storeeze

Subject: My calls with Kim today. Sandy handed me my morning latte with a note to call the Gateway Shelter. Kim answered. She told me she was uncomfortable and getting a COVID test today because there was a potential outbreak at the shelter and she wanted to see her grandchildren. “That’s scary,” I replied. “Only three residents [out of 50] wear masks.” I sipped my latte and asked her whether the staff wore masks. She said yes, they do, but at every other job she had during COVID, the workplace was much safer—lots of cleaning and sanitizing, masks and headgear. These precautions aren’t taken at Gateway. Kim has elderly relatives and other family members with compromised immune systems. Her daughter was scared. I propped my feet up and asked her if there were other issues. Kim’s sister is also a social worker. They had a conference call with another friend to discuss the issues at the shelter. Kim mentioned general cleanliness. “One morning I wasn’t even on the clock when I was ordered

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