storeeze

CONTENT WARNING:  READER DISCRETION ADVISED “Whilst Man, however well-behaved, At best is but a monkey shaved.” —W. S. Gilbert (1884) What I remember is a  bitter January morning wrangling a junkyard transmission into a ‘53 Packard,  jacked up on blocks. Richie and I should have been trudging through the snow to classes at the U instead of o ur backs jammed against a freezing curb,  lining up an Ultramatic, biggest I’d ever seen.  Two cars rolled up.  “Charlie?” ( Alan would come upon you anywhere, anytime, and frequently intoxicated.) “Yeah, what?” “It’s your lucky day.” “Oh, yeah? Then what could you be doing here?” The transmission teetered. “We got two women.” Alan peered under the car. “Hear that? Back-to-back racks.” “Hold it, right there, Richie. It’s Alan.” “Not Alan. Fuck no!” “Check it out,” said Alan. I edged out for a look. "I don't see your brother." "He went in for a hernia operation." Alan fished a loose cigarette from his jacket and lit it

CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. —from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962. It was 1960. I was nineteen, living at home with my parents. “Charles!” “Uh?” “Richie has a flat.” I rolled out of bed and stumbled after my mother into the kitchen. She thrust a receiver into my hand and lit a Chesterfield. I grunted. “Richie?” “Git your ass over here.” The receiver crashed in my ear. My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. I threw on my cleanest dirty shirt and hopped into the '52 Pontiac—a hunk of junk that cracked up Ollie, Richie’s father. An anxious excitement propelled me through the ghostly streets; I parked behind the dark shapes outside Richie’s and hurried into the suburban house using the passage way between the garage and the kitchen. An atmosphere of blighted camaraderie prevailed in the tidy, Sears-chic living room. Larry, Richie’s older brother, was saddled with a welfare cheat and five kids in th

Los Angeles: Friday, April 4, 1958. 8:06 pm. Detective Ken Stricker left his ailing mother at the Valley Hospital, put on a coat and slid into his black '56 Packard. He caught a 273 and 314 on the scanner, switched it off and dialed in Guy Lombardo. Veering off Laurel Canyon onto Sunset Boulevard, he stopped in front of the Mocambo, a place known to be on the wild side, and tossed his keys to the valet. “Don’t park it too far.” Ken ducked in. Mimi waited for him at the bar—tight, low-cut dress, green eye shadow, dangle earrings, heels kicked off. A cowboy in a ten-gallon by her side had Cherries in the Snow on his collar. Ken placed his stingy-brimmed fedora on the bar. Mimi gave him a look, hitched up her hose and crumpled a napkin note. He cracked his thumbs and zeroed in. She glanced sidelong at the scar over his heavy-lidded eyes, took a drag and blew smoke at the ceiling. She greeted him with a kiss. He tasted tobacco, stale mint and something else. He grabbed her arm. “Don’t