How Like an Angel by Jack Driscoll

By Jack Driscoll

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She needed a break; no more pushing. It was later, when we were back at my stilthouse that she told me, no, what she and Bets had been fighting about was me. 3 We had showered and changed. Because Dewey said she wasn't in a party mood, we decided not to go to the marina. How long had it been since I'd missed a Friday night with the fishing guides? I made a light dinner: grilled snapper with mango chutney and salad. We did the dishes exchanging the kind of polite conversation that is really silence.

Drugs. Tomlinson was doing drugs again, not even attempting to pretend he wasn't. I could hear his doctor telling me, "Sometimes they regress; go back to the way they were when they were kids. Or teenagers. " Into the phone, I said, "Really drunk, yeah. I'm with you," as Dewey, in bra and panties, caught my attention and mouthed the question, Tomlinson? " Watched her expression change, becoming serious, and she began to dress, listening to me talk—playtime over. Tomlinson said, "So there's this woman at the table and she leads me out.

Hell, no. " "That's what I'm asking," I said. " Tomlinson said, what had happened was, he'd met a woman in Key West, the night of Fantasy Fest, and she'd talked him into taking her on an extended cruise. "Julia DeGlorio," Tomlinson told me. "That's her name. I'd let you talk to her but she's up in the room right now. Very handsome woman; Cuban-American. Her family came over January second, 1959, and she was born nine, ten years later. In New Jersey. That was the day after Fidel came to power. " I was thinking: Julia DeGlorio—a feminized Spanish version of July of Glory.

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