not a young man. I’m old, tired and full of no coffee.
Guns never settle anything, I said. They are just a fast curtain to a bad second act.
Don’t kid yourself. You’re a dirty low-down detective. Kiss me.
