The cream-colored slacks still bore some of the bloodstains from the beating the police had given Marty in subduing him that day over eight years befo...e. Horace admired the material. ‘Nice slack’s, Marty. What is it, Italian?’ ‘Armani.’ Horace nodded, impressed. ‘I’d keep ’em, I was you.’ ‘Naw, I got three inches more in the waist now then back then.’ Back in the day, Marty had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed high stake poker games, and payrolls. Flush with cash, he. Each night I swore I would do better in school so my father wouldn’t be angry and spank me. He had a horrible temper and my mother always appeased him. She had learned it was easier to keep out of his way than to argue with him. I tried really hard, but nothing was quite right.’ ‘That must have been horrible to live through,’ Rocky said. ‘Yeah, my father seemed to thrive on the anger, smirking whenever he found an excuse to get the paddle out. I met Jake when I was sixteen and he was twenty. He. More

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