said Jesse, who had just caught the syrup, salt, and acid scent of death. The breeze had shifted and carried the horrid odor southward. He recognized it immediately and reflexively held his breath. Almost thirty years had passed and still it smelled precisely the same. It smelled like boys that he had once known; people like Roosky and Cornelius. It had the odor of his dreams. He stopped holding his breath, inhaled deeply to honor his old friends, then started the long climb toward the buildings. “Are you kidding?” asked Eddy, who suddenly seemed very nervous. “You can’t just go waltzing up there. That’s Tourette’s Hill. Haven’t you heard the stories about that place? Why they call it Tourette’s Hill? If that place gets a grip on you, you’ll wind up doing an armed robbery in Pacific Heights or a drive-by shooting in the Fillmore. Then it’ll be sayonara and goodbye to your law practice.” Jesse searched Eddy’s face for some trace of sarcasm or humor. There was none.
