storeeze

Tanks for the memory Of crap games on the floor, Nights in Singapore You might have been a headache, But you never were a bore —from Rainger, R. and Robin, L. (1938). Thanks for the Memory [lyrics] You never know what you're gonna run into when you’re breakin' bush in the middle of a war. One fine morning, March second, I recall, the jungle was jungle. Then, Presto Mundo—a three-acre clearing with a road running through it. There was no bush on the sides of the road and no leaves on the trees. Agent Orange had been here—“Only you can prevent a forest.” The entire area had been bladed and sprayed extensively. Busybody U.S. engineers had created a wasteland, except for a big pile of logs and brush on the far side of the road, next to a termite mound. Lt. Martinez shouted, “We're makin' a combat assault on the road!” Huh? Against a road? The lead elements of Charlie Company stepped into the clearing. We glanced at each other. No traffic lights. We formed a hundred-yard-lon...

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 ...