Read a brief sample (Rated R for Language)
1.
Later, after it was all over, I spent some time thinking about how it
was for him the last time.
In the dark of night, the shadows between the trees would have been
full of ghosts. He would have dreamed of faces, of music and laughter,
the smell of sweet smoke and the taste of red wine. The valley, spread
out below, would have twinkled with gentle lights as the moon, out
from heaven and making the rounds, floated on the river.
Realizing what was happening, he would have held fast to this vision as
he went over the edge. Knowing Joey, and how brave he was, he might
have shouted I’m flying as he left all the weight behind, escaping,
leaving those on the ground with a final fuck you salute to their sick and
bitter little souls, as he kept rising.
He started to fall, and I want to believe that before he came down for
the last time, some merciful angel draped him in a shade of darkness
that held blades of kind light on its horizon.
2.
Isabel came into the kitchen and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder on
her way to the coffeemaker. I could hear my daughters arguing as they
got ready for school, a bit of busy music from their bedroom down the
hall. The sun was butter melting over the rooftops as a start one to
those glorious days that convince you that even a wounded Manhattan
is a marvelous place to live.
My wife brought her cup to the table just as the girls came in twittering
like sparrows, their dispute resolved. I sat momentarily dazzled by
their beauty, their small, oval faces and round, black eyes so full of light
and life. They kissed the mom to whom they owed their looks and me
and clattered out the door and into the elevator, like miniature
humpbacks under packs that threatened to topple them.
In the sudden silence, Isabel left me to my paper and went to stand by
the window and watch for them to emerge onto the sidewalk and
clamber onto the waiting bus. It was an even day, her turn.
The horn tootled merry notes and the bus pulled away from the curb.
Her face was wistful as she released her babies to the world once more.
After one sweet sigh, she shifted into career gear, stuffing sketches,
photographs, notes, and the other paraphernalia of the designer’s trade
into her portfolio, launching her own busy Monday.
Our routine ended when I turned a page and saw the item that was
wedged into the bottom corner. I said, “Oh, my God.”
The note in my voice caused Isabel to stop and stare. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t fucking believe it!”
She was starting to look alarmed. “What? What?”
“They sold the rights to ‘She Loves You’ for a TV spot.”
Her brow stitched. “Sold what for what?”
“‘She Loves You,’” I said. “The Beatles song. They sold the rights.
They’re going to use it in a fucking TV spot.”
“Oh.” She shrugged and went back to organizing her case. She must
have felt my frown over the top of the page, because she turned back
around and said, “What?”
“Oh? That’s all?”
“They do it all the time.”
“It’s not a --”
“And you bitch about it all the time.” She snapped her portfolio closed
and smiled at me. “Such drama.”
“I know, but this is not just any song. It’s different.”
She regarded me for a bemused moment. “Oh, yeah? How?”
I laid the paper aside. “I remember the very first time I heard it,” I said.
“Exactly where I was, who I was with, every detail.” I tapped my
forehead. “It’s right here, stopped in time forever, like a photograph.
How often does that happen?”
Something in my tone caught her and she took a sip from her cup and
cocked her head to one side, waiting for more.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” I said.
“I’ll go in a minute,” she said. “I want to hear this. Go ahead. Tell me
your story.”
We were in my room in our half-double on Queen Street. I was sitting
at my desk and Joey was sprawled on my bed, his arms folded behind
his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. We were doing nothing, talking
about nothing, lazing away a long Saturday afternoon. It was too cold
to go outside and there was really nothing to do in a little town like
Wyanossing, anyway. We were gangly twerps with bad haircuts. Even
in those days, I was the serious one and Joey the clown.
The music trickling from my little Philco AM was so bland that it
faded into the beige walls of my room, a hypnotic saccharine drone that
pitched us into our private musings. What do eleven-year-olds think
about? Who knew? Girls and games, mostly. I could see through the
window the profile of Nock Hill, the ridge of blue Appalachian granite
that ran along the other side of the river. It was a dull mount except for
Council Rock. The Susquehannock tribe had regarded the jutting
promontory as sacred. Or so went the local history. Winter clouds
were hanging dark and low and the three radio towers atop the hill
blinked in melancholy rhythm, lonely beacons in the gray afternoon.
Some time went by and I sensed that the DJ’s voice was winding up
with a sudden urgency. At first, I thought it was a news bulletin. Then
I heard “new combo” and “the British Isles.” By the time he reached a
staccato “Liverpool,” “screaming girls” and “huge!” he was almost
shrieking.
Joey suddenly cranked upright, flailed his hands in the direction of the
radio, and yelled, “Turn it up!”
I jerked to attention and fumbled for the dial, almost knocking the old
Philco off the desk and through the window in the process. I twirled
the plastic knob just in time to catch the roll of a tom-tom, and then a
sudden rush of music gushed from the speaker, jangling guitars, voices
in harmony, and a driven rhythm, so much and so fast, strange and
familiar at the same time. It was every great song I had ever heard,
distilled into the one that crackled with an energy that made the tiny
speaker quake.
I lurched from my chair, gaping at the radio as if God himself had taken
over the broadcast.
Joey was jumping up and down on my bed, his eyes popping out of
his red face as he threw his arms around at crazy angles. Two minutes
and twenty seconds later, it was over.
Joey’s body fairly vibrated. He said, “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh,
my God, did you hear that?”
I heard; we heard: Joey and I.
1.
Later, after it was all over, I spent some time thinking about how it
was for him the last time.
In the dark of night, the shadows between the trees would have been
full of ghosts. He would have dreamed of faces, of music and laughter,
the smell of sweet smoke and the taste of red wine. The valley, spread
out below, would have twinkled with gentle lights as the moon, out
from heaven and making the rounds, floated on the river.
Realizing what was happening, he would have held fast to this vision as
he went over the edge. Knowing Joey, and how brave he was, he might
have shouted I’m flying as he left all the weight behind, escaping,
leaving those on the ground with a final fuck you salute to their sick and
bitter little souls, as he kept rising.
He started to fall, and I want to believe that before he came down for
the last time, some merciful angel draped him in a shade of darkness
that held blades of kind light on its horizon.
2.
Isabel came into the kitchen and laid a gentle hand on my shoulder on
her way to the coffeemaker. I could hear my daughters arguing as they
got ready for school, a bit of busy music from their bedroom down the
hall. The sun was butter melting over the rooftops as a start one to
those glorious days that convince you that even a wounded Manhattan
is a marvelous place to live.
My wife brought her cup to the table just as the girls came in twittering
like sparrows, their dispute resolved. I sat momentarily dazzled by
their beauty, their small, oval faces and round, black eyes so full of light
and life. They kissed the mom to whom they owed their looks and me
and clattered out the door and into the elevator, like miniature
humpbacks under packs that threatened to topple them.
In the sudden silence, Isabel left me to my paper and went to stand by
the window and watch for them to emerge onto the sidewalk and
clamber onto the waiting bus. It was an even day, her turn.
The horn tootled merry notes and the bus pulled away from the curb.
Her face was wistful as she released her babies to the world once more.
After one sweet sigh, she shifted into career gear, stuffing sketches,
photographs, notes, and the other paraphernalia of the designer’s trade
into her portfolio, launching her own busy Monday.
Our routine ended when I turned a page and saw the item that was
wedged into the bottom corner. I said, “Oh, my God.”
The note in my voice caused Isabel to stop and stare. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t fucking believe it!”
She was starting to look alarmed. “What? What?”
“They sold the rights to ‘She Loves You’ for a TV spot.”
Her brow stitched. “Sold what for what?”
“‘She Loves You,’” I said. “The Beatles song. They sold the rights.
They’re going to use it in a fucking TV spot.”
“Oh.” She shrugged and went back to organizing her case. She must
have felt my frown over the top of the page, because she turned back
around and said, “What?”
“Oh? That’s all?”
“They do it all the time.”
“It’s not a --”
“And you bitch about it all the time.” She snapped her portfolio closed
and smiled at me. “Such drama.”
“I know, but this is not just any song. It’s different.”
She regarded me for a bemused moment. “Oh, yeah? How?”
I laid the paper aside. “I remember the very first time I heard it,” I said.
“Exactly where I was, who I was with, every detail.” I tapped my
forehead. “It’s right here, stopped in time forever, like a photograph.
How often does that happen?”
Something in my tone caught her and she took a sip from her cup and
cocked her head to one side, waiting for more.
“Don’t you have to get to work?” I said.
“I’ll go in a minute,” she said. “I want to hear this. Go ahead. Tell me
your story.”
We were in my room in our half-double on Queen Street. I was sitting
at my desk and Joey was sprawled on my bed, his arms folded behind
his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. We were doing nothing, talking
about nothing, lazing away a long Saturday afternoon. It was too cold
to go outside and there was really nothing to do in a little town like
Wyanossing, anyway. We were gangly twerps with bad haircuts. Even
in those days, I was the serious one and Joey the clown.
The music trickling from my little Philco AM was so bland that it
faded into the beige walls of my room, a hypnotic saccharine drone that
pitched us into our private musings. What do eleven-year-olds think
about? Who knew? Girls and games, mostly. I could see through the
window the profile of Nock Hill, the ridge of blue Appalachian granite
that ran along the other side of the river. It was a dull mount except for
Council Rock. The Susquehannock tribe had regarded the jutting
promontory as sacred. Or so went the local history. Winter clouds
were hanging dark and low and the three radio towers atop the hill
blinked in melancholy rhythm, lonely beacons in the gray afternoon.
Some time went by and I sensed that the DJ’s voice was winding up
with a sudden urgency. At first, I thought it was a news bulletin. Then
I heard “new combo” and “the British Isles.” By the time he reached a
staccato “Liverpool,” “screaming girls” and “huge!” he was almost
shrieking.
Joey suddenly cranked upright, flailed his hands in the direction of the
radio, and yelled, “Turn it up!”
I jerked to attention and fumbled for the dial, almost knocking the old
Philco off the desk and through the window in the process. I twirled
the plastic knob just in time to catch the roll of a tom-tom, and then a
sudden rush of music gushed from the speaker, jangling guitars, voices
in harmony, and a driven rhythm, so much and so fast, strange and
familiar at the same time. It was every great song I had ever heard,
distilled into the one that crackled with an energy that made the tiny
speaker quake.
I lurched from my chair, gaping at the radio as if God himself had taken
over the broadcast.
Joey was jumping up and down on my bed, his eyes popping out of
his red face as he threw his arms around at crazy angles. Two minutes
and twenty seconds later, it was over.
Joey’s body fairly vibrated. He said, “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh,
my God, did you hear that?”
I heard; we heard: Joey and I.
Rough voices mutter in the darkness and seconds
later, a body tumbles from an outcropping of rock
and lands on the railroad tracks hundreds of feet
below. The night goes still again as a life ends in one
sad breath.
So begins, “The Last Time,” a mystery of murder
woven through with a tale about the deepest bonds
of friendship.
Following the shocking first scene, the story shifts to
a Manhattan morning and Richard Zale happening
upon a news story about yet another classic song
being snapped up for an advertising campaign. Over
coffee, we’re treated to a flashback as he tells his
wife of the marvelous moment when he and his
childhood friend Joey Sesto first heard the song.
Later that day, with the song or his former friend
still on his mind, he decides to make contact, only to
learn from Joey’s sister Angela that he’s been dead
for two weeks. It was he who had fallen to his death
in the first scene.
Staggered by the news and wracked with guilt,
Richard travels back to his hometown to pay his
respects. Driving out of the city into the country, he
flashes back to some of the wildly comic moments
that made his friendship with Joey so rare.
When he arrives, he is greeted by Angela and
another drama begins, as the two of them have a
secret romantic history. Now a local attorney, she’s
still grieving, and while grateful for the visit, she’s
wary of Richard the outsider.
It’s his intention to stay just long enough to pay his
respects. However, he’s only in town a short while
when old frictions and new puzzles emerge.
The facts of Joey’s death in the fall from the
precipice don’t make sense. Officially, it was
ruled an accident. That fateful night, Joey was
wandering around Nock Hill, an old stomping
ground, when he stepped onto the jutting edge of
Council Rock and then fell. Suicide is also suggested
but Angela swears and Richie agrees that Joey
would never take that route. That leaves only one
possibility.
Bothered by this and not quite willing to say
goodbye, he decides to stay the rest of the day and
that as her guest. As he wanders around town,
trying to pick up on what really happened, New
York actor Richard Zale reverts to hometown boy
Richie Zaleski; and Richie Zaleski wants to know
how his friend Joey died.
Though he’s no detective, Wyanossing is a small
town and secrets live close to the surface. Once he
starts poking around, former friends reappear to
share suspicions of foul play, former enemies make
it clear that they want him gone, and strangers drop
tantalizing hints that things are not what they seem.
He stays another day and night, and convinces
Angela that there’s something amiss. With her
cooperation, keeps digging, and finds out that Joey
was spending a lot of time in the town library,
poring over old maps. The story begins to take an
ominous turn. Someone takes a shot at them. His
car is savagely vandalized, either as a warning or to
keep him there. Some locals pick a fight in a bar
that lands him in jail.
He and Angela manage to keep their hands off each
other as the mystery thickens, though the sexual
tension between them is intense. Meanwhile, his wife
in New York grows alarmed by the threats from
parties unknown -- and from his one-time love.
Undaunted, Richie continues on a dangerous trail.
What he finds at the end of that road is a large and
insidious evil that lurks in the shadows of the placid
little borough.
“The Last Time” features an intriguing cast of
characters: Angela, still a beauty and still deeply
attracted to Richie; Leo, a local stoner who becomes
Richie’s partner in crime; Louie Zag, once a brilliant
class clown, now a bumbling head case who
manages to offer flashes of insight from his fried
brain; Crystal, too young and too fine, enticing
Richie with whispers of secrets; Officer Dewitt, a
hard-ass cop who wants Richie to stop his snooping
and get off his turf and away from Crystal; Tom
Raines, another former classmate, now the Chief of
Police, who dismisses, then grudgingly accepts with
Richie’s suspicions about Joey.
And finally, Joey - or at least his ghost - lurking in
the small town shadows, demanding answers and
justice from beyond the grave.
The story winds to a fever pitch and comes down to
a gut-wrenching climax of blood and betrayal, with
the lives of Richard and Angela and the final verdict
of Joey’s death caught in the glare of one deadly
moment.
From LA Times Book Prize, Falcon Award, and
Barry Award nominee and Shamus Award winner
David Fulmer.
later, a body tumbles from an outcropping of rock
and lands on the railroad tracks hundreds of feet
below. The night goes still again as a life ends in one
sad breath.
So begins, “The Last Time,” a mystery of murder
woven through with a tale about the deepest bonds
of friendship.
Following the shocking first scene, the story shifts to
a Manhattan morning and Richard Zale happening
upon a news story about yet another classic song
being snapped up for an advertising campaign. Over
coffee, we’re treated to a flashback as he tells his
wife of the marvelous moment when he and his
childhood friend Joey Sesto first heard the song.
Later that day, with the song or his former friend
still on his mind, he decides to make contact, only to
learn from Joey’s sister Angela that he’s been dead
for two weeks. It was he who had fallen to his death
in the first scene.
Staggered by the news and wracked with guilt,
Richard travels back to his hometown to pay his
respects. Driving out of the city into the country, he
flashes back to some of the wildly comic moments
that made his friendship with Joey so rare.
When he arrives, he is greeted by Angela and
another drama begins, as the two of them have a
secret romantic history. Now a local attorney, she’s
still grieving, and while grateful for the visit, she’s
wary of Richard the outsider.
It’s his intention to stay just long enough to pay his
respects. However, he’s only in town a short while
when old frictions and new puzzles emerge.
The facts of Joey’s death in the fall from the
precipice don’t make sense. Officially, it was
ruled an accident. That fateful night, Joey was
wandering around Nock Hill, an old stomping
ground, when he stepped onto the jutting edge of
Council Rock and then fell. Suicide is also suggested
but Angela swears and Richie agrees that Joey
would never take that route. That leaves only one
possibility.
Bothered by this and not quite willing to say
goodbye, he decides to stay the rest of the day and
that as her guest. As he wanders around town,
trying to pick up on what really happened, New
York actor Richard Zale reverts to hometown boy
Richie Zaleski; and Richie Zaleski wants to know
how his friend Joey died.
Though he’s no detective, Wyanossing is a small
town and secrets live close to the surface. Once he
starts poking around, former friends reappear to
share suspicions of foul play, former enemies make
it clear that they want him gone, and strangers drop
tantalizing hints that things are not what they seem.
He stays another day and night, and convinces
Angela that there’s something amiss. With her
cooperation, keeps digging, and finds out that Joey
was spending a lot of time in the town library,
poring over old maps. The story begins to take an
ominous turn. Someone takes a shot at them. His
car is savagely vandalized, either as a warning or to
keep him there. Some locals pick a fight in a bar
that lands him in jail.
He and Angela manage to keep their hands off each
other as the mystery thickens, though the sexual
tension between them is intense. Meanwhile, his wife
in New York grows alarmed by the threats from
parties unknown -- and from his one-time love.
Undaunted, Richie continues on a dangerous trail.
What he finds at the end of that road is a large and
insidious evil that lurks in the shadows of the placid
little borough.
“The Last Time” features an intriguing cast of
characters: Angela, still a beauty and still deeply
attracted to Richie; Leo, a local stoner who becomes
Richie’s partner in crime; Louie Zag, once a brilliant
class clown, now a bumbling head case who
manages to offer flashes of insight from his fried
brain; Crystal, too young and too fine, enticing
Richie with whispers of secrets; Officer Dewitt, a
hard-ass cop who wants Richie to stop his snooping
and get off his turf and away from Crystal; Tom
Raines, another former classmate, now the Chief of
Police, who dismisses, then grudgingly accepts with
Richie’s suspicions about Joey.
And finally, Joey - or at least his ghost - lurking in
the small town shadows, demanding answers and
justice from beyond the grave.
The story winds to a fever pitch and comes down to
a gut-wrenching climax of blood and betrayal, with
the lives of Richard and Angela and the final verdict
of Joey’s death caught in the glare of one deadly
moment.
From LA Times Book Prize, Falcon Award, and
Barry Award nominee and Shamus Award winner
David Fulmer.
| Read the Synopsis |
| "The Last Time" is a new mystery by award-winning author David Fulmer published for Kindle and other digital platforms. |
| New from Stay Thirsty Media! |
| "The Last Time" at the Amazon Kindle Store |
| David Fulmer interview about The Last Time |