{"product_id":"this-storm-isbn-9780307946683","title":"This Storm","description":"\u003cb\u003eJanuary '42. L.A. reels behind the shock of Pearl Harbor. Local Japanese residents are rounded up and slammed behind bars. Massive thunderstorms hit the city.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA body is unearthed in Griffith Park. The cops tag it a routine dead-man job. They're wrong. It's an early-warning signal of Chaos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's a murderous fire and a gold heist. There's Fifth Column treason on American soil. There are homegrown Nazis, Commies, and race racketeers. It's populism ascendant. There's two dead cops in a dive off the jazz-club strip. And three men and one woman have a hot date with history.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eElmer Jackson is a corrupt Vice cop. He's a flesh peddler and a bagman for the L.A. Chief of Police. Hideo Ashida is a crime-lab whiz, lashed by anti-Japanese rage. Dudley Smith is PD hardnose working Army Intelligence. He's gone rogue and gone all-the-way fascist. Joan Conville was born rogue. She's a defrocked Navy lieutenant and a war profiteer to her core.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eL.A. '42. Homefront madness. Wartime inferno--\u003ci\u003eThis Storm\u003c\/i\u003e is James Ellroy's most audacious novel yet. It is by turns savage, tender, elegiac. It lays bare and celebrates crazed Americans of all stripes. It is a masterpiece.Praise for James Ellroy:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the great American writers of our time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Ask me to name the best living novelist who’s fierce, brave, funny, scatological, beautiful, convoluted, and paranoid . . . and it becomes simple: James Ellroy. If insanity illuminated by highly dangerous strokes of literary lightning is your thing, then Ellroy’s your man.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Stephen King\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “James Ellroy is the American Dostoevsky.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Joyce Carol Oates\u003c\/b\u003eJAMES ELLROY was born in Los Angeles in 1948. He is the author of the Underworld U.S.A. Trilogy:\u003ci\u003e American Tabloid, The Cold Six Thousand, and Blood's A Rover\u003c\/i\u003e, and the L.A. Quartet novels: \u003ci\u003eThe Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L. A. Confidential,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWhite Jazz.\u003c\/i\u003e He lives in Colorado.\u003cb\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eElmer Jackson\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e(Los Angeles, 9:30 P.M., 12\/31\/41)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eStakeout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s a sit-and-wait job. Some hot-prowl burglar\/rape-o’s out creep­ing. He’s Tommy Glennon, recent Quentin grad. He’s notched five 459\/sodomies since Pearl Harbor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Happy fucking New Year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three-man stakeout. Two parked cars. 24th and Normandie. Sit and wait. Endure bugs-up-your-ass ennui.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The rain. Plus war-blackout regulations. Drawn shades, doused streetlamps. Bum visibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s a stag hunt. The PD worked that way. Four victims mugshot-ID’d Tommy. The Chief and Dudley Smith conferred. They called it. Per always: perv shit on women mandates \u003ci\u003eDEATH.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer gargled Old Crow. He had the front-house car. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle had the alley. Tommy had the crib cased. Two leggy sisters lived there. Lockstep surveillance locked down the gestalt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Central Burglary tailed Tommy a week running. Elmer moved the sisters out and moved his leggy girlfriend in. She had the legs and the stones for the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen Drew. His \u003ci\u003epart\u003c\/i\u003e-time girlfriend and \u003ci\u003epart\u003c\/i\u003e-time Paramount star­let. Ellen glommed raves in \u003ci\u003eIf I Were King \u003c\/i\u003eand went \u003ci\u003epffft. \u003c\/i\u003eShe \u003ci\u003epart-\u003c\/i\u003etime whored for Elmer and his \u003ci\u003epart\u003c\/i\u003e-time girlfriend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Brenda Allen. \u003ci\u003ePart\u003c\/i\u003e-time squeeze of Chief Jack Horrall. It’s who you know and who you blow. Call-Me-Jack set up the bait gig.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer scoped the house. Upstairs lights gleamed. Ellen cracked the shades to spotlight her gams. It violated blackout regs and lit her legs \u003ci\u003egooooood. \u003c\/i\u003eTommy G. was a leg man. Elmer read his Quentin file and glommed the gestalt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thomas Malcolm Glennon\/white male American\/DOB 8\/19\/16. Preston Reform School and Quentin. Tight with \u003ci\u003epachucos \u003c\/i\u003eand Four Families tong men. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Fireworks popped somewhere north. The rain drenched the sparks and killed the effect. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s who you know.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer knew Dudley and Call-Me-Jack. Thus, this shit job. Mike B. and Dick C. were Dudley’s strongarm goons. Dud got the night off. Some unknown geek shivved him three days ago. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer yawned. Elmer futzed with his two-way radio. Police calls spritzed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Niggertown 211\/Happytime Liquor\/prowl cars at scene. Dope roust at Club Zombie. Mexi\u003ci\u003ecoon \u003c\/i\u003erumble, 84th and Avalon. Zoot-suit beaners \u003ci\u003eex\u003c\/i\u003e-cape. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer yawned. Elmer skimmed the dial. He hit a civilian band and got lucky. The PD’s New Year’s bash warbled. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It’s live from City Hall. It features Count Basie’s Band. The Detec­tive Bureau muster room’s rigged with radio mikes. The Count’s at the keyboard. There’s Lester Young’s sax. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here’s the inside tattle. Two bluesuits popped the Count with reef­ers. Jack Horrall caught wind and tossed the pitch. Your call, Count. Six months honor farm or a one-night engagement? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rain slammed the car. Said rain outslammed Count Basie. Elmer skimmed to Band 3. He caught an open line to Breuning and Carlisle. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Know” and “blow.” Maladroit Mike and Dipshit Dick. This jive New Year’s Eve. What good’s your insider-cop status? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He loved Headquarters Vice. It dispensed yuks and served to scotch his call-biz competiton. Then the fucking Japs bombed fucking Pearl Harbor and fucked the white world up the brown trail. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He got detached to the Alien Squad. It was Japs twelve days a week. Japs, Japs, \u003ci\u003eJAPS. \u003c\/i\u003eForeign-born, native-born, for sure and alleged Fifth Column. Raid their pads. Confiscate their goods. Transport them to ritzy horse stalls at Santa Anita. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Band 3 popped sound. Breuning and Carlisle bullshitted. Who shiv­ved the Dudster? Their rambunctious kids. This meter maid with jugs out to here. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Breuning and Carlisle gassed. They hashed out the Fed’s phone-tap probe. The PD was knee-deep in shit. It’s a nail-biter. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e City Hall was bugged and tapped, floor-to-rafters. Rival cop factions spied on each other. Grifter cops, tonged-up cops, cop strikebreakers. The Feds took note and launched a probe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cop fiefdoms. Cop thieves. Cops in the Silver Shirts and German-American Bund. Calls to the DA’s Office. Calls to Mayor Fletch Bowron. Detective Bureau cops be \u003ci\u003escaaared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer was \u003ci\u003escared. \u003c\/i\u003eHe ran a call-girl ring. He peddled flesh to the L.A. elite. He made biz calls from the Vice squadroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The radio browned out. Shit—line crackle, static, hiss. Elmer twirled the dial. He caught some luck there. Good Lord—it’s Cliffie Stone’s \u003ci\u003eHometown Jamboree.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was auld lang syne for displaced crackers. That was him, defined. Cliffie connoted hayrides and moonshine. Cliffie brought back Wisharts, North Carolina.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wisharts was Klan Kountry. Geography is destiny. Klan life fucked up his daddy and big brother, Wayne Frank. That hate-the-jigs diet stuck in young Elmer’s craw. He hit eighteen in ’30. He joined the Marine Corps. Semper Fi: Parris Island, Camp Lejeune, Nicaragua.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Man-o-Man Managua. The Marine detachment backstops puppet \u003ci\u003eFührer \u003c\/i\u003eSomoza. Jarheads snuff his political rivals and stand embassy guard. They’re bellhops and part-time assassins. \u003ci\u003eEl Jefe \u003c\/i\u003eloves Lance Cor­poral E. V. Jackson. Hence a plum job: run \u003ci\u003eJefe\u003c\/i\u003e’s favorite whorehouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He learned the biz that way. It spawned his notion of call-service-to-your-door girls. \u003ci\u003eJefe \u003c\/i\u003eshot him Plum Job #2. He watchdogged the L.A. police chief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e James Edgar “Two-Gun” Davis. One vivid lunatic. Davis and \u003ci\u003eJefe \u003c\/i\u003ewere sordid soul mates. They boozed and whored together. Davis loved Lance Corporal E. V. Jackson. Here’s why:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A leftist zealot charged Davis with a machete. Lance Corporal Jackson shot and killed him. Davis shot Lance Corporal Jackson a police depart­ment appointment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Good bye, Marine Corps. Hello, Los Angeles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer liked police work. Davis set him up with a cooze pusher named Brenda Allen. Elmer and Brenda clicked. They concocted their phone-exchange biz and saw it flourish. The L.A. grand jury sacked Two-Gun Davis. He poked one Jailbait Jill too many and took it up the dirt road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Call-Me-Jack’s in now. He’s got 7% of the call biz. Sergeant E. V. Jackson is twenty-nine. He’s one lucky white man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cliffie Stone laid down hick ballads. That was Wayne Frank’s mawk­ish meter. Wayne Frank was a hate dog and nativist nabob. Kid brother Elmer notched opportunities. Wayne Frank harvested shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Wayne Frank goes Klan, goes rumdum, goes hobo. He habituates the West Coast and clocks an untimely end. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer gargled Old Crow. He was half-tanked. It was 10:18. Tommy G. always hit between 10:00 and midnight. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The hick music rubbed him raw. He doused the radio and gassed on the rain. His prowl car was sunk fender-deep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He checked the house. Cracked blinds gave him a look-see. Ellen was upstairs. She was pacing and smoking. She provided a Leg Show De-luxe. Smoke plumes plumed out a transom slot. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer tuned in Band 3. Mike B. groused to Dick C. Dudster this, Dudster that. More drift per their rambunctious kids. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e More line fuzz and static. Elmer killed his jug and tossed it out the window. “Whoa, Junior” fuzzed in. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer grabbed the receiver and flipped the talk switch. The fuzz-static cleared. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yeah, Mike.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Our boy’s coming south. He hopped the next-door fence. You take the front. Let him sniff Ellen and start upstairs before you sh—” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer jumped. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He shoved out the door. He puddle-leaped and lunged for the curb. His shoes squished and leaked. He pulled his piece and chambered a round. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His hat flew off. The rain stung his eyes and ratched up his vision. He made the lawn\/the front porch\/the front door. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eIt’s unlocked. Go in slow now. You oiled the hinges and jambs. Tommy won’t hear shit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He got inside. He smelled Ellen’s cigarette smoke and perfume. He made for the stairway. He squished all over the living room rug. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mike and Dick squished toward him. They hit the stairway. Every­body went \u003ci\u003esssssshhh. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They scoped Tommy’s muddy footprints. They heard floorboard creaks and foot scuffs upstairs. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mike winked. Dick did that slice-the-throat thing. Elmer gulped—\u003ci\u003emother dog, holy shit—\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen screamed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mike whooped. Dick whooped. They ran upstairs and raised a ruckus. They bumped each other off the walls and hit the landing. Elmer heard front-widow glass shatter. Tommy pulled some human-fly stunt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer ran back out the door. There’s that black sky and sluice rain, there’s half a glimpse. There’s Human Fly Tommy, running northbound—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He’s two front yards up. He’s cutting toward the sidewalk. There’s no soaked grass and more traction there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer cut crossways and hit asphalt. His flapping raincoat slowed him down. He gained ground, lost ground, gained ground. He aimed at Tommy’s back and popped three rounds. Muzzle flash turned the rain red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy gained ground. Mike and Dick fired—back there, long-distance. Shots ricocheted off front porches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy ran east on 26th. Elmer caught a sideways look and emptied his clip. The flare messed with his eyes and made little halos.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer ran east. He reloaded and sprinted. His raincoat slipped off. Window shades went up. He got some sight-in light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He gained ground. His wind faltered. Something dropped from Tom­my’s pants pocket. He stopped and aimed tight. He had him, he had him, something said \u003ci\u003eDON’T. \u003c\/i\u003eHe squeezed three shots wide on purpose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy cut north. He’s a Human Fly. He’s a fleet-foot rape-o. Watch him vamoose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer heard Mike and Dick, way back there. Shots bounced off the street. Them dumbfucks blasted will-o’-the-wisps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer stopped and caught some breath. He walked east and checked the sidewalk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy dropped something. Elmer saw it and picked it up. Well, now. Tommy dropped a red leather address book.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ***\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen said, “Swell New Year’s.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer said, “I had that same thought.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I guess you’re not much of a shot.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Come \u003ci\u003eon. \u003c\/i\u003eAt night, in the rain?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They drove through Hollywood. Ellen flopped at the Green Gables Apartments. It adjoined Paramount and lubed early cast calls. Ellen had a second marriage going. Two husbands and a kid at age twenty-seven. Her hubby was off with the Air Corps. She serviced Elmer’s clients out of ennui. She serviced Elmer, likewise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer hit Melrose, westbound. Call it Aquacade by Night. Muted streetlamps. The blackout and curb-high floodwater.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen lit a cigarette. “He pulled out his pecker and waved it. That’s when I screamed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer yocked. Ellen wagged a pinkie. Tommy Glennon—hung like a cashew. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer yocked anew. Ellen groped his trouser pockets and extracted his roll. She peeled off a fifty and stuffed the roll back. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That felt nice.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Not tonight. The weekend, maybe.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’ve got late duty. My bodyguard gig with Hideo Ashida.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen said, “He’s cute, for a Jap. Do you think he’s queer?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Come on. He’s the best forensic chemist in this white man’s PD.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen tossed her cigarette. “Tell Jack Horrall thanks for the fifty, and tell him no more bait jobs for this little black duck.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Anything else?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Tell him I said you should go back in the Marines. There’s a war on, and you should be fighting it, like my husband.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer said, “Do you love me?” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen said, “No. You’re just my wartime diversion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e ***\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ellen scrammed at the Gables. Elmer U-turned and booked east. This nutty brainstorm percolated. His short hairs prickled on overdrive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy G. lived at the Gordon Hotel. Breuning and Carlisle were too lazy to go toss it. The Gordon was straight up Melrose. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Let’s prowl Tommy’s room. Let’s sniff leads. Let’s get some buy-back on that fuckup. Let’s mess with Dudley Smith. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Dudster gored his goat. Hey, Elmer—toast this guy. That don’t sit right. He ain’t no black-robe killer. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The goddamn rain. Backed-up sewers. Mud slides. No hot toddies, no swell women. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer parked upside the Gordon and puddle-jumped in. The lobby was threadbare. A clerk dozed by the switchboard. He wore a green felt leprechaun hat. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tommy rented 216. Elmer walked upstairs and braced the door. He caught zero voices and no radio warble. He pulled his piece and shoulder-popped the jamb. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No Tommy. No nobody. Just this flop. Just this twelve-by-twelve den of despair. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No bathroom. One closet. A milk-bottle pissoir by the bed. No chairs. One closet, one chest of drawers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer locked himself in. Thunder shook the whole building. Geeks yelled “Happy New Year!” out on Melrose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He checked the closet. It contained nada. That meant Tommy lammed. He had a car or stole a car. He traded shots with three cops and vamoosed. Farewell, you rape-o cocksucker.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer tossed the drawers. He caught some provocative shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A teach-yourself-Spanish book. A smut-photo book. Spicy donkey-show pix, à la Tijuana. Note the porkpie hat on \u003ci\u003eEl Burro.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nazi armbands. Jap flags. One tattoo stencil. Note the excised parts:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Outlines for swastikas. Outlines for an “SQ” circumscribed by coiled snakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer thumbed Tommy’s address book. More odd shit accrued. Look—there’s no addresses and no full names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Look—a “J.S.” and a Hollywood exchange. “St. Vib’s” and a down­town exchange. It’s probably St. Vibiana’s catholic church.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Look—RE-8761. No names or initials. Republic’s a south-of-downtown exchange.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Look—MA-4993. That number’s familiar. He scoured his brain and snagged it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eddie Leng’s Kowloon. A Chinatown slop chute. It’s open-all-nite. It features tasty shark-fin soup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eddie Leng was a Four Families tong geek. Tommy G. was a known tong associate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Plus: three more no name\/no initial numbers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer grabbed the wall phone and roused the switchboard geek. Get me MA-6884, pronto.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Detective Bureau. The Vice Squad night line. It was manned round the clock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He got four rings and a pick up. He heard noisemaker squeal. The clerk came off blotto.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Uh. . . yeah?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Rise and shine, dipshit. You got phone numbers to run.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The clerk yawned. “That you, Elmer?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s me, so grab your pencil.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I got it here someplace.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer said, “HO-4612. The subscriber’s got the initials J.S.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Okay, I got—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The number for St. Vibiana’s Church, and the subscriber name for RE-8761.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The clerk perked up. “I know that last number. It’s a hot-box pay phone, and them \u003ci\u003efarkakte \u003c\/i\u003ephone-probe Feds been looking at it. A lot of hinky City Hall guys make their hinky calls from there.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Elmer said, “Don’t stop now.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Who’s stopping? I was just pausing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Come on. Don’t string this—” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It used to be a bookie’s hot-box, and the drift is it still is. It’s over on 11th and Broadway, by the \u003ci\u003eHerald. \u003c\/i\u003eThat \u003ci\u003efarkakte \u003c\/i\u003ereporter Sid Hudgens stiffs his unkosher calls from it.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sid the Yid. Scandal scribe, putz provocateur. St. Vib’s—\u003ci\u003ethe \u003c\/i\u003epapist hot spot. Eddie Leng’s eatery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eTommy, what does this shit portend?\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304129450213,"sku":"NP9780307946683","price":21.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307946683.jpg?v=1767742523","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/this-storm-isbn-9780307946683","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}