The girl said her name was Raquel and everyone called her Rocky. She was mostly terrified, and given what she'd been through, a lot of people might have switched off, but she talked like a mynah bird. I suspect that sometime before the night's events, she had learned that you can lie with anything. "My last name's Arceneaux." She pronounced it Arson, oh. "Are you going to kill me?"Live through? Preferably not. Write? Hell, yes.
"No. Stop asking me that."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
One of the many attractions of writing a crime novel . . .
. . . would be getting to write scenes like this one, from Nic Pizzolatto's impressive, dark new novel, Galveston: