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.
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.
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.
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.
| 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 |