Dalton walked in. He was waving a first edition of The Ginger Man, which he’d borrowed from Uncle Charlie. “‘Today a rare sun of spring,’” he shouted in my ear. “That’s the opening line of this novel. That’s poetry, Asshole. That’s the English goddamn language. I love you, Asshole, but honestly, you’ll never write a sentence that good.” “No argument here,” I said.
