- When I was 19, I had a 1970 Buick Skylark. 350 V8. Cherry red with white interior and convertible top. Manual steering and brakes. One of the first US-manufactured catalytic converters. It was the most baller thing I’ve ever owned in my life. After driving it for a few months (I was fucking fabulous), my dad sent it to the mechanic for power brakes. I pulled it out of the parking spot and—because my muscle memory was used to the manual braking—proceeded to stop at the corner with an ear-splitting screech. I almost had a makeout session with the windshield. The rubber I laid down on that day is still there.
- The kind of estate Dario’s set up for the safe house probably exists in Yonkers, but it may or may not be in view of the light from the Executioner’s Lighthouse. I couldn’t figure out how to know that without going there myself. As much as I’d love a research trip home, actually flying across the country to check for lighthouse flashes seemed overkill.
- I’m intrigued by the idea of illegal trade in post WWII artifacts, so you’ll probably see more stuff from partigiani and Italian Blackshirts as I build up this world.
- This book—in particular—took a village of professionals, including but not limited to: Lyric Audiobooks for coordinating a perfect audio version in the nick of time, Laurelin Paige, who had the balls to be dead honest about the “final” draft, Cassie from Joy Editing who bent over backwards to get the job done, and Amy Vox Libris who made sure my left foot wasn’t up my ass. No word on the whereabouts of the right foot, however.