L.A. Confidouchal
The night turned into dawn like two flashing red lights at the corner of Hollywood and Vine… the street walkers crawled down Sunset like a parade of newly hatched slugs after a long rain…
I had to get my head on straight… the Captain wasn’t hearing no more since the crack down at Chavez Ravine in ’52, and I needed a shower, shave and a pressed suit badly…
She had red hair like firecrackers that burned the insides of your eyes like coal embers off the moat trucks on Virgil… I hadn’t seen daylight since the poppers popped back down behind the old Howard Johnsons when Capreze and his gang made a move to corner the H racket after Lenny Weinrib took two of Mickey Cohen’s with him to the great hearafter…
Must’ve been the booze but when I saw her getting mugged by an oily tatted up douchewank, I knew it was time to make the move to Red Cupsville… she let him cup her moneymakers, he in the wifebeater that spoke of the uberdouche from West Hollywood… he was a scrote, that I knew… but what kind of scrote? And who was he playing?… I had to think…
