In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. But she did not speak. He’ll do. ’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Back to Blaye, my girl. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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