Jack Vettriano
summer of 1970 I dressed in white linen. The guy in the shop said "clothes are fresh and feel" of I nodded as I taking measures with open arms and I was like a poor man. It was not what I bought them, but to blend in with houses, small splash of white mortar, just above the harbor. Also taken to wearing a hat. White, too. The publisher kept saying that was a few chapters, some fixing. The other side of the phone continued to croak that yellow writing, that I was Emile Zola. The book I had not even comedy, to write a detective story that is a motive, how to kill someone.
The bar was just below the Hotel Galba. I took a drink pretending to read the newspaper almost until noon. Then I looked at the small crowd that came from mass. A whiff of cologne, bows and greetings of the grease Linetti. Cantalamessa's lawyer entered the bakery to buy cassatine and cannoli. His wife, however, sat with a Campari in the tent of the bar "Il Gelso". I looked at his wife, not the bartender, the bartender looked at me. The bartender was queer.
The red dress on the wall of the church looked like a gunshot, and was to cross your legs after my two tables. Suffer the little grooves on the edge of the lips of his wine. He had a silver cigarette case and a pair of glasses to hold on dark hair white. I nodded a greeting in the hat, then, I ordered a second campari. That was hot.
The woman with the red dress closed the door behind him, the room was cool and had wisteria paintings on the walls. He got up her skirt and looked down, as if to indicate the road. From the window you could see the Gulf of Capistrano and the line of tourists to the island ferries. While pushing with your hips I was breathing on words that I never understood. The fan blade creaked in time. A fly against the glass. A drop of sweat from my chin to his forehead. The tears around his eyes without question. The language in a vacuum. It 'started well, with his hands around his neck. To kill someone, do not need a motive.
Before you take the boat to Capistrano, I called the publisher of the bar of the harbor. " The book is ready, see you Wednesday . The coffee was lousy. Then I saw her in the clink of cups behind a puff of acacia. The fog of a cappuccino had not covered the red dress. To kill someone you do not need a motive, and even to write a detective story.
"The girl with the red dress took him by the hand and led behind the dunes of the establishment Calypso. Paul said that if he wanted to watch his sister could do it for $ 500. She said something in the middle of the cicadas, then got up the strip of cloth to below the chin and looked down, as if to indicate the road. The boy had approached the mouth of the little cunt and pulled out his tongue. They went out of the bushes, the larger one had the costume down, others were holding him still with his mouth in the sand. The girl with the red dress she laughed, in the midst of the broom. The laughter was a swarm of cicadas. "
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