Uncle Ringo stiffened but said nothing as the two men approached. When they came into our lamplight I saw that the taller one, his upper body approximating a rain barrel, was in a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and somewhat comically sporting a black...
The overcast sky brooded low over us and I had to lock my fingers together around Ringo’s chest to keep from flying off the back of the motorcycle. “Where’s the Lancia?” I shouted, but even if he could have heard me he seemed to be in no condition to answer. In...
Most of us loved Uncle Ringo. He was the cool uncle if there ever was one. He’d lived in Venice for a couple of months last summer and brought back with him an Italian sports car—not at all legal on American streets—a Lancia D24 with the famous double wishbone...
The next morning was overcast and cold. Soggy trees dripped as mournfully as the runny noses of chastened children. The storm had been brutal. The earth held a grudge against the sky. Only the grackles and turkey buzzards hopped around gleefully in the gloom. Black...
The Saragossa Bottling Company began on a rainy Tuesday night in our dank cinderblock basement when my uncle Ringo mixed West Coast hop vodka, juice of dallis grass, greengage extract, lavender tea and a tablespoon of Marmite. An unusual combination, certainly. But...
