That’ll Leave A Mark was spray-painted in garish Day-Glo pink across the front of a seventeenth-century headstone.
Willie McCoy had been a jerk before he died. His being dead didn’t change that. He sat across from me, wearing a loud plaid sport jacket. The polyester pants were primary Crayola green. His short, black ahir was slicked back from a thin, triangular face. He had always reminded me of a bit player in a gangster movie. The kind that sells information, runs errands and is expendable.