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'I was struggling to update my corkboard when I read this exquisitely pulpy line: “Lawler was a New York blue blood who married a nouveau riche nobody named Constantine Psomas — a.k.a. the can man.” Warmth filled my guts like whiskey. I didn’t need a map. Mosley was driving me to Rikers in a cream-colored Bianchina, and Mingus was playing on the stereo. I was along for the ride.'
