Banquet Before Dawn

Banquet Before Dawn

by Warren Adler

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781532983016
Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing
Publication date: 09/22/2016
Pages: 350
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.78(d)

About the Author

Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce turned into the Golden Globe and BAFTA nominated dark comedy hit starring Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner and Danny DeVito. In addition to the success of the stage adaptation of his iconic novel on the perils of divorce, Adler has optioned and sold film rights to more than a dozen of his novels and short stories to Hollywood and major television networks. Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristen Scott Thomas), The Sunset Gang (starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould and Doris Roberts), Private Lies, Funny Boys, Madeline's Miracles, Trans-Siberian Express and his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series are only a few titles that have forever left Adler's mark on contemporary American authorship from page to stage to screen. Learn more about Warren Adler at www.warrenadler.com.

Read an Excerpt

THE black limousine picked its way cautiously around the potholes on the rain-slicked streets, past the darkened hulks of aging buildings. Only the tentative cheerless lights of many bars, embedded like dulled cat’s eyes in the unrelenting blackness, testified that human life was out there somewhere. A light turned red. The big car stopped. Suddenly a burst of brightness illuminated a fender as a drunk staggered from a bar, hands outstretched for balance. “He’ll go home now and beat the shit out of his wife,” Fitz said, rolling up the window, as if the act of closing it would choke off his outrage. Ashamed of his breed, Sully thought, his eyes closed, his head resting against the gray downy interior. Shoes off, his feet were propped stiffly against the backless jump seat. No sleep ever came to him in moving vehicles, only a peculiar state of languor, where the brain shed physical sensation and thoughts became abstractions, images coldly clear, perceived within icicles with sounds expressed in echoes. The afternoon replayed itself in his senses. “I’m John J. Sullivan, your Congressman.” It came always as an endless programmed recorder with his voice triggering an outstretched hand. “No comprendo.” “Congressman Sullivan,” he said in a charade hopelessly performed before the tiny woman, gold chips glistening in a toothy smile. “Koon-grass-man,” she mimicked. “Sí.” She giggled shyly and clutched her net shopping bag with its jumble of potatoes and bananas. He knew she had not understood. Smiling, he patted her shoulder. “It’s an invasion,” he mumbled. “Thiswhole goddamned neighborhood is spic. What the hell happened to the Polacks, the Guineas, the Hebes? The whole fucking Eighth Congressional District is playing musical chairs.” He told Perlmutter, who trotted by his side while Fitz waited like some Mafia hit man in the driver’s seat of the black limo, to get Ramirez down from Washington by tomorrow. Somebody had to translate that spic shit. “You call yourself a district leader,” he told Tom Mullins later—“good old Moon” to the boys. “Must be five, ten thousand new spics in this neighborhood since two years ago. Get yourself some spic subleaders. The world’s a-changing, Moon.” “I know, Sully. But I ain’t changin’ with it. It’s goin’ too fast for old Moon. We need some real good Portarickens to handle this district. They’re comin’ in like ants chasin’ a puddle of molasses. Now I go to the meetin’s and I don’t know what they’re speakin’ about, chirpin’ so damn fast and arguin’ all the time. Not like the old days, Sully.”

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