storeeze

The sun drives the seasons and the days between Legion ball and football practice. I never had it so good: running with Richie and his brother Larry, collecting unemployment, sponging off the old man, more interested in getting laid than getting paid, traffic tickets, pecker tracks in the back seat, a police escort home, mom wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth, “Where did I go wrong?” On one of those dog day afternoons, I turned my Harley onto Diagonal Boulevard, a mile from home. A bubble machine lit up on a side street. Cops will chase anything. I grabbed a handful of throttle—my risk insurance had expired—no license! The roar and a siren alerted mom as I swung past the house, wind in my face, the fuzz on my ass. Both hands were on the bar. I let  loose for real, looped on 74th Street and flew past Marlys Pederson's, a fantasy I had until I saw Phoebe Crouch. At Portland, a busy thoroughfare, I said a prayer, pushed the speed up and blew across without looking. I opened my eyes ...

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.” 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 be coy, Mimi. I...