The Whispering Knives

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What bitter fruit is borne by the tree of inadequacy? A Hitler strutting his way to a lonely death — a Dillinger blasting his way out of every trap but the last one...

It was a mining town in Pennsylvania, a soft coal spot near the Ohio border — its narrow streets covered with soiled snow in winter, tattered, blowing papers in summer. It was a place of mixed races. In the foreign section, the place the kids called Hunkietown, the old people sat in quiet dusty rooms and dreamed of the long days they had known. Their children lacked that repose. Their children and their children’s children were fitting into the angular turbulent stream of neurotic America. Only their names told of the lands of their ancestors...

This town had a simple place where young men drank and gambled. The sturdier citizens would look through the bleared windows as they hurried by at night, catching a glimpse of the blue smoke-haze, the faded green felt on the lighted tables, the slouching intent figures. They would hear the click of ivory balls and sometimes a great laugh without humor, like the cry of an animal. The place was called Lombard’s.

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