"When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon."
James Crumley died this past week, one of my all-time favorite authors. David McCumber gave him a fine send off in the Seattle PI. I can't say I knew him well, or we were best buds, but I did get to meet him once. And I did get to go drink at Charlie's years ago.
The New York Times ran an obit today also. I knew this day would be coming, but, Damn.
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