![]() ![]() ![]() They would go tooling around the coast in her sports car and chug tequila and down their pills and get into these awful screaming fights. There was that frowsy old divorcée from Chicago he used to see. When he’d first come to Spain ten years before, he still knew how to have a good time. Almost certainly he was the most pleasant murderer you’d ever want to meet. If you met him down on the beach, he came across as a gentle soul with a soft laugh. He spent much of his time holed up in his cluttered garage apartment, watching BBC footage of the Iranian hostage crisis on a flickering black-and-white television, surrounded by bottles of Jack Daniel’s and pills and memories. At seventy he was still lean and alert, with high-slanting cheekbones, a sharp chin, and those clear-framed eyeglasses that made him look like a minor-league academic. In a tourist town on the white-sun Spanish coast an old man was passing his last years, an American grandfather with a snowy white crew cut and a glint in his turquoise eyes. ![]()
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