Did they scalp you?
Steven GouldStichwörter: humor
Back in the Aerie she popped her lips percussively as she examined her booty. 'P-ilfering P-adgett's P-ockets Pr-oduces P-ossible P-ath to... to—' Well, clues and shit.
Steven GouldStichwörter: theft kidnapping
Great,' I said. 'Visit exotic Australia. Get bitten by an exotic snake. Die exotically.
Steven GouldBoom. I jumped.
Steven GouldStichwörter: humor
There is an abandonment, an escape, that physical labor bestows.
Steven GouldWhat did you—" He swallowed. His voice was raspy. "What did you do to him?"
"Sightseeing. Your turn."
He shivered. "No, that's all right.
Stichwörter: terror frightened
The first thing I want to make clear is that this violence, this terrorism, is not cultural. It isn't
integral either to Arab or Muslim culture. I've done too many briefings for senators and congressmen who think that all 'towelheads' carry a pistol and a grenade. If you can't see beyond this stereotype, then we might as well stop now.
Stichwörter: jumper
Matar slowly approached the coffee and picked it up carefully, like it might bite him. He
removed the lid and sniffed.
"It's not poisoned," I said.
"What are you? You conjure things from nowhere."
"Perhaps I'm an afrit, a genie. Perhaps I'm an angel."
Cox watched this exchange with interest. "Perhaps you are Shaitan," said Matar.
I raised my eyebrows and Cox obligingly said, "Satan."
I smiled a smile that didn't touch my eyes. The blood drained from Matar's face. "Perhaps," I
said. "Welcome to hell.
Stichwörter: jumper
Are you ready to release Millie Harrison?"
"We don't negotiate with terrorists."
"I'm not a terrorist." I said it tiredly. "Besides, that's bullshit. The U.S. has always negotiated
with terrorists, no matter what it's said. Why do you think we sold arms to Iran?"
"Release Brian Cox. We'll think about it."
"Millie Harrison is being illegally held. Brian Cox kidnapped her. Who is the terrorist? Who is
attacking the innocent? Release her and I'll give you back Cox."
I hung up.
Stichwörter: jumper
She brought the tea into the living room on a lacquered tray. The pot and cups were Japanese with unglazed rims. She poured.
"Thanks," I said.
"Well?"
"Huh?"
"Your family," she reminded.
I sipped the tea. "This is really good. Really delicious."
She raised her eyebrows. "That's what I thought. You're a good listener, Davy, and you can change the subject on a dime. You've hardly talked about yourself at all."
"I talk... too much."
"You talk about books, you talk about plays, you talk about movies, you talk about places, you talk about food, you talk about current events. You don't talk about yourself."
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I hadn't really thought about it. Sure, I didn't talk
about the jumping, but the rest? "Well, there's not much to say. Not like those stories of growing up with four brothers."
She smiled. "It's not going to work. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm not going to be distracted again, nor fooled into talking about those idiots again."
She poured more tea into my cup.
I frowned. "Do I really do that?"
"What? Not talk about yourself? Yes."
"No, try and distract you."
She stared at me. "You are fucking amazing. I've never seen someone so good at changing the subject."
"I don't do it on purpose."
She laughed.
Stichwörter: jumper
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