Max Everhart > Max's Quotes

“On a Wednesday morning in mid-June, Eli Sharpe was sitting at his desk treating jetlag with strong coffee when he heard a knock on his apartment door. After a second, more insistent knock, he added a dash of George Dickel to his Folgers and hid the pint in a desk drawer.
“It’s open,” he said loudly and stood up to receive his visitor.
In walked a tall blonde, her high heels stabbing the scuffed- up hardwoods, her perfume battling the smell of coffee and dust permeating Eli’s six-hundred square foot studio apartment that doubled as a working office. Her perfume won the battle: Light Blue by Dolce & Gabbana. Same scent his third fiancée used to wear.”
― Max Everhart, Go Go Gato

“Anxious to defend his adopted city—especially his side of town, the less fashionable west end—Eli considered giving Veronica a condensed lecture on the history of Asheville, North Carolina. 1880: the Western North Carolina Railroad completed a line from Salisbury to Asheville, which later enabled George Washington Vanderbilt to construct the Biltmore Estate, the largest private residence in America. Over time, that 179,000 square foot house transitioned into a multi- million dollar company. Which lured in tourists. Who created thousands of jobs. Which caused the sprawl flashing by Eli’s window at fifty-five miles per hour.
But Eli refrained from being the Local Know-It-All, remembering all the times he’d traveled to new cities and some cabbie wanted to play docent, wanted to tell him about the real Cleveland or the hidden Miami. Instead, he let the air conditioner chase away the remnants of his jet lag and thought about Almario “Go Go” Gato. He waited for Veronica to say something about the Blue Ridge Mountains, which stood alongside the highway, hovering over the valley below like stoic parents waiting for their kids to clean up their messy bedrooms. Eli gave her points for her silence. And for ditching the phone, even if she kept glancing anxiously toward the glove compartment every time it buzzed. The car rode smooth, hardly a bump. For a resident of Los Angeles, she drove cautiously, obeying all traffic laws. Eli had a perfect driving record. Well, almost perfect. There was that time he drove the Durham Bulls’ chartered Greyhound into the right field fence during the seventh inning stretch. But that was history. Almost ancient.”
― Max Everhart

“Apparently those who did seek treatment did so only because desperate family members had issued ultimatums: get help or we walk. Had he driven his family to desperation—caused his wife’s heart to fail from the stress of living with him; pushed Harry into an action that had endangered his life? Was his desire for control out of control?”
― Barbara Claypole White, The Perfect Son

“Terry picked up the snubnose and snapped back the hammer, waving it around the room wildly. He squeezed the trigger by accident. Flame spit from the short barrel. The crew hit the floor. All except Valentina, who stood calmly looking at Terry. Terry looked from the gun to Valentina. “Sorry.” “Point it at the floor. Not your foot, the floor. Everyone alive?” “I spilled my beer,” Sam said. “I swallowed my gum,” Candy said. “I shit my pants,” Jacob said. They”
― Josh Stallings, Young Americans

“I want the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson,” Candy said. “I have a silver snakeskin belt that will go perfectly with it.” “Done, girl. Style points are always appreciated. We may be robbing this joint, but there is no excuse for looking tacky.” Terry”
― Josh Stallings, Young Americans

“It was, of course, hypocritical nonsense. In Jackson’s four years at Auburn, football season ticket applications increased by 1,700 annually. The school was making millions off of his presence, his likeness, his replica jersey, his name on stickers and pins and hats. A year earlier Jackson was prevented from appearing at the American Heart Association’s “Walk for the Health of It” walkathon because it would violate “The Rules.” Which rules? No one was sure. But there were rules. Plenty of rules. “The SEC clings to its pompous eligibility rules,” wrote Bob Wojnowski in Florida Today, “like a bum clings to his dignity.”
― Jeff Pearlman, The Last Folk Hero: The Life and Myth of Bo Jackson