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T.C. Boyle stories : the collected stories of T. Coraghessan Boyle.
Boyle, T. Coraghessan.
New York : Viking, 1998.
x, 691 p.
0670879606 (alk. paper)
More Details
New York : Viking, 1998.
0670879606 (alk. paper)
catalogue key
A Look Inside
This item was nominated for the following awards:
PEN Center USA West Literary Awards, USA, 1999 : Nominated
First Chapter

Chapter One



There was no exchange of body fluids on the first date, and that suited both of us just fine. I picked her up at seven, took her to Mee Grop, where she meticulously separated each sliver of meat from her Phat Thai, watched her down four bottles of Singha at three dollars per, and then gently stroked her balsam-smelling hair while she snoozed through The Terminator at the Circle Shopping Center theater. We had a late-night drink at Rigoletto's Pizza Bar (and two slices, plain cheese), and I dropped her off. The moment we pulled up in front of her apartment she had the door open. She turned to me with the long, elegant, mournful face of her Puritan ancestors and held out her hand.

    "It's been fun," she said.

    "Yes," I said, taking her hand.

    She was wearing gloves.

    "I'll call you," she said.

    "Good," I said, giving her my richest smile. "And I'll call you."

On the second date we got acquainted.

    "I can't tell you what a strain it was for me the other night," she said, staring down into her chocolate-mocha-fudge sundae. It was early afternoon, we were in Helmut's Olde Tyme Ice Cream Parlor in Mamaroneck, and the sun streamed through the thick frosted windows and lit the place like a convalescent home. The fixtures glowed behind the counter, the brass rail was buffed to a reflective sheen, and everything smelled of disinfectant. We were the only people in the place.

    "What do you mean?" I said, my mouth glutinous with melted marshmallow and caramel.

    "I mean Thai food, the seats in the movie theater, the ladies' room in that place for god's sake..."

    "Thai food?" I wasn't following her. I recalled the maneuver with the strips of pork and the fastidious dissection of the glass noodles. "You're a vegetarian?"

    She looked away in exasperation, and then gave me the full, wide-eyed shock of her ice-blue eyes. "Have you seen the Health Department statistics on sanitary conditions in ethnic restaurants?"

    I hadn't.

    Her eyebrows leapt up. She was earnest. She was lecturing. "These people are refugees. They have--well, different standards. They haven't even been inoculated." I watched her dig the tiny spoon into the recesses of the dish and part her lips for a neat, foursquare morsel of ice cream and fudge.

    "The illegals, anyway. And that's half of them." She swallowed with an almost imperceptible movement, a shudder, her throat dipping and rising like a gazelle's. "I got drunk from fear," she said. "Blind panic. I couldn't help thinking I'd wind up with hepatitis or dysentery or dengue fever or something."

    "Dengue fever?"

    "I usually bring a disposable sanitary sheet for public theaters--just think of who might have been in that seat before you, and how many times, and what sort of nasty festering little cultures of this and that there must be in all those ancient dribbles of taffy and Coke and extra-butter popcorn--but I didn't want you to think I was too extreme or anything on the first date, so I didn't. And then the ladies' room ... You don't think I'm overreacting, do you?"

    As a matter of fact, I did. Of course I did. I liked Thai food--and sushi and ginger crab and greasy souvlaki at the corner stand too. There was the look of the mad saint in her eye, the obsessive, the mortifier of the flesh, but I didn't care. She was lovely, wilting, clear-eyed, and pure, as cool and matchless as if she'd stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, and I was in love. Besides, I tended a little that way myself. Hypochondria. Anal retentiveness. The ordered environment and alphabetized books. I was a thirty-three-year-old bachelor, I carried some scars and I read the newspapers--herpes, AIDS, the Asian clap that foiled every antibiotic in the book. I was willing to take it slow. "No," I said, "I don't think you're overreacting at all."

    I paused to draw in a breath so deep it might have been a sigh. "I'm sorry," I whispered, giving her a doglike look of contrition. "I didn't know."

    She reached out then and touched my hand--touched it, skin to skin--and murmured that it was all right, she'd been through worse. "If you want to know," she breathed, "I like places like this."

    I glanced around. The place was still empty, but for Helmut, in a blinding white jumpsuit and toque, studiously polishing the tile walls. "I know what you mean," I said.

* * *

We dated for a month--museums, drives in the country, French and German restaurants, ice-cream emporia, fern bars--before we kissed. And when we kissed, after a showing of David and Lisa at a revival house all the way up in Rhinebeck and on a night so cold no run-of-the-mill bacterium or commonplace virus could have survived it, it was the merest brushing of the lips. She was wearing a big-shouldered coat of synthetic fur and a knit hat pulled down over her brow and she hugged my arm as we stepped out of the theater and into the blast of the night. "God," she said, "did you see him when he screamed `You touched me!'? Wasn't that priceless?" Her eyes were big and she seemed weirdly excited. "Sure," I said, "yeah, it was great," and then she pulled me close and kissed me. I felt the soft flicker of her lips against mine. "I love you," she said, "I think."

    A month of dating and one dry fluttering kiss. At this point you might begin to wonder about me, but really, I didn't mind. As I say, I was willing to wait--I had the patience of Sisyphus--and it was enough just to be with her. Why rush things? I thought. This is good, this is charming, like the slow sweet unfolding of the romance in a Frank Capra movie, where sweetness and light always prevail. Sure, she had her idiosyncrasies, but who didn't? Frankly, I'd never been comfortable with the three-drinks-dinner-and-bed sort of thing, the girls who come on like they've been in prison for six years and just got out in time to put on their makeup and jump into the passenger seat of your car. Breda--that was her name, Breda Drumhill, and the very sound and syllabification of it made me melt--was different.

Finally, two weeks after the trek to Rhinebeck, she invited me to her apartment. Cocktails, she said. Dinner. A quiet evening in front of the tube.

    She lived in Croton, on the ground floor of a restored Victorian, half a mile from the Harmon station, where she caught the train each morning for Manhattan and her job as an editor of Anthropology Today . She'd held the job since graduating from Barnard six years earlier (with a double major in Rhetoric and Alien Cultures), and it suited her temperament perfectly. Field anthropologists living among the River Dyak of Borneo or the Kurds of Kurdistan would send her rough and grammatically tortured accounts of their observations and she would whip them into shape for popular consumption. Naturally, filth and exotic disease, as well as outlandish customs and revolting habits, played a leading role in her rewrites. Every other day or so she'd call me from work and in a voice that could barely contain its joy give me the details of some new and horrific disease she'd discovered.

    She met me at the door in a silk kimono that featured a plunging neckline and a pair of dragons with intertwined tails. Her hair was pinned up as if she'd just stepped out of the bath and she smelled of Noxzema and pHisoHex. She pecked my cheek, took the bottle of Vouvray I held out in offering, and led me into the front room. "Chagas' disease," she said, grinning wide to show off her perfect, outsized teeth.

    "Chagas' disease?" I echoed, not quite knowing what to do with myself. The room was as spare as a monk's cell. Two chairs, a loveseat, and a coffee table, in glass, chrome, and hard black plastic. No plants ("God knows what sort of insects might live on them--and the dirt , the dirt has got to be crawling with bacteria, not to mention spiders and worms and things") and no rug ("A breeding ground for fleas and ticks and chiggers").

    Still grinning, she steered me to the hard black plastic loveseat and sat down beside me, the Vouvray cradled in her lap. "South America," she whispered, her eyes leaping with excitement. "In the jungle. These bugs--assassin bugs, they're called--isn't that wild? These bugs bite you and then, after they've sucked on you a while, they go potty next to the wound. When you scratch, it gets into your bloodstream, and anywhere from one to twenty years later you get a disease that's like a cross between malaria and AIDS."

    "And then you die," I said.

    "And then you die."

    Her voice had turned somber. She wasn't grinning any longer. What could I say? I patted her hand and flashed a smile. "Yum," I said, mugging for her. "What's for dinner?"

    She served a cold cream-of-tofu-carrot soup and little lentil-paste sandwiches for an appetizer and a garlic souffle with biologically controlled vegetables for the entree. Then it was snifters of cognac, the big-screen TV, and a movie called The Boy in the Bubble , about a kid raised in a totally antiseptic environment because he was born without an immune system. No one could touch him. Even the slightest sneeze would have killed him. Breda sniffled through the first half-hour, then pressed my hand and sobbed openly as the boy finally crawled out of the bubble, caught about thirty-seven different diseases, and died before the commercial break. "I've seen this movie six times now," she said, fighting to control her voice, "and it gets to me every time. What a life," she said, waving her snifter at the screen, "what a perfect life. Don't you envy him?"

    I didn't envy him. I envied the jade pendant that dangled between her breasts and I told her so.

    She might have giggled or gasped or lowered her eyes, but she didn't. She gave me a long slow look, as if she were deciding something, and then she allowed herself to blush, the color suffusing her throat in a delicious mottle of pink and white. "Give me a minute," she said mysteriously, and disappeared into the bathroom.

    I was electrified. This was it. Finally. After all the avowals, the pressed hands, the little jokes and routines, after all the miles driven, meals consumed, museums paced, and movies watched, we were finally, naturally, gracefully going to come together in the ultimate act of intimacy and love.

    I felt hot. There were beads of sweat on my forehead. I didn't know whether to stand or sit. And then the lights dimmed, and there she was at the rheostat.

    She was still in her kimono, but her hair was pinned up more severely, wound in a tight coil to the crown of her head, as if she'd girded herself for battle. And she held something in her hand--a slim package, wrapped in plastic. It rustled as she crossed the room.

    "When you're in love, you make love," she said, easing down beside me on the rocklike settee, "--it's only natural." She handed me the package. "I don't want to give you the wrong impression," she said, her voice throaty and raw, "just because I'm careful and modest and because there's so much, well, filth in the world, but I have my passionate side too. I do. And I love you, I think."

    "Yes," I said, groping for her, the package all but forgotten.

    We kissed. I rubbed the back of her neck, felt something strange, an odd sag and ripple, as if her skin had suddenly turned to Saran Wrap, and then she had her hand on my chest. "Wait," she breathed, "the, the thing."

    I sat up. "Thing?"

    The light was dim but I could see the blush invade her face now. She was sweet. Oh, she was sweet, my Little Em'ly, my Victorian princess. "It's Swedish," she said.

    I looked down at the package in my lap. It was a clear, skin-like sheet of plastic, folded up in its transparent package like a heavy-duty garbage bag. I held it up to her huge, trembling eyes. A crazy idea darted in and out of my head. No, I thought.

    "It's the newest thing," she said, the words coming in a rush, "the safest ... I mean, nothing could possibly--"

    My face was hot. "No," I said.

    "It's a condom," she said, tears starting up in her eyes, "my doctor got them for me they're ... they're Swedish." Her face wrinkled up and she began to cry. "It's a condom," she sobbed, crying so hard the kimono fell open and I could see the outline of the thing against the swell of her nipples, "a full-body condom."

I was offended. I admit it. It wasn't so much her obsession with germs and contagion, but that she didn't trust me after all that time. I was clean. Quintessentially clean. I was a man of moderate habits and good health, I changed my underwear and socks daily--sometimes twice a day--and I worked in an office, with clean, crisp, unequivocal numbers, managing my late father's chain of shoe stores (and he died cleanly himself, of a myocardial infarction, at seventy-five). "But Breda," I said, reaching out to console her and brushing her soft, plasticclad breast in the process, "don't you trust me? Don't you believe in me? Don't you, don't you love me?" I took her by the shoulders, lifted her head, forced her to look me in the eye. "I'm clean," I said. "Trust me."

    She looked away. "Do it for me," she said in her smallest voice, "if you really love me."

    In the end, I did it. I looked at her, crying, crying for me, and I looked at the thin sheet of plastic clinging to her, and I did it. She helped me into the thing, poked two holes for my nostrils, zipped the plastic zipper up the back, and pulled it tight over my head. It fit like a wetsuit. And the whole thing--the stroking and the tenderness and the gentle yielding--was everything I'd hoped it would be.


She called me from work the next day. I was playing with sales figures and thinking of her. "Hello," I said, practically cooing into the receiver.

    "You've got to hear this." Her voice was giddy with excitement.

    "Hey," I said, cutting her off in a passionate whisper, "last night was really special."

    "Oh, yes," she said, "yes, last night. It was. And I love you, I do..." She paused to draw in her breath. "But listen to this: I just got a piece from a man and his wife living among the Tuareg of Nigeria--these are the people who follow cattle around, picking up the dung for their cooking fires?"

    I made a small noise of awareness.

    "Well, they make their huts of dung too--isn't that wild? And guess what--when times are hard, when the crops fail and the cattle can barely stand up, you know what they eat?"

    "Let me guess," I said. "Dung?"

    She let out a whoop. "Yes! Yes! Isn't it too much? They eat dung!"

    I'd been saving one for her, a disease a doctor friend had told me about. "Onchocerciasis," I said. "You know it?"

    There was a thrill in her voice. "Tell me."

    "South America and Africa both. A fly bites you and lays its eggs in your bloodstream and when the eggs hatch, the larvae--these little white worms--migrate to your eyeballs, right underneath the membrane there, so you can see them wriggling around."

    There was a silence on the other end of the line.


    "That's sick," she said. "That's really sick."

    But I thought--? I trailed off. "Sorry," I said.

    "Listen," and the edge came back into her voice, "the reason I called is because I love you, I think I love you, and I want you to meet somebody."

    "Sure," I said.

    "I want you to meet Michael. Michael Maloney."

    "Sure. Who's he?"

    She hesitated, paused just a beat, as if she knew she was going too far. "My doctor," she said.

You have to work at love. You have to bend, make subtle adjustments, sacrifices--love is nothing without sacrifice. I went to Dr. Maloney. Why not? I'd eaten tofu, bantered about leprosy and bilharziasis as if I were immune, and made love in a bag. If it made Breda happy--if it eased the nagging fears that ate at her day and night--then it was worth it.

    The doctor's office was in Scarsdale, in his home, a two-tone mock Tudor with a winding drive and oaks as old as my grandfather's Chrysler. He was a young man--late thirties, I guessed--with a red beard, shaved head, and a pair of oversized spectacles in clear plastic frames. He took me right away--the very day I called--and met me at the door himself. "Breda's told me about you," he said, leading me into the floodlit vault of his office. He looked at me appraisingly a moment, murmuring "Yes, yes" into his beard, and then, with the aid of his nurses, Miss Archibald and Miss Slivovitz, put me through a battery of tests that would have embarrassed an astronaut.

    First, there were the measurements, including digital joints, maxilla, cranium, penis, and earlobe. Next, the rectal exam, the EEG and urine sample. And then the tests. Stress tests, patch tests, reflex tests, lung-capacity tests (I blew up yellow balloons till they popped, then breathed into a machine the size of a Hammond organ), the X-rays, sperm count, and a closely printed, twenty-four-page questionnaire that included sections on dream analysis, genealogy, and logic and reasoning. He drew blood too, of course--to test vital-organ function and exposure to disease. "We're testing for antibodies to over fifty diseases," he said, eyes dodging behind the walls of his lenses. "You'd be surprised how many people have been infected without even knowing it." I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. On the way out he took my arm and told me he'd have the results in a week.

    That week was the happiest of my life. I was with Breda every night, and over the weekend we drove up to Vermont to stay at a hygiene center her cousin had told her about. We dined by candlelight--on real food--and afterward we donned the Saran Wrap suits and made joyous, sanitary love. I wanted more, of course--the touch of skin on skin--but I was fulfilled and I was happy. Go slow, I told myself. All things in time. One night, as we lay entwined in the big white fortress of her bed, I stripped back the hood of the plastic suit and asked her if she'd ever trust me enough to make love in the way of the centuries, raw and unprotected. She twisted free of her own wrapping and looked away, giving me that matchless patrician profile. "Yes," she said, her voice pitched low, "yes, of course. Once the results are in."


    She turned to me, her eyes searching mine. "Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

    I had. Carried away, intense, passionate, brimming with love, I'd forgotten.

    "Silly you," she murmured, tracing the line of my lips with a slim, plastic-clad finger. "Does the name Michael Maloney ring a bell?"

And then the roof fell in.

    I called and there was no answer. I tried her at work and her secretary said she was out. I left messages. She never called back. It was as if we'd never known one another, as if I were a stranger, a door-to-door salesman, a beggar on the street.

    I took up a vigil in front of her house. For a solid week I sat in my parked car and watched the door with all the fanatic devotion of a pilgrim at a shrine. Nothing. She neither came nor went. I rang the phone off the hook, interrogated her friends, haunted the elevator, the hallway, and the reception room at her office. She'd disappeared.

    Finally, in desperation, I called her cousin in Larchmont. I'd met her once--she was a homely, droopy-sweatered, baleful-looking girl who represented everything gone wrong in the genes that had come to such glorious fruition in Breda--and barely knew what to say to her. I'd made up a speech, something about how my mother was dying in Phoenix, the business was on the rocks, I was drinking too much and dwelling on thoughts of suicide, destruction, and final judgment, and I had to talk to Breda just one more time before the end, and did she by any chance know where she was? As it turned out, I didn't need the speech. Breda answered the phone.

    "Breda, it's me," I choked. "I've been going crazy looking for you."


    "Breda, what's wrong? Didn't you get my messages?"

    Her voice was halting, distant. "I can't see you anymore," she said.

    "Can't see me?" I was stunned, hurt, angry. "What do you mean?"

    "All those feet," she said.

    "Feet?" It took me a minute to realize she was talking about the shoe business. "But I don't deal with anybody's feet--I work in an office. Like you. With air-conditioning and sealed windows. I haven't touched a foot since I was sixteen."

    "Athlete's foot," she said. "Psoriasis. Eczema. Jungle rot."

    "What is it? The physical?" My voice cracked with outrage. "Did I flunk the damn physical? Is that it?"

    She wouldn't answer me.

    A chill went through me. "What did he say? What did the son of a bitch say?"

    There was a distant ticking over the line, the pulse of time and space, the gentle sway of Bell Telephone's hundred million miles of wire.

    "Listen," I pleaded, "see me one more time, just once--that's all I ask. We'll talk it over. We could go on a picnic. In the park. We could spread a blanket and, and we could sit on opposite corners--"

    "Lyme disease," she said.

    "Lyme disease?"

    "Spread by tick bite. They're seething in the grass. You get Bell's palsy, meningitis, the lining of your brain swells up like dough."

    "Rockefeller Center then," I said. "By the fountain."

    Her voice was dead. "Pigeons," she said. "They're like flying rats."

    "Helmut's. We can meet at Helmut's. Please. I love you."

    "I'm sorry."

    "Breda, please listen to me. We were so close--"

    "Yes," she said, "we were close," and I thought of that first night in her apartment, the boy in the bubble and the Saran Wrap suit, thought of the whole dizzy spectacle of our romance till her voice came down like a hammer on the refrain, "but not that close."


Copyright © 1998 T. Coraghessan Boyle. All rights reserved.

Full Text Reviews
Appeared in Library Journal on 1998-09-15:
This retrospective collection assembles all the short fiction of California postmodernist Boyle, including some early magazine work that has not previously appeared in book form. The tales are arranged thematically instead of chronologically, in three broad categories: "Love," "Death," and "And Everything in Between." Most are lightweight riffs on pop culture icons in the tradition of Max Apple's The Oranging of America (1976). In "I Dated Jane Austen," from 1977, the tee-shirted narrator chauffeurs Miss Austen to a punk club in his Alfa Romeo. "Beat" (1993) imagines Jack Kerouac and his mother sharing a bottle of Mogen David wine and listening to Bing Crosby records on Christmas Eve, 1958. "The Rapture of the Deep" (1995) is the story of Jacques Cousteau's mutinous galley chef. Boyle works in the self-consciously hip, name-dropping style of Jay Leyner and stand-up comedian Dennis Miller. Unfortunately, the thematic grouping used in his anthology emphasizes the formulaic aspects of Boyle's fiction and makes its manic inventiveness seem forced and predictable. Libraries with any of Boyle's earlier story collections can skip this one. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 7/98.]‘Edward B. St. John, Loyola Law Sch. Lib., Los Angeles (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Appeared in Publishers Weekly on 1998-09-21:
A premier practitioner of short fiction, Boyle (Water Music) gathers two decades worth of work in one volume of almost 70 stories, adding seven pieces (three previously unpublished) to the contents of his previous four collections. The entries are organized thematically, evenly divided among "Love," "Death" and "And Everything In Between"; thus chronology is jumbled and early pieces flank more recent ones. The "Love" stories are so polished and sophisticated they all but glitter. In them, very often a hapless male, modestly hoping merely to get laid, encounters an obsessed woman and finds himself eventually undone. Sex itself is not especially important to Boyle, but obsession is. Obsessions of one sort or another (animal activism, germophobia, Elvis, frogs, squirrels, whales) inform these stories, which sparkle with wicked wit and exuberant prose. The last "Love" story serves as a sad transition to the tales of "Death." "Juliana Cloth" chronicles the way a sexually transmitted virus decimates an African town, and a girl goesÄknowinglyÄto an embrace that will kill her. The cumulative effect of the "Death" section, though, is numbing, repetitiously grotesque and finally gratuitous. However, the collection's texture quickens in the last section, "And Everything In Between," a potpourri of chilling fables. Throughout Boyle's work, real people (Eisenhower, Khrushchev, Carry Nation, Robert Johnson, Mao, Jack Kerouac, Jacques Cousteau) appear in narrative out-takes that are invariably amusing and, like Boyle's more serious work, mordant, worldly and irreverent. Author tour. (Nov.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
This item was reviewed in:
Library Journal, July 1998
Booklist, August 1998
Kirkus Reviews, September 1998
Library Journal, September 1998
Publishers Weekly, September 1998
New York Times Book Review, November 1998
Globe & Mail, December 1998
New York Times Book Review, December 1999
New York Times Book Review, June 2000
To find out how to look for other reviews, please see our guides to finding book reviews in the Sciences or Social Sciences and Humanities.
Publisher Fact Sheet
Mythical & realistic, farcical & tragic, these stories (written between 1972 & 1997) are grouped under headings of Love, Death & everything in between. Three of them are previously unpublished.
Unpaid Annotation
Few authors in America write with the sheer love of story, language, and imagination as T. C. Boyle. His talent and range are manifest in this selection of sixty-eight tales that span his every theme, mood, and nuance, clothed in his hallmark virtuoso prose.Mythical and realistic, farcical and tragic, these stories (written between 1972 and 1997) are grouped under the headings of "Love", "Death", and everything in between. Three of them are previously unpublished: "The Rapture Of The Deep." a galley chef's jaded and mutinous view of Cousteau's endless voyages; "Mexico," an intense tale about an American tourist and his amorous adventures with a tough female boxer; and the comedy and pathos of an old lady's frenzy to defend a houseful of stray squirrels, her "Little Fur People." Four previously uncollected stories include the mini-masterpiece "I Dated Jane Austen." Here is a definitive gift for Boyle fans and for every reader ready to discover the "ferocious, delicious imagination" (Los Angeles Times Book Review) of a "vibrant sensibility fully engaged with American society" (The New York Times.
Table of Contents
Modern Lovep. 3
Ike and Ninap. 12
Sorry Fugup. 21
Without a Herop. 34
Heart of a Championp. 46
Carnal Knowledgep. 53
Acts of Godp. 69
Hopes Risep. 85
Descent of Manp. 97
Caviarp. 106
All Shook Upp. 119
I Dated Jane Austenp. 133
Cayep. 138
Little Fur Peoplep. 143
John Barleycorn Livesp. 156
The Hatp. 165
Whales Weepp. 178
A Women's Restaurantp. 189
Thawing Outp. 199
Back in the Eocenep. 210
Sitting on Top of the Worldp. 215
If the River Was Whiskeyp. 228
Juliana Clothp. 236
Big Gamep. 245
Greasy Lakep. 261
Peace of Mindp. 269
King Beep. 280
Sinking Housep. 292
The Devil and Irv Cherniskep. 302
The Human Flyp. 314
On for the Long Haulp. 327
The 100 Faces of Death, Volume IVp. 342
Little Americap. 350
Stones in My Passway, Hellhound on My Trailp. 360
The Hit Manp. 365
Not a Leg to Stand Onp. 370
Green Hellp. 383
Me Cago en la Leche (Robert Jordan in Nicaragua)p. 395
The Ape Lady in Retirementp. 402
De Rerum Naturap. 416
The Extinction Talesp. 424
The Fog Manp. 430
Drowningp. 439
Rara Avisp. 445
The Overcoat IIp. 449
Mexicop. 469
Beatp. 485
Hard Sellp. 497
The Miracle at Ballinspittlep. 502
Top of the Food Chainp. 510
The Hector Quesadilla Storyp. 515
We Are Norsemenp. 525
The Champp. 532
Bloodfallp. 538
Rupert Beersley and the Beggar Master of Sivani-Hootap. 546
The New Moon Partyp. 561
The Second Swimmingp. 574
Dadap. 584
Two Shipsp. 587
The Little Chillp. 597
A Bird in Handp. 602
The Arctic Explorerp. 612
Rapture of the Deepp. 625
56-0p. 636
The Big Garagep. 647
Zapatosp. 661
Respectp. 666
Filthy with Thingsp. 675
Table of Contents provided by Blackwell. All Rights Reserved.

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