An urban perimeter motel, 3,000 miles from home, not far from where an atrocity had been committed in 1964 and, two nights ago, a cold blooded assassination. There is a 'body' on the bed. There are gangsters on the streets. It is 1990.
He is disoriented, hallucinating a little. How he got here is fuzzy. Why he's here won't resolve beyond a fractured sense of connectedness, and of longing. He's not a junkie, is not an alcoholic, but does have an inclination, does push boundaries, and has, to ease heartbreak, smooth his path. Now he must get his act together and do something if they are to escape looming danger, if they are to survive.
Yes, this story is of love and desire, deception, betrayal, hope and second chances. This story is of human frailties, parallel lives, twists of fate. But life is not just an ordered procession along a logical, if winding road. Were it so, why this feeling the key players have always been part of something . . . bigger?
