Stories

The dead don't unionize. That's what they told Marcus Calloway on the night he died. He'd spent his whole life proving people wrong about what workers could do. Being dead wasn't going to change that.

The Bureau of Investigation had a form for everything. Form 7-C: Initial Surveillance Report. Form 12-A: Witness Statement (Sworn). There was no form for what Prescott found in the back room of the Rusty Anchor.

The widow kept her husband's pocket watch on the mantel. Every morning she wound it. Every evening she found it somewhere else.

The child was back. Dorothea Lindqvist saw it the way she always saw it — not from the corner of her eye, not in a mirror's reflection, but straight on, as solid as the bolts of silk on her cutting table.

Father Delgado said three masses every Sunday. The first two were for the living. The third was for the dead, and the dead had started listening.

The first one was George Calloway, no relation to the longshoreman organizer, which the Tribune's copy desk found confusing enough that they ran his name wrong.

The man at table four had been staring at me all night. Not the hungry kind of stare — I knew that one well enough. This was something else.

Vasco Kovalenko didn't dream anymore. Not naturally.

The first thing you learn about San Francisco soil is that it lies.

He'd been dead for seventeen years. He'd been angry for fourteen of them.

Giovanni's doesn't have a sign. If you need one, you're not invited.