Juan
Bautista’s teeth were chattering in his head, and Imarte’s dance had become so
frenzied, she was a blur in the moonlight.
Einar was dancing too, kicking up his boots and waving his long arms as
he chanted a song, something in third-century Norwegian about hauling on the
oars and steering for the land where palm trees grow.
Porfirio pitched his chaplet over the side of the wagon and drew his
six-shooter.
“Our
revels now are ended,” he announced, and fired three shots into the air. Instantly we were all sober, converting the
alcohol in our bloodstreams into water and sugar, as we were programmed to do
when confronted by hazard.
(from Mendoza in Hollywood by Kage Baker)
7½*/10. The complete review is here.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment