Last Night In Twisted River

“You should have left yesterday,” Ketchum told him. “You have to leave the country as soon as possible!”

“The country?” Da

“You’re a famous writer! What do you have to live in this asshole country for?” Ketchum asked him. “You can write anywhere, can’t you? And how long before Cookie retires? For that matter, he can cook anywhere-can’t he? Just don’t let it be an Italian place! That’s what the cowboy will be looking for. And Cookie needs a new name.”

“Dot and May never heard the Angel name,” Da

“Carl could hear it-when he comes looking for you two, Da

“So I’m supposed to change my name, too? For God’s sake, Ketchum-I’m a writer!”

“Keep it, then,” Ketchum said morosely. “The cowboy’s no reader, I’ll grant you that. But Cookie can’t keep the Tony Angel-he’d be better off being Dominic Baciagalupo again! Da

“I have a son, Ketchum-he’s American, remember?” Da

“Joe is going to be in college in Colorado ,” Ketchum reminded him. This was a sore point with Da

“In Colorado?” Da

“First things first, Da

“Maybe Pop and I could go to Colorado, too,” Da

Ketchum cut him off. “You must be as simple-minded as a pinch of coon shit, Da

“I’ll let you know our plans, Ketchum,” the writer told his father’s old friend.

“Carl doesn’t know shit about foreign countries,” Ketchum said. “Hell, Boston wasn’t foreign enough for him. You think Colorado would be too far away for the cowboy to find you? Colorado ’s a lot like New Hampshire, Da

“I suppose so,” Da

“I promised your mom I would look after you!” Ketchum shouted, his voice breaking.

“Well, I guess you’re doing it,” Da

I was thinking about what a

Friend had said.

I was hoping it was a lie.

Da

The dishwasher was waiting for more dirty dishes; an earnest-looking boy, he was reading a paperback. Probably an assignment for school, Da

And the bad night was far from over; for Da

“YOU’LL FIND SOMEONE,” Kurt Vo

As for what Vo

On the night of Dot and May’s visit to Avellino, when Da

Was the compound overrun with revelers? Was every last room of the old farmhouse (now the guesthouse) occupied-as was, evidently, the new house that Da

But Da

Or was it a prank? Pranks weren’t Armando DeSimone’s style. Other than Armando, Da

Furthermore, there was no occasion for a surprise party-not that the writer could think of. Maybe it was Armando, Da