Selected Works

Crime Fiction
They called her The Bride. Young, homeless, and wearing a tattered wedding dress and veil matted with grime, she floated through the streets of Hellís Kitchen like a spectre. Until she wound up dead.
The Private Eye Writers of America has selected Sinners' Ball as Best Paperback Original Novel of 2010 and awarded it the coveted Shamus Award.
"Old Flame is a gem of crime fiction." Booklist Starred Review
ďBerkowitz nails New York, and in particular modern-day Hellís Kitchen ... an impressive debut."
ĖJason Starr

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Sinnersí Ball


Angela was a tiny fifteen year-old runaway with flyaway hair, a face filled with hollows dense with shadows, and minutes left to live.

She had been in the city just shy of two months. Her older sister Wanda had run a year earlier, leaving Angela alone in their fatherís house.

You gotta get out, Wanda had said. I know what itís like. Know what heís like. Ma wonít admit it. Probably glad he donít mess with her. It ainít gonna stop, Angie. Quit being a fraidy cat. Come to New York and live with me. Itís cool. The people. The scene. All cool. Thereís work. Iíll hook you up. Pays more money than you ever seen.

But Angela had been a fraidy cat and stayed, kidding herself into to believing it would stop.

Until the last time.

While he slept, Angela had crept into the garage, lifted all the cash from his secret hiding place, and headed for the Greyhound bus station in Davenport. Twenty-two stops and a little more than a day later she pulled into the Port Authority bus depot. Wanda met her and took her back to an apartment she shared with three other girls and a man they called Daddy. He told Angela she was part of the family now, and in his family everyone worked. Then he told her what work meant.

Angela ran. Again.

Until the streets caught her.

Now it was Christmas Eve. The temperature had dipped into the low teens and the wind blew the snow sideways. The sidewalk Santas were long gone, the carolers had packed it in, and all across the city, families, all warm and cozy, tossed the last piece of tinsel on the tree and settled in for the night.

And in Hellís Kitchen, Angela and two brain-fried junkies she had met outside a warehouse hatched their own plan to celebrate the Saviorís birth.

The guys Ė one with rat eyes, and the other with sores on his face - had dug deep into their pockets and come up with enough for a dime bag of rock and the best bottle of wine three dollars could buy. Even though the thought of it made her feel as if spiders were crawling all over her skin, Angela chipped in her body for a couple of hits and a few hours of warmth.

Then they jimmied a window and climbed into the warehouse.

Christmas Eve was for families, and it had been a long time since Angela had seen her sister. Rat Eyes handed her a cell phone he had boosted a few days earlier. Wanda didnít answer, but Angela left the address.

And then it was party time.

Surrounded by stacks of cartons stuffed with counterfeit designer goods, theyíd made short work of the rock and polished off the bottle with lying stories of Christmas Eves past. Now, with eyes closed and heads propped against the cartons, they slept.

They never heard the whisper of flame smoldering deep within the walls, or the frantic rustling of rats scurrying to the safety of the river. Never smelled the acrid odor of smoke as the flames crept up toward the dead space just under the roof.

Wanda sat in a musty Westside bar nursing a two-buck draft in a dirty pint glass, listening to Angelaís message and weighing her options. Outside the streets were empty, shrouded in the muted glow of light filtered through giant flakes of whipping snow. She wasnít even close to making her three hundred dollar nut, and didnít have a prayer. Not on a night like this. But there was one thing she knew for a certainty, Daddy didnít want to hear shit about blizzards, or Christmas, or any other stuff. You live in Daddyís house you pay the rent. Every day. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Wanda reached into her brassiere and pulled out a thin wad of bills, adding them up one more time, thinking maybe she had made a mistake. Nope. Three twenties and a ten.

Fuck it! she thought, staring down at the thin soup at the bottom of the glass. If Iím gonna get a beating itís gonna be for a good reason. Besides, the warehouse wasnít too far away.

The flames were streaming through the windows on the lower floors when Wanda came up the street. Splashes of glass glittered like diamonds in the snow. She stood stock-still, her body unwilling to move. A man, standing across the street with his face framed in firelight, turned to look at her. The expression on his face made her guts shrivel. And she looked away.

When she looked back he was gone.

At the distant whine of sirens Wanda glanced back at the building and swiped a sleeve across her eyes.