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Learn everything you need to know about wine, from grape varietals and growing regions to tasting, serving and pairing with food.
Champagne must be made from specific grapes — Chardonnay, Pinot Noir and Pinot Meunier — in the traditional method of fermentation. It comes in two styles: vintage, from grapes of a single year, and nonvintage, made by blending wines from several years.
Tasting notes: yeast, lemon, toast
Regions: France (Champagne)
The same traditional grapes and methods are also used in other regions to make high-quality sparkling wines that rival their French cousins.
Tasting notes: apple, pear, toast
Regions: California, Australia (Tasmania), New Zealand, South Africa
Prosecco refers to both the grape and the wine made in Italy. It has a fruity bouquet and light body, with none of the toasty and yeasty aromas common in Champagne.
Tasting notes: apple, pear, mineral
Regions: Italy (Veneto)
This Spanish sparkling wine uses a traditional method but is made from different native grapes, including Macabeo, Parellada and Xarel-lo. It has a similar yeasty aroma to Champagne and is usually much lower in price. Cavas can also be found as rosés.
Tasting notes: hazelnut, lemon, toast
Regions: Spain
This versatile grape is crisp and elegant. French versions from the Loire Valley (labeled Pouilly Fumé and Sancerre) are often herbaceous, while New World wines from California's Napa, Sonoma and Mendocino regions are grassy, with less minerally
Tasting notes: herbs, grapefruit, grass
Regions: California, Washington, France (Loire Valley), New Zealand, Chile, Australia, South Africa, Italy
Italian Pinot Grigio is light and easy-drinking, and the grape has become popular in California, too. The French make a softer, more aromatic version known by its French name, Pinot Gris.
Tasting notes: apple, mineral, lemon
Regions: Italy, France, California
High-acid Riesling thrives in cool climates. Known as Germany's greatest contribution to the wine world, it is often made into dessert wines from late-harvest grapes. Alsace, France also makes these wines.
Tasting notes: peach, floral, lemon
Regions: Germany (Rhine), France (Alsace), California, Washington, New York (Finger Lakes), Australia
A distinctive grape, Gewürztraminer is known for its spicy aromas and flavors. It has a darker color than other whites and, like Riesling, thrives in cool climates. Gewürztraminer can also make wonderful dessert wines.
Tasting notes: peach, floral, apricot
Regions: France (Alsace), Germany, Austria, California, Oregon, New Zealand
Burgundy's famed white wines are made with the Chardonnay grape, and is complex with subtle oak flavors. It has a diverse range of flavors and aromas, depending on winemakers' styles and the use of oak. Chardonnay is the primary grape used in Champagne and Champagne-style wines.
Tasting notes: toast, butter, vanilla
Regions: France (Burgundy), California (Napa & Sonoma), Australia, Chile, South Africa
Chenin Blanc adapts well to different soils and climates and in France's Loire Valley, it makes a soft white wine. It has an appealing fruit-forward style in other regions where it is grown.
Tasting notes: melon, kiwi, lemon
Regions: France (Loire Valley), California, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa
Previously only grown in France, Viognier's popularity has expanded in recent years to give it almost cult status. It makes a dry wine with ripe flavors, delicate aromas and a honeyed finish. Like Chardonnay, it often has a significant oak influence, a buttery mouthfeel and a higher alcohol content.
Tasting notes: peach, cream, pear
Regions: France (Rhone Valley), California, Oregon, Washington, Virginia, Italy (Tuscany), Austria
Semillon is usually blended with Sauvignon Blanc in France and with Chardonnay in California. However, it can produce some lovely full-varietal wines, with tropical fruit flavors and spicy, toasty notes.
Tasting notes: melon, cream, pear
Regions: France (Bordeaux), Australia, California, Washington
Dry rosés made from Merlot are common in France's Bordeaux region and are now being made in California as single varietal rosés and blends.
Tasting notes: pomegranate, cherry, cranberry
Regions: France (Bordeaux), California
Mourvedre is the primary grape used in the wines of Bandol in northern Provence, producing a dry, crisp rosé. It may be blended with Grenache, Syrah and other grapes.
Tasting notes: dried cherry, raspberry, cranberry
Regions: France (Bandol)
Syrah is typical in many of the rosés of France, often blended with other local grapes. It's made as a single-varietal rosé in France's Languedoc region, where it may be dry and crisp or fruity and full-bodied. While Syrah's typical barnyard aromas do not show in a rosé, the wine is still imbued with spice.
Tasting notes: strawberry, raspberry, cranberry
Regions: France (Rhone & Languedoc), California, Australia
Southern France and Spain grow Grenache well, thanks to their warm climates. The ripe grapes make rosés with bright fruit and full mouthfeels; in Spain, they are known as rosados, and the grape is called Garnacha.
Tasting notes: raspberry, grapefruit, strawberry
Regions: France (Tavel), Spain (Rioja & Navarra), California
Pinot Noir is made in two styles in the Old World: refined and fruity in Burgundy, and brisk and low-alcohol in the Loire Valley. In the New World, California produces elegant Pinot Noir rosés as well.
Tasting notes: quince, floral, strawberry
Regions: France (Marsennay & Sancerre), California (Napa, Sonoma & Santa Barbara)
Gamay is the primary grape in the wines of Beaujolais in France, which come in two styles: Beaujolais Nouveau and Cru Beaujolais. The release of the Beaujolais Nouveau every November creates plenty of excitement in Paris and even in the United States. Gamay is marked by its red-berry fruit, best when enjoyed young; it is a great value when compared to other reds.
Tasting notes: strawberry, banana, raspberry
Regions: France (Beaujolais)
Known for aromas of ripe red fruit and lavender, Grenache is used often in blends from southern France. Adding Syrah and Mourvèdre gives the wine more structure.
Tasting notes: raspberry, lavender, cherry
Regions: France (Côtes-du-Rhône), Australia
Pinot Noir may be juicy and red in French Old World wines, or smooth and fruit-forward in the New World, particularly California and Oregon. More recent vintages are juicy, with little or no oak, while wines labeled "Grand Cru" or "Premier Cru" are more complex. These wines pair particularly well with a variety of foods.
Tasting notes: raspberry, lavender, blackberry
Regions: France (Burgundy, Alsace, Loire), California (Sonoma, Napa & Santa Barbara), Oregon (Willamette Valley), New Zealand, Australia, Chile
Versatile Sangiovese can make a bold Brunello or a spicy, smooth Tuscan blend. It's also the primary grape used to make Chianti. Sangiovese may be tart when unblended, but its high acid content stands up well to tangy tomato sauces and rich cheeses.
Tasting notes: raspberry, star anise, dried cherry
Regions: Italy (Tuscany), California, Argentina
Popular in Bordeaux, France, Merlot makes a traditional silky, earthy wine, but newer examples from the Napa Valley also bring concentrated fruit flavors and dark chocolate to the center stage. It's a great wine for those who like Cabernet Sauvignon's general flavor profile but not Cabernet's harsher flavors and texture. It's ready to drink almost as soon as it's bottled.
Tasting notes: plum, blackberry, green bell
Regions: France (Bordeaux), Italy, California (Napa Valley), Washington, Chile, Australia
Tempranillo is Spain's most important red wine grape, particularly in the Rioja region. Many describe it as leathery and dusty, a reflection of the wine's terroir and oak aging, with hints of red fruit.
Tasting notes: cinnamon, star anise, dried cherry
Regions: Spain (Rioja), Portugal, California, Argentina
Syrah may be made in the French style, which is earthy with dark fruit and tannins; or in the Australian style (Shiraz), which is robust and jammy. It has musky overtones and holds up well to spicy foods and bold flavors.
Tasting notes: plum, blackberry, clove
Regions: France (Rhône) Australia, California
Widely planted in California, Zinfandel is known for its intense, concentrated fruit flavors. It may be very high in alcohol, but it is accessible, with less intense tannins and good acidity – a perfect barbecue wine.
Tasting notes: black pepper, blackberry, clove
Regions: California
Some of the most prized wines of Italy are made from the Nebbiolo grape, such as Barolo and Barbaresco. Barolo features dark fruit and high tannins and can age for many years, while Barbaresco is more accessible.
Tasting notes: truffle, dried cherry, cigar
Regions: Italy (Piedmont)
Cabernet Sauvignon gained fame in Bordeaux, France, and also helped establish California as a top wine region. It's a fruit-forward wine with overt oak flavors and dense tannins, ideally suited to aging, which softens its hard edges and mellows its tannins.
Tasting notes: green bell pepper, blackberry, toast
Regions: France (Bordeaux), California, Washington, Chile, Australia
The Muscat grape makes pleasantly sweet wines, some of which are fortified. It can also be found as Moscato d'Asti in northern Italy, a refreshing, low-alcohol sparkling wine.
Tasting notes: dried apricot, floral, honey
Regions: France, Italy (Asti), California, Australia
Semillon is the basis for Sauternes, a prized and rare dessert wine made by leaving Semillon and Sauvignon Blanc grapes on the vine longer than normal to concentrate their sugars. It's only made in years when noble rot, a beneficial fungus, affects the grapes, lending a musty flavor to the wine.
Tasting notes: dried apricot, hazelnut, honey
Regions: France (Bordeaux), California, Australia
Made in central Italy, Vin Santo means "holy wine" and is considered one of the best dessert wines in the world. It is a nutty wine with concentrated fruit, made from Trebbiano and Malvasia grapes.
Tasting notes: fig, dried apricot, caramel
Regions: Italy
There are two kinds of Port: Ruby Port and Tawny Port. The former is blended from a variety of young wines and aged just a few years, resulting in a wine with juicy, fruity flavor. The latter is aged for many years, developing a nutty flavor and caramel color, and tends to be more expensive.
Tasting notes: fig, chocolate, prune
Regions: Portugal


text:
The stage is set for the 2011
Cup Finals. The Stanley Vancouver Canucks and Bruins will meet and one of them will snap a long championship drought. It has come to my attention that some people may want some insight into the series, so here's a little FAQ for you, with the likely answers you'd get from a pro. Boston
Who is going to win the Finals?
I have the Heat winning, but the Mavs are gonna make it a series……oh, wait, those Finals...say, who's playing?
Can Luongo be the difference for
? Vancouver
Many people would argue that if
wins the Stanley Cup, it would be in spite of Luongo. Vancouver is facing a difficult goaltender in Tim Thomas. Luongo must be on his A-game, barring that Keith Ballard doesn't cut off his hear… Vancouver
Is Ryan Kesler the best American hockey player in the world?
He's the best *sober* American hockey player in the world.
Isn't it ironic that
Vancouver has been carried to the Cup Finals by an American and two Swedes? Stanley
Shhhhhh! Don Cherry is listening…
Can Sami Salo stay healthy for 7 straight games?
I don't know, can you juggle four tennis balls constantly for 7 days?
Will Manny Malhotra be able to play?
If he does, I sure hope his vision is 100%. You need to be aware when Zdeno Chara is on the ice…not that he's that difficult to see…
Who is David Krejci?
He's Phil Kessel in disguise.
What's something most people don't realize about the series?
A former Islander is guaranteed to win the Cup (Luongo, Chara) and a former Canadiens coach is guaranteed to win the Cup.
Who has the better goal song,
Vancouver or ?Is Zombie Nation even a song? Boston
Can the home crowd be a factor?
Of course not, unless two clever men dressed in green spandex suits show up…
Who has the edge in the series?
Which team would Gary Bettman rather see win the Cup?
True or false: Brian Burke is campaigning to get the Olympics held in Toronto since Vancouver made the Stanley Cup Finals the year after they hosted the Olympics?
False, he's sly, but not that sly.
Finally, who is less annoying: Pierre McGuire or Mike Milbury?
Spongebob Squarepants.

subset: commoncrawl


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Rabe Chiropractic Urgent Care Center
Family Chiropractic Clinic
Providing Superior Health and Balance Through Chiropractic
'Chiropractic care is more than just making the pain disappear. It is about learning, understanding and taking care of your body to improve your quality of life.'
We aim to educate our patients about Chiropractic and other natural solutions to common health problems in order to motivate you to take a more active and responsible role in restoring and maintaining your own health as well as the people around you.


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Armory problems should be gone completely in a few days. Manual updates are not available at the moment.
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MONTREAL — You're familiar with the charges being levelled against Montreal city hall: secrecy, mismanagement and a lack of transparency, all of which has fostered corruption.
But Montreal is in fact a crime scene frozen in time.
That's because most of the allegations being raised at the Charbonneau Commission examining illicit party financing, shady political organizers and kickbacks from companies vying for municipal contracts were documented years ago.
A collective soul-searching appears to have begun among the doyens of municipal politics since the resignation of Gérald Tremblay as Montreal mayor in November and the arrest and subsequent resignation of his replacement, Michael Applebaum, on June 17.
The tumult prompted veteran councillor Helen Fotopulos this week to dig through her archives and uncover two letters she co-wrote with another veteran councillor, Sammy Forcillo, to the Quebec municipal affairs minister in 1999.
"Numerous irregularities uncovered by the media raise serious questions and lead citizens to question the integrity of the electoral process and of municipal administrations," read one of their letters, which pleaded for the province to set up a commission of inquiry to investigate election financing shenanigans and unscrupulous election organizers.
Lo and behold, their wish was granted more than a decade later.
It so happens the municipal affairs minister in 1999 was Louise Harel, today a city councillor and leader of Vision Montreal party.
"We beg you to put your energy into completing the reform of municipal institutions, address the democratic deficit and clean up electoral practices and overhaul the methods of financing election campaigns," Forcillo and Fotopulos wrote later that year in a second letter to Harel. The second missive called on the provincial government to nix plans to legislate more power for the mayor of Montreal.
However, the Parti Québécois government of the day went ahead with an amendment granting then-mayor Pierre Bourque's wish to give Montreal's mayor the power to fire members of the powerful city executive committee.
Bourque had asked for the additional power after Quebec Superior Court judge Danielle Grenier ordered him in 1997 to reinstate two dissident members of the executive committee he had tried to dismiss. One of them was Forcillo.
The legislative change concentrated unprecedented power in the hands of the mayor, Fotopulos says today. And it completed the transformation of the political system into one with no checks and balances on the mayor.
Fotopulos and Forcillo were opposition councillors when they wrote their letters to Harel.
They later joined Tremblay and his Union Montreal party, and were members of the executive committee during the past decade when no further letters were written calling for democratic reform.
Harel could not be reached for comment on Friday.
Council should spend the remaining four months before the Nov. 3 election reflecting on what needs to be fixed in the political system, Fotopulos said.
"There's a lot of spilt milk," she said, "but we're supposed to be looking forward."
Some veterans of municipal politics offer areas where reform should begin:
1. Helen Fotopulos, elected to Montreal city council with the Montreal Citizens' Movement in 1994 and a policy adviser to the MCM administration before that. Most recently, she was a member of the city executive committee under former mayor Gérald Tremblay and a member of his Union Montreal party.
What's missing is a system of checks and balances, Fotopulos says.
Before the province amended Montreal's charter to grant the mayor the power to hire and fire members of the powerful executive committee shortly before the Montreal megacity was created in January 2002, appointments were made by a vote of city council.
Montreal should adopt the system in Toronto, where all members of council get the same pay and are appointed to one of council's standing committees, which have equal powers.
In Montreal, there aren't enough committees for the number of elected officials, and such appointments come with extra remuneration. The most coveted — and best paid — seats are on the powerful executive committee. As a result, every mayor uses appointments as candy or blackmail to cull support.
While some observers advocate abolishing the party system, Fotopulos defends them as a forum to debate policy and to offer a grassroots check on elected members.
Instead, reform should focus on public participation in decision-making, she said. She introduced the first participatory budget in Montreal in 2006 when she was borough mayor of Plateau Mont-Royal.
2. Sammy Forcillo, first elected to Montreal city council with the Civic Party in 1978. Later a Vision Montreal councillor and member of the executive committee in charge of finance under Pierre Bourque. Lost his re-election bid in 2001 and served as an aide to Gérald Tremblay's right-hand man, Frank Zampino, before getting re-elected under Tremblay's Union Montreal banner in 2005.
The city's financial reporting has to be rendered transparent, Forcillo says.
Some measures that would lead to responsible financial management and allow the public to hold elected officials accountable, he said:
A business plan, with strategic planning over a 10-year horizon, accompanied by financial impact studies to assess the impact of long-term infrastructure projects on the city's annual maintenance costs.
Financial statements covering a three- to four-year period to allow comparisons.
Monthly reports to councillors on revenue and expenditures and whether project costs are on target.
As well, pre-merger Montreal used to disclose performance indicators and comparatives in the annual operating budget so everyone knew where the money would be spent and how it compared to the previous year.
For example, the forecast in the city's 1995 budget included: the city would sweep 2,038 kilometres of streets in 1995, pave 38,000 square-metres of road, paint 1,500 kilometres of lines on streets, collect 400,000 metric tonnes of household waste, issue 11,000 occupation permits, register 16,190 children in city day camps, plant 577,500 flowers, lend 3,356,534 library books and mow 12,643 hectares of grass.
That kind of detail hasn't been available in the budget for a dozen years, Forcillo said.
As well, he contends that $200 million worth of duplication could be eliminated from the city's $5-billion budget by separating the 19 boroughs into groups of four or five boroughs to share certain administrative costs.
3. Westmount Mayor Peter Trent, first elected as a councillor in Westmount in 1983, then served as mayor from 1992 until the merger with Montreal in January 2002, when he decided not to run again. Re-elected mayor of Westmount by acclamation in 2009.
Island suburbs hold a stake in the reform process in Montreal, Trent says. In Westmount, 60 per cent of local taxes feed the agglomeration council that runs island-wide services, such as police, fire and public transit. Also, Montreal's council executive committee is the top decision-making for the agglomeration council.
One necessary change, he said: reduce the size of Montreal's 65-member city council.
"If you go beyond 20 people, it becomes ungovernable," Trent said.
The current size means backbenchers "who warm seats," he said. "You wind up with trained seals who are loyal to their party."
Trent advocates for abolishing the 11-member executive committee. Instead, the council as a whole make decisions in public, he said.
He also advocates for abolishing municipal parties. The Montreal Citizens' Movement in the 1980s "was the only real party," he said. But you can't legislate quality, and other municipal parties, he said, have proven to be "a claque around the mayor."
Trent said it's crucial to maintain the borough system rather than centralize power with the city.
"The bureaucrat's solution is to centralize everything downtown," he said. However, "citizens get involved in a decentralized system. With citizens involved, there's less chance of corruption."
In his book, The Merger Delusion, Trent calculates the post-merger system costs $400 million more to run now than before the megacity.
"We need an equivalent of the Charbonneau Commission for mismanagement," he said.
Editor's note: From now until the November elections, The Gazette will examine the ingredients needed to implement and sustain municipal reform and to regain the confidence of voters. But this challenge is not ours alone. We will be looking to you, the readers, to make your views known and your voices heard; to tell us what else to report on, and to challenge the candidates vying for your votes.
It's time to look forward, toward the elections and toward reform, and create the cities we want.
> Email us at firstname.lastname@example.com with the subject line Toward Reform - Focus 2013.


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Miniature Angel Baby Dolls With Sentiments
Realistic miniature angel baby dolls by Joni Inlow in animated poses. Floral halos, individual wing designs, sweet sentiments on adorable costuming.
Measure approximately 10.8 cm H
- Price:
- s&s◇
Life's most precious gifts come from above, and these adorable baby angels are here to bring them to you, one by one! The Heaven's Littlest Angels baby angel doll collection by doll artist Joni Inlow offers the sweetest infant expressions and baby poses in a precious size that fits right in your hand! Each is a real little charmer, beginning with Issue One, I Wish You Love who is posed to blow you an angel kiss. Soon to come are more adorable little angels, as your collection continues with Issue Two, I Wish You Faith, Issue Three, I Wish You Hope and additional baby angel dolls, each a separate issue to follow.
This baby angel doll collection is available exclusively from The Ashton-Drake Galleries, and each of the baby angels in the collection is fully sculpted and handcrafted in realistic resin right down to the smallest detail. These littlest angel dolls wear floral halos and come dressed in outfits with frilly skirts of gathered netting with a sweet sentiment on each costume. You'll also be delighted to discover that each baby angel has her own uniquely designed style of angel wings. To bring these adorable and uplifting baby angel dolls into your home, don't delay! Intense demand is expected for these little messengers from Heaven, so order now!
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- Measure approximately 10.8 cm H
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- "Issue One - I Wish You Love," will be followed by "Issue Two - I Wish You Faith", "Issue Three - I Wish You Hope," "Issue Four - I Wish You Peace," "Issue Five - I Wish You Joy," and "Issue Six - I Wish You Tranquility," and additional baby angel dolls as they become available
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©2011 The Ashton-Drake Galleries


text:
by H. Lawrence Lack
Contributing Writer, Los Angeles Free Press
Dateline: December 9, 1966
Welcome to the Los Angeles Free Press!
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At Curtis, our strong international focus enhances our practice and culture by bringing truly divergent views and experiences to the firm. In that spirit, for many years we have had a program especially designed for international LL.M. students. This is a unique opportunity for international LL.M. students to become acquainted with our singular way of practicing law, in addition to becoming acquainted with New York City, one of the most exciting cities in the world.
The program is small and highly selective. We typically hire foreign associates for the period of time ending with the expiration of their practical training employment authorization. In evaluating candidates, we take into account academic performance, work experience, language ability, licensing in foreign jurisdictions and experience in areas of law relevant to our practice. Foreign associates also come to the New York office from our international offices or through relationships Curtis has with international local law firms, companies and governmental entities. Foreign associates are responsible for applicable visa requirements and, where appropriate, the firm will provide necessary support to facilitate employment authorization on a case-by-case basis.
Most of our foreign associates join the Corporate department. Our goal is to provide our international associates with practical training, while in turn making use of their particular skills through carefully selected assignments.
We review the performance of our LL.M. associates using the same criteria by which we evaluate our other associates. We provide individual feedback both informally and formally through a midterm and end-of-term performance review. In most cases, foreign associates return to their country at the end of the originally scheduled period, although in some instances we will extend the period of employment or offer employment on a long-term basis, with assignment to an appropriate class.
For more information, contact Raquel Lorenzo at +1 212 696 6005 or Email.


text:
He could feel something on his thigh, a bruise. It felt like a bruise, sweet and small, and he poked it with his finger a couple of times. He didn't know how he'd got that. He rolled it around his body like a taste.
Sometimes he found cuts where he thought he was only bruised.
Car fumes grimed his skin. He moved through the arches with his shirt hanging from his back pocket and a pair of stall sunglasses biting his nose, the pads missing. He weaved around the pillars and the statues and he stopped by the drinking fountain and watched for a while, but there were only schoolkids and builders and one or two guys like him. Tourists never drank from the drinking fountain.
He had left her by the canal, dozing on the grass in the shade with his tobacco and his weed and his lighter and his keys and his wallet, and she was probably snoring now, dreaming. Or she was being robbed, raped, murdered, bullied, torn apart, and if the canal had a tide she would drown, just for him, just because of him, because he had thought of it, and then he would have that instead of her.
You can love someone too much.
He scratched his armpit and poked the bruise and tried to stop thinking about her.
By the gallery doors there was a group of old Japanese or Chinese or something tourists, and they all had bags hanging off their shoulders. He slapped himself on the face a couple of times and worked up the bright smile, and put on his shirt and patted down his hair, and he slid through them like Jesus through children, smiling at them and saying ciao ciao, and they smiled back at him, and one or two clutched their cameras and laughed, and he lowered his arms and paused at the entrance and they forgot about him and he came out the other side with a box purse and what his fingers had thought was a wallet but turned out to be a notebook. Not very fucking good then.
He stopped around the corner where the cameras didn't reach and he looked at the notebook. It was full of writing in different-colored inks. Pages covered in strange script. There was a photograph of a small girl, taken in the black-and-white past. Shit. He went back to the corner and picked out a shy-looking schoolboy and gave him the notebook and told him to give it to one of the Japanese outside the gallery, and to do it immediately and to do it right or he'd fucking kill him, and he gave him a couple of quid. Then he took off his shirt again, counted the cash from the purse and pocketed it, and threw the purse in a bin, and the sunglasses as well.
She was sitting up, dazed, staring at the water. He kissed her and stroked her back, but she was too hot and she shrugged him off. She picked up her things and they walked toward the road, and he hailed a taxi and they went home and she got in the shower and he gave her a few minutes, then he climbed in beside her and they stood together in the cool water and they held each other skin to skin, and he was the happiest he had ever been, again, and he had no worries, none, and he worried about that.
He stole from tourists. Everyone steals from tourists. He stole honest. He put his hand in their pockets. And he had arrangements with the night managers at a couple of hotels. Maybe twice a week he'd get a call. Sometimes he worked as a driver for a man called Mishazzo, but that was irregular. Mishazzo was a gentleman. He was small and thin like a teen-ager, so he always wore a beard and an expensive suit, and sometimes he carried an umbrella when there was no sign of rain, and he sat quietly in the back with his legs crossed, smoking or reading the paper or talking on the phone. There were other men who worked for Mishazzo. There was Price. Some younger ones. They would pile into the car without Mishazzo and direct him somewhere and then they would pile out and be gone for a while and sometimes he heard shouting.
He didn't like violence.
She was younger than him. They had friends; that was how they'd met. Her brother used to go out with his friend Derek's sister, when they were kids. They all went to the same two pubs and the same shitty club in Waltham Cross. Noisy friends, and their voices in the middle of all that, and their voices went quiet when they met. And their friends knew quicker than they did. Her mother said it was a bad crowd, but it wasn't.
She hated her name. He hated his name.
Price was a professional.
—I am a professional. You hear me? You need to be a professional, too. You hear me? You need to show up shaved and showered and wearing a shirt. No fucking trainers. You will never show up after you've been drinking or smoking or taking whatever the fuck it is you take. Never. If I call you and need you, and you've been drinking, you fucking tell me. I've had a couple of glasses of wine, Mr. Price. I've just smoked a fat spliff, Mr. Price. I'm out of my fucking mind on meth, Mr. Price. The inconvenience this will cause me is as nothing to the fucking mess I will make of you if you ever turn up anything less than stone-cold fucking sober. You hear me? Pro-fucking-fessional.
He nodded, smiling.
—You are, needless to say, completely fucking deaf, blind, mute. You are a stone. You are stupid. You understand nothing. You remember nothing. You drive the fucking car. And that is all you fucking do. You hear me?
—Yes sir.
His father had put him in touch with Price. He didn't know the story. His father knew a lot of people. His father came and went. His father thought he was soft. He didn't trust his father.
They couldn't talk. They were not good talkers, either of them. And once, long ago now, she had bought a notebook for a course. It lay empty and forgotten on the kitchen table until one afternoon, when she had gone out to the shops and he was worried that she would be killed by a bus or by lightning, he opened the notebook and he wrote lines about how he loved her, the way he loved her, about his fucking heart and crap like that, about his body brim full and his scrambled head. All that. She came back from the shops. He left the notebook where it was, and he didn't mention it. And it wasn't until about a week later that he noticed it again, and he flicked it open, and he saw his lines followed by lines from her. She'd written words that she had never said. He sat down. He read them over and over for a long time. Then he wrote a paragraph for her to find.
This went on for ages before either of them said anything about it. But he thought that maybe they touched each other differently. It was like the book freed stuff up, allowed it to happen, that the tenderness was covered, they had it covered, they had all the love and kindness and gentleness covered, and the sex became something else.
He had never seen anyone die. He'd never seen a body.
Sometimes when it was just Price and some of the others they would get back in the car and laugh and shout and punch the back of his seat.
—Did you see his fucking face?
—Thought you were going to have his fucking arm off!
—I swear I've broken a fucking finger!
He thought that this was probably for his benefit. That they'd done nothing other than have a chat or maybe shout at someone a bit.
He drove Mishazzo to a meeting in a suburb where he had never been before, to an industrial estate that seemed abandoned, but only temporarily, as if it was the weekend, even though it was a Tuesday. He sat in the car, waiting. He read a newspaper. Then there was a shot—a sound like a shot—and he looked around, but he couldn't see anybody, and he wasn't sure if it had been a shot at all. What does a shot sound like? He saw Mishazzo in the rearview mirror and he started the engine, and he saw Mishazzo hurry, and he frowned at the frown on Mishazzo's face, and as he drove off he waited for something to be said, but nothing was said. It was only when they were some distance away that Mishazzo spoke.
—Slow down.
Hours, sometimes. He sat in the car outside somewhere or other. Warehouses, electrical shops, pubs now and then. A lot of the time he had to wait around the corner, on a side street, his eyes peeled for wardens. Sometimes he just had to drive around in a circle, waiting for Mishazzo to emerge. Furniture shops, little lawyers' offices, cafés, a house in East Ham. A mini-cab place in Walthamstow. He would smoke with the windows open. He'd get out and lean against the door. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere. He sent texts. He started keeping an empty plastic bottle under the driver's seat. He thought of things to write in the book, and he would try to remember them until he got home. It was like trying to hold water in his hands, and sometimes he made it back and sometimes he didn't. He decided that whenever he forgot something it wasn't a loss but a correction.
He went dipping less and drove more. The money was better. Price generally told him a couple of days in advance when he'd be needed. He could calculate. He liked to have Saturdays free so that he could do the matches and the tube crowds, and that was O.K., because Mishazzo took weekends off most of the time. The money was good. He bought her stupid little presents until she told him to stop, Jesus.
When he was naked she would look at all of him, and move him around to see what would happen, and she would keep him still and tether him. She got some straps from somewhere. Then he bought ropes, and collars. They sometimes had to stop, a little spooked, sweating and laughing suddenly, something breaking the spell. She was better at ropes. She said it was because she wasn't as self-conscious about the whole thing, that he had a sort of leftover embarrassment. And because he was used to trying to touch people so that they didn't notice. He had to practice, she said, and he'd get better.
Mishazzo asked him questions.
—Do you gossip?
—No, sir. I don't gossip.
—Why not?
—I don't know.
—You don't know why you don't gossip?
—Not really.
—Are you not interested in people?
—Not really.
—What are you interested in?
—Myself, he said.
He could see Mishazzo nodding in the rearview mirror, and that was the end of the conversation.
He thought about how myself really meant him and her together. He could say myself and mean another person as well. It didn't feel like he was leaving anything out.
They kept the book in a drawer in the kitchen. They never looked at it together. It came out of the drawer only when one of them was alone in the flat. He was afraid someone would find it. Once he moved it when her mother was coming over.
—Where the fuck is it?
—You know.
She looked at him like he was the stupidest fucking idiot she had ever seen.
—It's not in the drawer, she said.
Slow, sharp, so that he'd understand.
He smiled at her.
—It's not fucking funny. Where is it?
—It's on top of the kitchen cupboard.
She couldn't reach. She was clambering up on top of a chair when he went to get it down for her.
—Don't do that again.
It was fucking hot.
He was mingling with a match crowd—burly men with burly wallets, hip pockets, drink taken, everyone happy and hugging. Replica shirts, T-shirts, no shirts. Home wins were the best. If they lost they were surly—mean-eyed and watchful. He picked out a potbellied man who was keeping a close eye on his two boys, guiding them, pointing things out, steering them away from the drunks and the shirtless thickets. One of the boys kept clutching his father's belt for a tow. He maneuvered to the boy's side, coming toward them out of a raucous knot of beery singing, and bumped against him gently, laughing, getting the timing just about right, and veered behind his mark, whose attention was down at the bumped boy reaching for the reassuring belt. It was all good.
He stuck the wallet down his jeans and moved toward the footpath.
They took him from both sides, quietly, two great grips on his arms, whispering his name and that they wanted a word, no trouble now or it'd be the van. Don't let's make a scene, son. Or it'd be Sunday night in a cell, and the magistrate first thing Monday morning. How did they know his name? He sucked in his stomach, hoping the wallet would fall into his crotch where they might not search him, or if he was lucky all the way down his leg and out onto the ground. But it stuck on his bollocks, and as they opened the car door one of them held out his hand for it. They weren't uniforms.
—The wallet.
—The what?
—Don't be a stupid fucking cunt.
They were the worst kind of police. Suits. Relaxed. Blank-faced, youngish, stone-eared. They looked like estate agents. He fished the wallet out of his jeans. They pushed him onto the back seat. One sat beside him, the other sat in the front and turned around.
It was Mishazzo they wanted. He felt stupid for not even suspecting it until they said it. He felt stupid but he kept his face still. They wanted a relationship. A friendly chat every now and again.
—I know what you're thinking. For dipping a wallet? Well, there's the hotels. There's the routine you have down in Angel and the one you have in that boutique place in Shoreditch. We have you on camera for both of those, some nice DNA in the last room you did, with the dead-drunk guy sleeping through the whole thing.
The policeman laughed like he'd seen it.
—We have you as far back as April in Shoreditch. Nice targets. Clever stuff. I like it. Dodgy types, but wobbly. Little out of their depth. They get a couple of girls in, they snort some coke, they're not quite sure if they've been robbed sometimes. And they never want to report it even if they are. But we still have you on at least three in Angel and five in Shoreditch.
The one in the front seat was doing all the talking. His glasses reflected bits of the car. Every now and then he pushed them back up his nose. The other one sat next to him saying nothing, looking at him, at the side of his face.
—I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you'll go see nice Mr. Mishazzo and tell him all about it. I can tell you what he'll say. He'll tell you to take your chance in court with whatever we have and he'll see to it that you don't get too badly fucked up inside, and when you get out you go see him and he'll find something for you to do. And that's you married to Mishazzo for the rest of your life. And you proposed.
He looked at the other one. His face was crooked. He looked the younger of the two, maybe. He smiled as well. It was all very civilized.
—Or, said this one, his crooked face falling straight when he talked. You could take my phone number. You could go back home and have a nice relaxed Sunday night and enjoy the rest of your week, and you could keep on doing the driving, and whatever else comes up, for Mr. Mishazzo. And let us know. Nothing dramatic. Just where you take him, who he meets, what he says on the phone, that kind of thing. We're not asking you to do anything. Just listen. And be your own man. Able to walk away from him and from us anytime you like. Safe. You stop the hotels. But apart from that . . . nothing. You just have a couple of new friends.
They let him think about it. They never mentioned her once.
He went home and cooked for her, and she sang bits of things at him and laughed at her own voice. They lay together in front of the television for a while, and then she wanted him to tie her up, to practice his knots, to fuck her, come on her, fuck her again.
Mishazzo said to him:
—When you turn to the right you have a tendency to cut the corner. To slice it. Ever so slightly. When you turn left it's not a problem. You are leaning to the right. Do you have a limp?
—You're right-handed?
—Your legs are the same length?
—And your arms?
—Yes, I think so.
—You get your eyes tested?
—My eyes are fine.
—One isn't weaker than the other?
—No. My eyesight is . . . you know. Twenty-twenty.
Mishazzo looked around the back seat.
—Do you dress to the right?
He laughed.
—I think it goes down the left side, actually. You know. If anywhere.
In the mirror Mishazzo nodded.
—Well, that explains it then.
She worked a couple of days a week in a café in Stoke Newington. Serving, and some cooking, too. Frying eggs and bacon, making sandwiches. She didn't like it when he came in. But he came in anyway, sometimes, when he was nearby.
—Let's go on a holiday, he said.
She thought about it.
—Spain, she said.
—You've been to Spain.
—I liked it.
—You don't want to go somewhere new?
She wrapped an arm around his hip.
—I didn't see everything they have there.
—We could go to France. Or Morocco. Derek went to Morocco, said it was great.
—We could go to Spain and then get the boat to Morocco.
—How long does that take?
—It's really close. Really short.
—Is it?
—Yeah. If you look at it on a map. It's where Spain and Africa nearly touch.
At home, she went online and found a map. They looked up ferries and prices. He wondered whether they could live in Morocco. They could probably live more easily in Spain. He wondered what they could do. He could learn Spanish.
He thought that Mishazzo probably had lots of friends in Spain.
So then now. What are you interested in?
Mishazzo was sitting on the back seat with his legs crossed, smoking a cigarette, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
—Is it money? Are you interested in money?
—Yes, I am.
—Well, of course. You think I pay you well?
—Yes, sir.
Mishazzo was smiling. He had come out of a meeting in a Golders Green café, all smiles. Now they were stuck in traffic on the Hampstead Heath back road.
—You have a girl?
He blushed. It was the first time Mishazzo had asked. He had a plan. He had the whole thing worked out and ready. But still he blushed.
—A boy?
—No, I have a girlfriend.
—It's a serious thing? A love thing?
—No, not really. We get on well. But it's . . . it's not very serious.
—You live with her?
—We share, yes. It's more convenient that way. Financially. Makes sense.
—You love her?
—It's more like a friendship.
—You love your friends, though.
—I suppose. But it is a different sort of love.
He nodded in the mirror, his face behind smoke.
They sat still for a while. Mishazzo rarely liked the radio. Sometimes he requested a CD. He liked world music. African. Middle Eastern. He would tap his hand on his knee, or bounce his leg up and down. He liked joyful music.
—I'll see. Maybe you can do more driving. And maybe some other things, too. You are very young, and you have no face. So. More money for you. And your girlfriend.
When they got into Highgate, Mishazzo told him to pull in to the side of the road and to turn around and look at him.
—You should be careful who you make your friend. And who you take into your bed. They are different things. If you mix them up you lose . . . perspective on both of them. Do not mix them up. That is my advice to you, my friend. The dick has no loyalty. Only the heart. But your head manages them both. So be clever. Be happy. Have fun. Have money. Have beautiful girls. Have a good life. Do not fuck your friends. Only your lovers. Never fuck your friends.
He met Hawthorn in some coffee shop on Stroud Green Road, full of people with laptops. He looked at screens and bags and people's faces. He didn't know if they were students or what. They took a table outside. It was hot. Hawthorn was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was less like a cop. But his leg jigged up and down all the time and his hair was cut.
—Are you off duty?
—Not really.
Hawthorn asked him where he'd been on Thursday and Friday. He got him to go through the times, the route he'd taken. How many phone calls had Mishazzo made? What had he said? What names did he use? Had he opened his briefcase? What was in it? What sort of mood was Mishazzo in? He bought the coffees. After he'd asked his questions and written some stuff down in his notebook he sat back in his chair and smiled.
—Now I'm off duty.
The way he said it. It sounded like a sort of come-on. They looked at each other. Hawthorn half blushed, up near the tops of his cheeks, like some invisible thing had just flicked fingernails against his face. He looked away.
Nothing happened for a while. Then Hawthorn looked back at him. Held his eyes. For exactly the amount of time it takes for a look like that to become a look like that.
They met sometimes in the coffee shop on Stroud Green Road, sometimes in a pub in Holloway. Or near Hawthorn's flat, so that they could go there, if they wanted to. Sometimes he met Child as well, and then they usually just sat in Child's car, or they drove around. Hawthorn wrote in his notebook. He got the feeling that they knew everything already. That he was just confirming stuff. Maybe they were testing him. He made a few things up. He told them about a route he hadn't taken. Said they'd gone out to Hackney when they hadn't. Nothing seemed to surprise them. He didn't understand why any of it was important—the roads and the times—unless they were trying to trip him up. He knew the names were important. The phone calls, the buildings and houses and cafés he waited outside. The bits of conversations.
He thought that it was all probably bullshit. That he wasn't telling them anything they needed to know. They would spend six months getting him used to them, and then they would start to press. See if you can find out this or that. Or maybe they were waiting for Mishazzo to begin to trust him more.
He didn't tell them about the bottle. About sitting there dying for a piss, sure that as soon as he started Mishazzo would reappear. He didn't tell them about smoking more than he'd ever smoked before, out of boredom. He didn't tell them about trying to think of things to write in the book, or how most of the things he thought of were things he would never write. His mind was dividing. Parts of it were roped off. There were things he could say. There were things he could not say but could write in the book. And now there were things he could neither say nor write but only think, and they pressed up against the others like they wanted a fight.
Hawthorn told him sometimes about other cases he was working on. A couple of murders. A robbery. Vague, no details. Sometimes Hawthorn asked him if he knew certain people. He named names. Most of them were unfamiliar. Once or twice there was one he thought he knew, but he said nothing.
—How come you know no one?
—I'm not . . .
He brushed the skin of his chest.
—I'm not a crook. I don't hang out with crooks.
Hawthorn said nothing for a while. He was smiling.
—What are you then?
—I just do the driving thing.
—And the pickpocketing thing. And the hotel thing.
—I rob, sometimes. Yeah. But I'm not a crook. I don't like crooks. I don't like all that. I stay away from it. I avoid those people.
—How are you going to get ahead?
—I don't want to get ahead.
Mishazzo asked him one day:
—Why are you looking in the mirror?
—I am?
—Are we being followed?
—No. I don't think so.
—So why?
—I didn't know I was looking in the mirror.
—You're looking in the mirror all the time.
—That's O.K. You know what to do if we're being followed?
—I tell you. I drive normally. I describe the car.
—Yes. If it happens, then we drive back to Tottenham. Back to the office. Nice and slow. Nice and normal. It will be police.
He nodded.
Mishazzo swayed his shoulders so that his head travelled from one edge of the mirror to the other.
—If it isn't police, then what do you do?
Price had said that it would always be police. That no one else is that stupid.
—I don't know.
Mishazzo laughed.
—Then we call the fucking police, my friend. We call 999, and you put your fucking foot down.
One day he counted up all the things he'd written. And he counted up all the things she had written. He had written more. More sentences, entries, whatever they were. He wasn't sure about words. Sometimes she wrote a whole page. Or more. Sometimes she drew little doodles, or pictures. Faces and flowers and a house with windows and a fence in the front and a path to the door, and the sun overhead. Her drawings were terrible, like an infant's. But he stared at them for ages. Once, he started to draw something. A face, he thought. But it was a mess from the first mark he made, and he scribbled it out.
He didn't tell Hawthorn about the book.
He thought that if she died he would keep it. But he would destroy it before he died, and he would let no one else look at it. No one else in the world, ever, would read it. It would be something that had only happened for them, and when they were gone it would be something that had never happened.
That made him sad to the point of crying, almost, and he felt like an idiot.
One morning there was a man in the car with Mishazzo. This was not unusual. But this time Mishazzo did not want to go to a café. He wanted to be driven around.
—Drive east. Go toward the Olympics. I need to see what it looks like now. We can talk as we drive.
He could sense a pause as the other man gave Mishazzo a look.
—It's O.K., Mishazzo said quietly. It's good.
They talked about cars. They talked about money. They talked about expanding something that was working well. The man mentioned a name. Gull. Gull, he said, wanted no splashback. They talked about money again. Mishazzo produced a little calculator from his briefcase and they added numbers. Small numbers: 86 plus 134, 17 divided by 5. The other man wrote down some of the numbers on a scrap of paper on his knee. They seemed then to be talking about hurting someone, but then they seemed to be talking simply about collecting someone. Or something. Then they were laughing about everything.
He drove around the Olympic fences, past the hoardings, the long, colorful boards sometimes marked by graffiti. They couldn't really see anything. Mishazzo got bored and told him to turn around. In the back seat they were talking about music. Mishazzo wanted a CD played, then a different one, a specific song.
He braked sharply. He'd been fiddling with the CD player. There was a short silence. Then he apologized.
—My fault, Mishazzo said. I employ you to drive. Not to be my fucking d.j.
Mishazzo and the other man started to sing in the back seat. They sang songs they both knew in raucous, untuned voices and laughed, and he found himself laughing as well, and singing sometimes, too, when he knew the words or the tune.
The man handed him a roll of money when he got out of the car. It was nearly a hundred pounds in grubby fives and tens that smelled of his father's kitchen, and sweat, and ropes. Mishazzo told him to drive back to the office. That was it for the day.
—Now you see, he said. Now you see how dull my business is. But it pays well. And it makes you friends.
They lay next to each other in the bed and touched each other and laid their faces against each other, and when they were tired of talking they fucked and when they were tired of fucking they talked, and many different afternoons became one afternoon that persisted in his mind for the rest of his life and he never knew what to make of it, then or after.
What does Mishazzo do?
—Mishazzo. Why are you interested in him? What does he do?
—You don't know?
—I know some.
Hawthorn didn't say anything.
—I know he does some buying and selling. Stolen cars.
Hawthorn nodded.
—I know he owns a couple of cafés.
—He does.
—They're just cafés.
—Yeah. They are.
—So what else does he do?
Hawthorn hummed and rubbed his nose.
—He owns two laundrettes.
—I didn't know that.
—Yeah. The laundrettes, the cafés. He owns that building in Tottenham.
—The office? I thought he rented.
—No. He's the landlord. Or maybe his daughter is.
—He has a daughter?
—He has two daughters. Their mother is dead.
—So what does he do?
—He provides. Largely speaking, that's what he does. He's a businessman. He talks. He makes deals. He negotiates. He opens up conversations with people running various . . . rackets, all over North London. He offers them things they might need. Resources. And he introduces people to other people. Broker. Provider. Facilitator.
He nodded. Mishazzo was a businessman. A talker. Like his father.
—It's tangled.
He wanted to ask Hawthorn how dangerous he was. Whether Mishazzo hurt people. Whether he got Price to hurt people. Whether that was part of business or whether it was all exaggerated.
—What laws has he broken then?
—All of them.
—He doesn't kill people.
Hawthorn looked at him suddenly, his eyes a bit wide.
—He doesn't kill people, he agreed.
—He doesn't?
They said no more about it. He didn't believe him.
Child looked at them. He looked at them and seemed to shut his eyes for a tiny moment. He looked from one to the other and seemed to pause, and shut his eyes. For a second. Two seconds. And then he muttered, Oh, for fuck's sake and he went to the counter to pay for their coffees and Hawthorn's cake slice and the bottle of water.
He never saw Child again.
Mishazzo stared at him. In the mirror. All he could see was the middle of Mishazzo's face. His eyes. Half of his forehead. His nose. His upper lip. Mishazzo said nothing. He didn't want music. They were driving to the café in Holloway. He looked sad. As if he wanted to confide something.
—Your girl is good?
—Yes, sir.
—What is her name?
—Mary, he lied.
Mishazzo laughed.
—She is a virgin?
He turned into Seven Sisters Road. The sun came through the passenger window and warmed his face. He did not want anything to go wrong.
—She has a job?
—What does she do?
—She's a receptionist.
Mishazzo nodded.
—Where is she a receptionist?
—At an estate agent's.
—Oh. Down in the City.
—Down in the City. She likes that?
—Yes, I think so.
—You think so?
—She likes it. She likes working there. She likes the people. She likes being in the City.
He looked in the mirror at Mishazzo's third of a face. He could tell nothing from it.
—What do you mean?
—Commercial property? Residential property?
Mishazzo's voice was impatient. Maybe it was the traffic. The traffic was light. But it was veering all over the road. He felt his face light up. His skin was hot on the left.
—Do you want me to stay on Seven Sisters?
—Why wouldn't you stay on Seven Sisters?
Mishazzo's eyes were on his left. Everything was burning up. He wanted to crash the car. For a second he thought about it. He could swerve suddenly, glance off the van on his inside, spin around, be hit by the approaching bus. He could skid off the road into railings. He could hurt himself if he did it hard enough. He could end up in a bed with people bringing him grapes and cards, watching TV all day, with her by his side.
He shifted in his seat so that the eyes were smaller. He drove with his shoulder pressed up against the door as if trying to open it.
He called Hawthorn. It went straight to voice mail, and he hung up.
He walked through the park. He tried Hawthorn again. Twice.
He sat on a bench and looked at some boys playing football. He called again and left a message.
—Call me, please. As soon as you can.
She was at work. He could see the café from the bench. He stayed put. There were the boys playing football. There were some people walking. There were no parked cars.
She was surprised to see him.
—What's wrong?
—Nothing is wrong. I finished early. Thought I'd come over.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal for a while. She kept asking him what was wrong. He kept laughing and saying, Nothing. Nothing.
Hawthorn called him back just as they got home.
—What is it?
—What time tomorrow?
—The usual. What's wrong?
He looked at his fingers and watched her close the curtains against the low sun. He felt that something awful was happening but he didn't know what, and he stared at her back in shadow and suspected that the feeling itself was the awful thing, and then she said something and he lost his train of thought and Hawthorn had hung up.
He waited by the car, smoking, looking at the street. He wasn't thinking about anything. He didn't notice Price until he heard him. Price standing in the door of the café a couple of doors down from the office. They sat in there a lot of the time—Price and some of the others that he'd driven around. They sat there fiddling with their phones, reading the papers, annoying the waitress, doing whatever it was they did, coming and going.
—You avoiding me?
Price motioned to him. He glanced at the office, threw down his cigarette, walked over.
—I never see you these days. You don't socialize. You don't come see me.
—Well, I'm working. It's been busy.
—Lots of busy. Hither and thither and yon. It's as good as the Knowledge.
He nodded. Price was smiling. All friendly, hands in pockets, rocking back and forth a little.
—How's the car? It need anything?
—It's fine.
—How's the missus?
He tensed, and his stomach did something, and he tried to look blank but he was sure he didn't.
—Mary, Mary, all contrary. The boss was telling me. You should come out at the weekend. To my place. Sunday afternoon. I have some of the lads over sometimes. Girlfriends, wives, kids. That sort of thing.
Price was wearing jeans. A blue jumper. He was smiling. He had his hands stuck halfway into his pockets.
—Don't look so fucking shocked, kid. It's a good thing. Wholesome. Family-friendly. Barbecue and drinks. Got a big plunge-pool thing for the kids. Watch out for Vinnie's missus after she's had a couple. You'll love it.
—Near Braintree. Easy. You can take the car, I suppose. But probably better to hitch a lift with Pavel. Teetotal. He doesn't live far from your place. Five minutes. Give or take.
—I said I'd see my father this weekend.
Price frowned.
—Don't bring your father, no offense.
—I mightn't be able to make it though.
Price rocked back and forth. Glanced to his left.
—You should come. You know, put on some friendly. It'd be smart. Let me know tomorrow.
Price nodded to his left.
—Your date is here.
Mishazzo was standing outside the office door looking at them, a little smile on his face, his umbrella clutched under his arm and his hands peeling the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes.
They drove all the way to Luton, not talking, listening to Ernest Carvallio's "Music of the Barrios," the smile on Mishazzo's face as constant as the road.
Is there a procedure? For . . . if I get in trouble. What happens? What do you do?
Hawthorn rubbed his eyes. He smelled of a long day.
—You're a long way off anything like that.
—He knows where I live.
—Of course he knows where you live. What made you think he wouldn't know where you live? You probably told him where you live. When you went there first.
—Your father then.
He said nothing. He sipped his coffee. He bounced his fucking knee and he looked out the fucking window.
—So you won't help us?
—You don't need help. You're panicking. You're being stupid. They are not suspicious. They like you. They're being friendly.
He tried to tell her to tie him tighter. To hit him harder. To yank his head back by the hair. He wanted her to spit in his face, in his mouth. He wanted her to hit him. But he was no good at talking. He tried to make her guess things by the way he reacted. She seemed to get it. But not enough. She was too careful, too considerate. She checked too much. He thought about writing it in the book. Like instructions. But the book was not for that.
Price called him on the Friday.
—Don't need you today after all.
—I'll pay you half.
—You coming on Sunday?
—Good boy. I'll get Pavel to pick you up about midday. What's the girlfriend's name again?
He looked at the curtain. The day was making it bulge. She had gone to work. He pressed his thumb against a bruise on his ribs.
—Right. Mary. Informal. Bring a bottle.
And he hung up. Without asking for the address. Not even which flat. Nothing.
You're not going to help us.
Hawthorn sighed again.
—What do you want me to do?
—Money. At least some money.
—For what?
—To get away.
Hawthorn laughed.
—Where are you going to go?
—Morocco. What are you talking about?
—Or Spain. Morocco or Spain.
Hawthorn crossed his arms. He looked like he was going to cry, but his body was angry and his voice was cold and he was laughing at him. They sat in Hawthorn's kitchen, at Hawthorn's table. He felt like he had never been there before.
—You want to run away to Morocco or Spain because a couple of dodgy geezers have invited you to a barbecue?
Hawthorn's voice was quiet. There was a shake in it. He couldn't tell if it was laughter or anger.
Fuck. Fuck it.
He tried to hit Hawthorn. He threw his left arm out—why his left arm he didn't know, all his strength was in the right—and Hawthorn simply leaned away from it, and it glanced off his shoulder, maybe his ear, and Hawthorn had stood and his chair was clattering to the floor, and he had stood up, too, apparently, and he threw the right and Hawthorn caught it, and something hit his stomach and he clenched, and then Hawthorn was smothering him, his arms around him, clamping him down so that he could not hit again, couldn't raise his hands, and he tried to butt with his head and break the hold, but he was just jerking in Hawthorn's arms like a crying child and he could hear sobs, and he looked for the door, he just wanted the door, and he struggled and he shouted, Let me fucking go, and he had made no impact at all, none, and they broke from each other and he could not look back, and there was just a simple gap where there had previously been something complicated. On the stairs he wiped his cheeks but they were dry.
She was watching television. He stood in the doorway. Eventually she looked back at him.
—What is it?
—We have to go.
—Pack, he said. Quickly.
She stared at him. He could see her start to feel afraid. It was the way he looked.
—"EastEnders," she said, very quietly.
—Pack. Now. Not much. Basic stuff. Money. Passport. Some clothes. We might not be back . . . for a while.
—What the fuck?
—Just do it.
He went to the bedroom. He threw things on the bed. Clothes. He couldn't think. He pulled bags from the top of the wardrobe. He took the shoebox from the bottom drawer, tipped it out on the dresser. Her passport, his, the other half of his driver's license, a credit card he never used, some euro notes. He stopped. He took off his shoes, his jeans. He walked back into the living room. She was on the phone.
—Who are you talking to?
—My mother.
He didn't know what to say.
—Tell her you'll call her tomorrow.
He went to the bathroom. He took off the rest of his clothes and switched on the shower. He was sweating. He stepped in and stood under the water and he thought about trains. Trains, hotels, money. He thought through all of it again. He knew he wasn't thinking straight, but he didn't know how to fix that. After a few minutes she came in.
—Where are we going?
—What's happened?
—I'll tell you when we get going. Please go and pack.
When he got out she was still there.
—It's O.K., he said. Everything will be O.K. Just fucking pack, will you.
—You have to tell me.
—I fucked up. Stay if you want to. I have to leave. I'm going in about ten minutes.
He walked, dripping, through to the bedroom. In the doorway he froze. It took him a second or two to realize that it hadn't been ransacked, that he'd made the mess himself.
In the taxi, she called her mother and told her they were flying to Barcelona for a couple of days on a cheap last-minute deal. At St. Pancras station they had to rush for the Eurostar. It hadn't cost much, he told her. He ran up the escalators with both their bags. He could hear himself wheezing. Cigarettes. They had two seats facing the wrong way. When they were settled he kissed her. Then he told her. He told her about Mishazzo, that he was a big deal. He told her about the violence. How they went and beat people up. He told her about Price. He told her about the gunshot. He told her about the two policemen who had picked him up by the Emirates. He told her about the deal they gave him. This was the story. He told her about the hotel jobs. He told her that he'd had no choice. He told her that Price was a psycho. He told her that the cops were psychos, too. He told her that Price had become suspicious. He didn't know why. Maybe he'd heard something. That the cops were talking to someone. Price was onto him, he thought. He'd tried to keep her out of it. But Price knew where they lived.
—I didn't tell them anything about you. Nothing true. They think you work at an estate agent's. They think you're called Mary.
—What the fuck?
—They fucking kill people. You understand? They kill people. I'm driving this guy around and I'm telling the cops where I take him and he has people beaten up, killed. You understand that? This is the fucking story.
He was speaking through his teeth, trying to be quiet. Around them were couples just like them. Couples went to Paris on the train—it was what they did.
She wanted to know why he hadn't told her about the hotels. Then she wanted to know more about the violence. She wanted to know what Mishazzo did.
—He's a businessman. Resources. He puts people together.
—What are you talking about? What resources?
He told her about the cars.
—He steals cars?
—No. He sells them on. Stolen. Or he trades them. That's part of it.
—What's the other part of it?
—I don't know. He's a broker.
—A broker?
He nodded.
—What the fuck is a broker?
He told her again about the shot. About Mishazzo's face in the rearview mirror. He mangled things. They sounded slight in his mouth, like nothing. Like he made them up. But this was what was happening to them. They had to get away because of what mattered. And nothing else mattered. Why couldn't she see?
He stopped suddenly. The book. He remembered the book. He had left it. It had slipped his mind. He stopped talking in the middle of a sentence and he looked at her. Jesus.
—The book.
He could not feel the train moving. He could feel nothing. He was encased in something, buried in something, smothered or drowning. His hand was shaking and he could not focus his eyes and he stared at her for a second and then he could not see her.
She moved toward him as if he was disappearing, and her face became something he could see, and she reached out to him and she held his head.
—I have it. I have it.
She made him look at her.
—I have it. It's in my bag. I have it.
He breathed out but could not breathe in. He let himself slump against her. There was no relief. He had forgotten it. He had run and left it behind. He had run. All those words. ♦


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StarDrive is a 4X Action-Strategy game where the goal is to build a space empire. Starting with a single planet and a small number of space-worthy vessels, you forge out into the galaxy, exploring new worlds, building new colonies, and discovering the StarDrive universe. The heart of StarDrive is its ship design and combat engine. StarDrive takes a module-based approach to ship design, allowing the player to create custom ship designs where the composition and placement of ship modules really matters to the performance of a ship in combat. In combat, if your portside armor is taking a beating, then rotate around and show them the starboard side! Hide behind a friendly capital ship's shields, warp into and out of the fray, launch fighters, lay mines, and so much more.
Only registered members can share their thoughts. So come on! Join the community today (totally free - or sign in with your social account on the right) and join in the conversation.


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Job market sucks? Don't try this. Four young college graduates can't find decent (translate: highly paid) jobs. Wait […]
A Blog Devoted to Interiors
murder, mystery & mayhem
books books and love
Exploring What Captivates Us
(Mostly) Fiction reviews with a crime slant
A journey from the freezer to the world, through a human oven
Post, news, diary... All the world around me, ALL THE WORDS AROUND YOU
You're not limited, but liberated with age to do whatever you want to.
Living and Learning in Alberta and California
Living La Vie en Luxe
News around Indian Country
Small and Indie Press Crime Fiction
Developing a more sustainable lifestyle in SW Wales
The musings of a Londoner, now living in Norfolk
From cheeseburgers to foie gras — eat what you hanker for.
Riding in cars with dogs
Mystery & Crime Author
'just a nobody with a blog'
Walk Everywhere


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You are here
Power to the Pedals: Atlanta's First Bike to Work Challenge
Bicycling is the world's most popular form of transportation, and there has never been a better time for more Georgians to consider cycling to work instead of driving alone. In metro Atlanta, around 20,000 commute trips each week are made on a bike. There are many health benefits and costs savings compared to commute trips taken in cars, and riding a bike is just plain fun!
This October, The Clean Air Campaign, the Atlanta Bicycle Coalition and local transportation management associations have organized the first-ever Bike to Work Challenge. The Bike to Work Challenge encourages current and new bicycle commuters to compete as individuals or on teams with other cycling enthusiasts in the metro Atlanta area. Participants will log their bicycle commute trips, track their progress and earn points to compete for prizes.
Throughout the Bike to Work Challenge, participants will earn points by riding their bikes to and from work and by participating in bicycle classes and events. As an extra incentive, any current drive-alone commuter bicycling to work for the first time will earn bonus points.
Individuals and teams can view their daily progress on an online leader board that displays rankings, and participants will be entered into a random, weekly drawing for $75 REI gift cards. Grand prizes, including commuter backpacks and $100 gift cards from REI perfect for any cyclist, will be awarded at the end of the competition to both individuals and teams.
Team registration closes at the end of this week, Friday, Oct. 5, but you can sign up to participate as an individual all month. To register and learn more about resources for bicycle commuters in Georgia, visit www.LoveToRide.net.
Challenge a friend. Challenge a coworker. Challenge yourself.
About the Author
Jenny Schultz is the Communications Specialist with The Clean Air Campaign where she coordinates the design and fulfillment of communication projects that support employer and commute outreach efforts. Prior to joining The Clean Air Campaign, Jenny was the Marketing Manager of BenefitStream, an administrator of self-funded dental and vision plans. At BenefitStream, she was responsible for establishing the benefits communication department while overseeing product development and advertising.
Jenny graduated from Lenoir-Rhyne University in 2008 with a degree in Corporate Communication.
You might like...
The Wildflower Program has been helping keep Georgia's highways beautiful for almost 45 years. Learn more about who plants them and how you can show your support.
Biking is a fun way to exercise and explore the community around you. But before you go out, be sure you know these rules of the road and safety precautions. Want to join the biking community? Georgia has cycling events all year long!


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Discover & order curated catering deals from China's best restaurants, caterers & chefs. Ordering catering in Shanghai & Beijing (& everywhere in-between) has never been easier!
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Use our free online catering concierge here. Tell us your catering details such as: location, date, time & duration, number of guests, budget & any special requirements.
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Order PolicyPRICE LIST AND ORDER FORM Please complete the order form portion and email to firstname.lastname@example.com, or fax/mail to the CSC office.
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DeliveryOrders are normally shipped within 2 working days of receipt. Orders are shipped by Canada Post. Shipments requested by courier will be shipped "Courier Collect".CSC MembersPlease note that membership in CSC is individual, not corporate. To obtain the discounted member price, an order must be placed in a member's name. If you are not a member of CSC, complete the membership application and submit it with your order form to receive the CSC's member discount on your first order.Method of PaymentCSC accepts VISA, MasterCard, American Express, cash or cheques. We do not ship COD.Prices and TaxesThe prices listed in this website or www.SpecmMarket.com supersede all previously issued price lists, are subject to change without notice and are exclusive of all taxes. ALL PUBLICATIONS ORDERS ARE NON-REFUNDABLEShipping and Handling$6.50 applies to each order in Canada.$15.00 applies to each order outside Canada.


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Global Warming Apocalypse Canceled
My greener friends are increasingly troubled by the lack of a rise in recent global surface temperatures. Using monthly data measured as the departure from long-term averages, there's been no significant warming trend since the fall of 1996. In other words, we are now in our 17th year of flat temperatures.
Since 1900, the world has seen one other period of similar temperature stagnation (actually a slight cooling) that lasted for 30 years and ended around 1976. The current one is happening with much more putative warming "pressure," because the atmosphere's carbon-dioxide content is much higher than it was in mid-century.
From the Industrial Revolution to 1950, atmospheric carbon-dioxide concentrations rose by about 15 percent. Today, the increase is up to 41 percent, making long periods without warming either 1) increasingly unlikely, or 2) the natural result of simply overestimating how "sensitive" surface temperature is to carbon dioxide. My money is on the latter.
Now, just for fun, let's assume that on Jan. 1, another warming trend began, at the same rate that was observed in the last such period, from 1977 through 1998, or 0.17 C per decade.
Running a large experimental sample reveals that, on average, the rate of warming will have to continue through 2020 before a statistically significant trend emerges in the post-1996 data. (Remember that a "trend" that does not meet the normal grounds for significance is one that cannot scientifically be distinguished from "no trend.")
In other words, it's a pretty good bet that we are going to go nearly a quarter of a century without warming.
In response, the climate establishment is becoming increasingly polarized, with a growing number of researchers calculating less warming this century, while the apocalyptics, such as NASA's James Hansen, simply edge out further on increasingly thin limbs.
This is quite a change. In 2002, I published a paper, "Revised 21st Century Temperature Projections," which used a variety of independent sources and generally predicted a range of 21st century warming of 1.0 to 3.0 C. In response, the 2009 "Climategate" emails revealed a number of surreptitious attempts and schemes to either get the paper removed, get the esteemed geographer who was the relevant editor of the journal Climate Research fired from his University of Auckland professorship, or, if all else failed, destroy the journal itself.
Formally, the "climate sensitivity" is the total amount of warming projected for a doubling in atmospheric carbon dioxide. In their last climate compendium, published in 2007, the United Nations Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change gave a "likely" range for the sensitivity of "2 C to 4.5 C with a best estimate of about 3.0 C." Since then, it appears that a new "consensus" is lowering the forecast. The reason I'm betting that the sensitivity of temperature to dreaded carbon dioxide has been overestimated is the number of recent publications saying just that. Here's a partial list:
Richard Lindzen gives a range of 0.6 to 1.0 C (Asia-Pacific Journal of Atmospheric Sciences, 2011); Andreas Schmittner, 1.4 to 2.8 C (Science, 2011); James Annan, using two techniques, 1.2 to 3.6 C and 1.3 to 4.2 C (Climatic Change, 2011); J.H. van Hateren, 1.5 to 2.5 C (Climate Dynamics, 2012); Michael Ring, 1.5 to 2.0 C (Atmospheric and Climate Sciences, 2012); and Julia Hargreaves, including cooling from dust, 0.2 to 4.0 C and 0.8 to 3.6 C (Geophysical Research Letters, 2012). Each of these has lower and higher limits below those of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change.
What commonly occurs when weather forecasts begin to go bad? As every child knows, if the forecast starts out calling for a foot of snow, and then is cut to six inches, that usually results in about three.
Similarly, as projections for warming are lowered, don't be surprised if planetary temperature finally settles in the bottom half of the newly predicted ranges.
Science historians have repeatedly documented that we are particularly reluctant to abandon widely held views, or scientific paradigms. When professional advancement (i.e., research money) is particularly dependent upon a certain view (we wouldn't spend billions on climate research unless it was important, right?), it's even harder to let go, but that is what we may be seeing.
People are beginning, cautiously, to dial back 21st century warming because there has been none. Because dreaded sea-level rise is also proportional, those estimates are going to have to come down, too.
One of these years, the upcoming end of the world from global warming is going to be officially canceled, to be replaced by a new apocalypse, which I predict will be called "acid oceans," or something like that.


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An 80-year-old man was killed Saturday after being hit by a car on Highway 7 and Mountain View Boulevard.
Broomfield Police, North Metro Fire Rescue and Mountain View Fire Rescue responded to the accident, which happened at 4:06 p.m. Saturday. The man, from Erie, was hit in the crosswalk by a blue Dodge Durango that turned right from southbound Mountain View Boulevard. He was airlifted to a local hospital, but died from his injuries at 4:56 p.m.
Another victim, 77-year-old female from Erie, also was hit by the car. She was transported to a local hospital with serious but non-life threatening injuries, according to Sgt. Heidi Walts of the Broomfield Police Department.
The driver of the Dodge Durango, a 51-year-old woman from Longmont, is not suspected of being under the influence of alcohol or drugs.
The westbound lanes of Highway 7 were shut down for a short time.
No charging decisions have yet been made, and the Broomfield Police Department Traffic Unit is still investigating the accident, Walts said.


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Agenda: November 28, 2012 Watershed Health and Environment PEG Meeting
Watershed Health and Environment Policy Expert Group
Date: Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Time: 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.
Location: 1900 SW 4th Avenue,Portland, Conference Room 7A
Meeting Goal
Develop a shared understanding of equity issues and how they apply to the Comprehensive Plan update.
Introductions and Announcements (20 minutes)
Presenter: Dena Marshall, Facilitator
Equity Overview (40 minutes)
Presenter: Dante James and Judith Mowry, Office of Equity and Human Rights
Description: Why is Equity Important? How do we talk about race and apply this discussion to the Comprehensive Plan?
Watershed Health and Environment Issues Through an Equity Lens (45 minutes)
Presenter: Dante James and Judith Mowry, Office of Equity and Human Rights
Description: Small group discussions using key watershed health issues as examples.
Public Comment (10 minutes)
Wrap Up (5 min)
For more information, please contact Sallie Edmunds, Bureau of Planning and Sustainability at 503-823-6950 / email@example.com or Dena Marshall, Facilitator at email@example.com.


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Planning a European vacation to Amsterdam? A vacation rental home is an affordable way to visit this unconventional Dutch city. Choose an apartment rental in the heart of the Canal Belt or a home on the Prinsengracht, either will put you within walking distance of Amsterdam's best attractions. Deals are available on rentals in every budget range. Read our unbiased user reviews so you can book with confidence.
No matter what neighborhood you stay in, this European city is small enough that you'll be close to major attractions. The city's most famous museums – the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank House – are all situated in the heart of town and its worth a visit to at least one, or if you have time, all three. After, grab a coffee or beer at one of the city's café's and sit back to people watch. With its distinguished architecture and canals throughout the city, Amsterdam is a great town to simply wander. Walk through the city's Red Light District with other tourists or browse one of the city's open-air markets. Or explore the city on the preferred mode of transportation – a bike.
A rental home in the city will allow you to easily explore the region surrounding Amsterdam. If there's too much bike traffic in the city, take a guided ride to the countryside where you'll see postcard-perfect windmills and, depending on the season, tulips. Stop along the way at a cheese factory and pick up some authentic Holland gouda. Visit the idyllic village of Volandam, where you can shop for souvenirs to take back home. Visit a wooden shoe factory and pick up some wooden clogs. Or take a train ride out to The Hague, Netherland's capital, home to the world's court, and close to beach resort towns.
European vacations don't come cheap, but a vacation rental home can make it affordable. We've got rentals in all budget ranges and discounts that will help you get the best deal in Amsterdam. Plus, with your own kitchen, you can shop at the local markets and dine in instead of eating out.