AUTUMN IS my favorite time of the year. It holds the promise of things to come. The days are warm and the nights cool. But there’s also something sad about autumn. You can see the summer slipping away, a seemingly endless string of days now gone. Stolen away by an unseen hand. Like a life: one day you wake up and you’re old.
But there is something else in the air in the autumn of 1962. If you were raised in the world I come from, you could smell it. It hangs there sharp and pungent, like a rancid piece of meat crawling with maggots. The smell of fear permeated the mob. After