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Set in Hong Kong and America, this is a story of Chinese culture and American values gone awry. Everything seems to be coming up roses for cookbook creator, Emily Kerr until a twenty year old video tape and estranged husband, Alex Stanton-pretentious missionary and misunderstood counterfeiter-surface; casting an eerie shadow over Emily's bright future. It's also a story of her lost daughter, Lam Fong, born out of a shrouded affair she kept during her marriage. Strangers leaps from Hong Kong's Triad controlled film industry - to a complete distortion of religion, from the young Lam Fong to the most exciting climax of the story-her sudden revelation and tragedy.
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It was a muggy summer day in Boston, June 1953. Over at Fenway Park the Red Sox lost to the Yankees, but David Hilliard was born earlier that morning. He now contentedly resides on the island of Martha's Vineyard-an hour drive and short ferryboat ride from Boston. Recently, he's completed another intriguing novel-No Particular Destination. Although a seeming victory that he has finished two books, he feels failed never having witnessed the Red Sox win a World Series championship. Maybe next year.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
He was going to take the weekend off and it was a well-deserved break after a long, grueling summer. Working everyday, fourteen hours, was wearing away at Andrew's mental health, which happened to be his most valuable asset at this time in his life. Coasting into the Econo Gas Stop, perpendicular to hardware store, he rolled over the bells and saw Frank changing the oil of a Jeep Wagoneer. Fill it up with super, okay, Frank! he called, summoning the owner after stopping at the last gas pump. Be right out! Frank answered from beneath the chassis, having just pulled the plug from the oil pan. A thick stream of black petroleum poured from the undercarriage, into the basin below. The easy-going owner wiped down his ratchet with an oily rag and walked out from the middle bay. He used the same cloth for his greasy hands and then stuffed it into the back pocket of his one-piece, soiled, monkey suit. Frank flipped the lever on the pump and uncorked the car's gas cap; it was concealed behind Andrew's personalized vanity plate that had Andy printed across it. He latched the handle clip to let the fuel flow automatically. Where' you off so early this morning? he asked, his hands buried deep in the side pockets of his grimy mechanic's uniform. He leaned back against Andrews's car.
Andrew stepped from his station wagon. I'm heading south for the weekend. He grabbed the end of a squeegee, soaking in a bucket and he began to give his windshield a wash.Who's tendin' the pizza business while you're away? he asked. Frank stood watching the dollars add up on the meter of the gas pump; he was personally astonished how much money it took to fill up an older model with super. I have that kid, Bernard, I hired last summer, Andrew answered. With his fingernail, he scratched off some dried white paste dropped onto the windshield by a low-flying, impertinent sea gull a few days ago when he had cruised down Beach Road. Believe me, the kid's fully capable. He'll take good care of you tonight. If not ... let me know when I get back. I'll make it up to you, he added for assurance.
Frank was a steady Friday night customer extra cheese, crispy crust, hold the onions and garlic. It was important to keep his breath clean for Peggy Upwood a freshly divorced single mother. By the end of the week Peg was as equally starved for affection as Frank was for the pizza. Friday afternoons, Peggy would send her three children off to her mother's house, pull out Franks pajamas that were hidden in her sweater drawer and lay them out on the foot of the bed. Saturday mornings, Frank would leave early for the gas station. She'd stash the pajamas back in the drawer of sweaters and the kids would return from Nanna's. During the whole ten months of this arrangement, Peg had never once washed those pajamas; Frank had never worn them. That's twenty-eight bucks, Andy, charge it? Charge it, Andrew answered, tossing the squeegee into the bucket of gray, soapy water. He was ready to climb back into the shiny,white car when his eye caught hold of a dark blotch above the tire that disturbed him. It was black grease; nothing more than a calling card, left behind by Frank's uniform. He rubbed the oil smudge off the lustrous body, using spit and a wet thumb, then he returned to the drivers seat of the Ford and fired up its eight perfectly timed cylinders. Frank came around to the driver's side and crouched to be eye-level with his customer. Hey, you wanna hear somethin', Andy lowering his voice to a near whisper.What?I sold out...What do you mean - sold out? Frank looked around for any curious ears that may have been listening off in the background. I sold the gas station. You sold this - the business, yeah? Got a damn good price for it too! Twenty-five percent down cash I've already got it! We're gonna close on the deal in a couple weeks. Who? asked an envious Andrew, peering out the driver's window at Frank. A chain... And, they're gonna make a convenience store outa' my garage, here. It's gonna be called, Gas N' Go - self serve, kind of place. Nice people, an Oriental family and I mean they got cash and lots of it! Hey, Frank, you don't think they're connected to one of those Asian mobs ya hear about, do you? Andrew asked, suspiciously. Hell, I don't know... They just came in here one day, asked if I wanted to sell my gas station. I said, 'how much ya give me for it?' They threw out a figure I took it! You say, in a couple of weeks, huh? Yeah, so Andy, you don't mind paying full on your account before then, do ya? No, of course not, he answered, willing to comply. Jesus, Frank I'm jealous. I wish someone would make me an offer!
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Book Description Buy Books on the web.com, 1998. Condition: New. book. Seller Inventory # M0966567854