WC in NYC. 1983
WC is looking very Trad (despite those side burns) and a little hungover in a diner somewhere around Brook's Brothers. Author of two crime novels with hero, Harry Rane, a character my dad describes as, "...someone who's always sticking his dick in places it doesn't belong." WC has a new one coming out this winter. Dad will be elated to know Harry's missing from this one. WC could always turn a phrase. In a Jersey nightclub, WC ordered beers, looked around and yelled in my ear over the Go-Go's, We Got the Beat, "These people's lives extend about as far as the cord on their hair dryers!"
'Gone 'til November' will be out in January and if WC has nicked any of my cop stories for his book, I will put his feet on a curb and jump up and down on his knee caps. Otherwise, I'm looking forward to the read from this old friend who writes such wonderful dark stories in a bone dry style. Somewhere back in time he left the Shetland behind and affected a wardrobe of black jeans, tee shirts and engineer boots. Proof you don't have to dress Trad to be Trad.