When I arrived at Shklovsky’s garage, I found my car in parts: The brakes, the clutch, the wheel discs, the cam shaft, the gearbox, and the exhaust all laid out on the greasy floor like excavated dinosaur bones. ‘Jesus Shklovsky!’ I said. ‘What the hell have you done to my car?’ Shklovsky held a piston … More Shklovsky’s Garage.
It was just after eight a.m. and already the precinct was hotter than an oven. As I packed up my desk, the guys stood around laughing and laying the sarcasm on real thick. Fat Tommy sidled up next to me with a meatball sub in his hand. ‘Hey Jimmy,’ he said, patting his shoulder holstered … More LITERARY DIVISION