Hamburg 1982
The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.
“Are you a saint?”
“No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap.
“Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner.”
Hamburg
>Howaldtswerke Deutsche Werft (HDW) Hamburg,
1972
I wrote this novel in the autumn of 1997 while living several months in Ballyconeeley under the Connemara Mountains or the Seven Pins. I returned to New York and only showed the finished work to Shannon Greer. He read it in one night. I never showed it to anyone else, although in 2016 I revised it another time.
Last Christmas Winick Diamonds, the jewelry sore in Montauk, closed for the season. With no job I went on the hustle for money and filled my spare time writing a new version of ALMOST A DEAD MAN. I’m nearly finished. First destination. Shannon Greer. He’s a great photographer and has a better than good eye.
ps Calle Schwensen survived the Gross Freiheit of the Reeperbahn.
If you find him there, give him my regards.
Hamburg 1982
The scurry of claws across the filthy floor startled the woman on the battered chair and she lifted her black stiletto heels in horror. Rats were the least of her problems. Over the phone her lover had suggested a nocturnal rendezvous on Kaiserkai. No one came to Hamburg’s harbor at night. The woman had driven down to the warehouse district alone for rough sex with her Willi. Instead two men had been waiting on the unlit dock and dragged her into an abandoned warehouse. Now in a damp basement she pleaded, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong?” The black man in the spotless jogging suit circled the chair. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. He swatted the dusty 40-watt bulb dangling from the rafter, then tapped the woman’s gaunt face.
“Are you a saint?”
“No, I am far from a saint.” The expensive wig flopped onto a folded lap.
“Saints are only saints, because they are dead. You on the other hand are alive, because you are a sinner.”
Hamburg
>Howaldtswerke Deutsche Werft (HDW) Hamburg,
1972
I wrote this novel in the autumn of 1997 while living several months in Ballyconeeley under the Connemara Mountains or the Seven Pins. I returned to New York and only showed the finished work to Shannon Greer. He read it in one night. I never showed it to anyone else, although in 2016 I revised it another time.
Last Christmas Winick Diamonds, the jewelry sore in Montauk, closed for the season. With no job I went on the hustle for money and filled my spare time writing a new version of ALMOST A DEAD MAN. I’m nearly finished. First destination. Shannon Greer. He’s a great photographer and has a better than good eye.
ps Calle Schwensen survived the Gross Freiheit of the Reeperbahn.
If you find him there, give him my regards.
As for Kurt he never left Paris.
