storeeze

CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED “And I still rise.” —paraphrased 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.” My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. I threw on a clean 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. 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 the projects. An athlete's body, a damn good Elvis, and a fondness for obliging women. Between Larry and two strangers was an ind...

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 ...