Category: Uncategorized (Page 219 of 1031)

There used to be trolleys in Los Angeles, like there were in San Francisco or Brooklyn, but they got in the way of the cars (the automobile industry insisted) and so all the tracks were ripped up in the late ’40’s and now everyone drives. Accountants in Chryslers, and crooked accountants in Cadillacs; the suspiciously jobless in Beemers; teevee actors getting sucked off in Volkswagens on Pico; pot-dealing guitarists in jeeps; tennis coaches in Suburus.

And cruising east towards Hollywood on Sunset was a hairdresser and a horror host in a 1961 Lincoln Continental. Triple-black convertible with the roof down.

“Let’s go to the Polo Lounge.”

“We gotta go kill this chick first.”

“Sheel, I’m huuuuuuungry,” Tiresias Richardson said.

“You should’ve gotten food at the Mexican place,” Big-Dicked Sheila answered.

“We already had tacos today. I can’t eat Mexican twice in one day.”

“Why not? Mexicans do.”

“Is the Brown Derby still open?”

“I have no idea. We’re going to whatsherface’s first.”

Tiresias picked up the Halliburton briefcase from in between her and Sheila, set it on her lap, KACHACK the latches. Papers and photos inside. She swirls, lifts up corners, flips over and back, finds the sheet she’s looking for. A4 sizing, off-white, thick and marbled and begging for ink: rich people paper.

“Lynn Danube.”

“Is that her name?

She took a glossy black and white photo from the ‘case, held it up close to Sheila’s face so so she could see it. Blonde in her 20’s. Same nose job as every other blonde in her 20’s in Los Angeles. Dimples, and you could tell from her neck that she did ballet growing up. She looked like the woman Tiresias and Sheila had just left, but a dozen pilot seasons younger.

“This Buttermilk guy’s got a type,” Sheila said.

“Don’t we all?”

“I don’t.”

“Your type is ‘present,’ you slut.”

The sky was coming up on evening and the sun was going down into the Pacific; the parking meters threw skinny shadows down the sidewalk and grotty teens skateboarded like their dicks were on fire. They passed rumbling gas stations, and there were billboards with titties all over them. Liquor stores that, by virtue of celebrity patronage, had taken on a shine and become junctions for ley lines. The women were on the Strip again and dead Rock Stars were everywhere, dead Movie Stars, too, and even dead Teevee Stars, but no one really cared about dead Teevee Stars and so they were fuzzy and indistinct. Youth riots and teen idols and Tower Records and dingbat apartments branching off left and right.

And there was the Rock and Roll dry cleaners. They could get vomit out of leather pants. There was the Rock and Roll supermarket where starlets hissed at the lobsters–they were natural enemies, after all–and Alice Cooper had once vomited into the apple display. They were granny smiths, and he felt awful about it. Rock and Roll diners, too, with guitars and teal (always with the fucking teal) Cadillac asses nailed to the wall.

“I hate those fucking places.”

“’50’s diners?”

“Choose a new decade already, diners,” Sheila said.”We’ve seen what the diner from the 1950’s looks like. How about an 1890’s diner?”

“I think that’s Cracker Barrel.”

“’60’s, then.”

“Ooh, yeah, okay. We could put the waitresses in the cutest little mini-skirts and name all the dishes after groovy hippie stuff. We should do it.”

“What?”

Tiresias snatched her hands into Sheila’s enormous purse, came out with the pack of Camels, lighter, FFT, PHEW she placed that one between her lips, held barely before them so Sheila had to come forward for it, and then she repeated the ritual. The top was down, but it was the top of a Lincoln, which stands for luxury and had demanded of its engineers that passengers be able to light their cigarette lighters with the top down  at up to 70 mph.

“Open a diner. Solid work. Something for when the roles dry up, which is last year. Look at me. I’m 27.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“And I shake my tits in between crappy movies in the middle of the night on a crappy station in a crappy neighborhood. I trained! I trained, dammit. You know what acting is?”

“A craft,” Sheila said flatly.

(This was tantrum #4. Tiresias only had six in her arsenal: #1 was money, 2 was “someone’s sneaking in here in and taking in the Draculette costume,” 3 was “general family,” 4 was the artist bullshit, 5 was “saw a picture of herself,” and #6 was the perennial “friend’s success.”)

“Yes! And it has done me no good. if I had a time machine, I’d go back to when I was a kid, yank me out of that high school play, and get myself addicted to heroin. My time would have been better spent on heroin than on acting.”

“A lot of people do both at the same time.”

Tiresias was not letting any facts into her tantrum, and ignored her.

“That’s what I’ll do. When I fail here…again…we’ll go back home and I’ll learn to do heroin. Do we know any junkies?”

“Like, a dozen.”

“Great. That’s a plan. Quit acting; start shooting up.”

“You’re going straight to the needle?”

“Fuck, yeah. I’ll stick it in my eyeball. I’m hardcore. AAAAHahaha!”

Tiresias’ tantrums were Florida rains: they came on fast and thick, and left no trace in minutes’ time.

A boy on the side of the road sold oranges, maps to the stars, alibis. There was a novel set in that record store, and at least a dozen songs about that hotel. Nothing here was fungible: it was the Sunset Strip, man, and so therefore purposeful and sui the fucking generisest; the post office had intent, not like your suburban shack with the ugly employees. This was the post office on the Sunset Strip. It was cool.

“Think about it this way, sweetie. We’ve been in town six hours and we’re up twenty grand.”

“Yuh-huh, but I’m also thinking about the felonies.”

“What felonies?”

“We conspired to commit murder. Twice.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t do anything.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s conspiracy. Totally a crime.”

“No, it’s a ‘No blood, no foul’ sort of thing. Sweetie, I’ve dated a bunch of lawyers; I’m sure about this.”

“Well, I played a lawyer, so I overrule you. That’s a legal term. As opposed to ‘No blood, no foul.'”

“Who’d you play?”

“We did an experimental version of Inherit The Wind. I played the Spencer Tracy part.”

“Experimental?”

“We took our clothes off,” Tiresias said.

“If you didn’t have the proper education, you might think experimental theater is all a great big scam for directors to get hot, young actors naked.”

“Thank God I have my degree. But, yeah, we’ve already done enough shit to go jail forever. Plus you have an unregistered firearm in your purse.”

“I have two unregistered firearms in my purse.”

“That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. We don’t know the cops here. I’m not a world-famous celebrity here, and you’re not a neighborhood institution. We need to maintain a low profile.”

The two beautiful women in the enormous antique convertible rumbled down Sunset.

“Low for us. As low as we can manage,” Tiresias said.

“A neighborhood institution? That makes me sound ancient.”

“I meant your importance. You’re the straw that stirs the drink. And you’re the straw that sniffs the coke. You’re all the straws.”

“You’re so sweet.”

“Yeah.”

They were out of the Strip now, and the dirt wasn’t anything special anymore, just dirt, and the road widened as they headed east and passed only-accessible-by-escalator gyms, and third-place comedy clubs, and pancake places with signs featuring cartoon pigs in cartoon toques cracking eggs into a skillet–there was already bacon in the skillet–and the Zankou Chicken joint, and an optometrist’s shop that was always open but no one ever went in or out of.

“Hang a right across from Guitar Center,” Tiresias said.

“Look at the size of it.”

“Well, it’s the center. It’s not Guitar Distant Outpost.”

“We should start a band.”

“Yes! Yes, we should start a fucking band!”

Sheila pointed the Continental down North Gardener Street and there was no more custom, no more trade, just apartments interlaced with dinky cottages and all the windows had muscular bars on their outside. There was slant parking, so all the Toyotas and Hondas and Fords and Chevys abutted the curb at a 45 degree angle.

“We’re not getting paid on this one, I don’t think,” Tiresias said.

“What was the address again?”

“1200 North Gardner, #6.”

“Number six? Yeah, this bitch is broke.”

The Continental crawled along. Tiresias saw Sheila squinting out her window and trying to make out the house numbers; she reached over and ruffled her short, black hair.

“You’re adorable.”

“What?”

“I love that you try.”

“Be quiet while I’m trying to see.”

“Should I change for this?”

Tiresias was still in her FBI Agent drag, the slim black suit with the slicked-back hair, but she had taken of her heels and had her bare feet up on the dash.

“You look hot as fuck.”

“Oh, thank you. And: yeah, totally.”

“Nah, you’re golden. Just don’t wear the sunglasses.”

“Of course I’m not gonna wear the sunglasses; it’s almost dark. We can’t both be blind.”

“I can see fine!” Sheila yelled, as she rolled through the stop sign.

“Uh-huh.”

Tiresias leaned out her window.

“1209. 1207,” she said, and withdrew into the car and up on her knees on the leather bench seat to poke her head upwards like a prairie dog, and she pointed across the street. “There it is.”

Sheila grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back down.

“What happened to low profile?” she hissed.

“I got excited. Sheel, I’m so hungry.”

U-Turn. Parking spot. Lights off, but not the engine. Automatic roof on a 1961 Lincoln Continental. It went GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR and then stopped halfway; Sheila climbed over the seat, ass waggling skywards, to WHAMP WHAMP WHAMP on the spot Precarious showed her to whamp on when the roof got stuck and it GRRRRRRRRRRR made the rest of its journey. Sheila slid back into the driver’s seat and did not look at Tiresias.

“What happened to low profile?”

Sheila continued not looking at Tiresias and said,

“We’re gonna sit here for a minute. See what’s going on. Maybe it’s a setup.”

“You’re so smart.”

The cocaine, what was left of the stamp-sized baggie, came out of her jacket’s inside pocket and she made a fist, sprinkled a bitty pile on the flat table made by the top of her fist. Tiresias had always thought, If God did not want us to do cocaine, then why would our hands be shaped that way? And, you know, why did He make the cocaine in the first place? SHNARF. The handoff, the pile, FNORF, Sheila licked at her thumb.

They peered.

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary,” Sheila said.

“We don’t live here. How would we know what was ordinary?”

“I don’t know. What about that guy?”

An old man in a red, white, and blue track suit was walking a terrier.

“Uncle Sam? You think he’s a cop?”

“I don’t know. Go see if he’ll take a bribe.”

Tiresias slapped her hand on the briefcase in between them and opened up her door.

“That’s enough. Let’s go. We’re telling this chick her boyfriend’s wife is trying to have her murdered, show her the evidence, and then we get something to fucking eat. I don’t wanna be a professional assassin anymore. At least not today.”

Sheila shouldered her enormous purse and got out of the car without a word. Tiresias met her on the sidewalk carrying the Halliburton. They checked each other’s teeth and nostrils for debris and walked up the pavement.

They passed a nondescript sedan.

1200 North Gardner was a rectangular building, short side facing the street, two stories, and fronted by a head-high white wall topped with brick that enclosed the front two units’ gardens. The gate was wrought iron and ajar, and the women passed through it. In her heels, Tiresias was exactly a foot taller than Sheila (in her yellow Converse). Gated-in grass on either side, lawn chairs, a barbecue sphere. The wire mesh door was propped open, and behind it was an arched hallway. They could see all the way through it to the one-car semi-enclosed garage behind, and that there were three doors on each wall.

Tiresias went for the intercom, but Sheila grabbed her wrist.

“Who were you going to say you were?”

“Land shark?”

“We’ll knock,” Sheila said. The carpet on the floor was thin, but clean and unscarred. The doors were thick and wooden, and there was a little cage at eye level that protected the peephole, which opened inward like a wee fairy portal. Kept weirdos from reaching in and grabbing your face. The cages were highly susceptible to gas attacks, though, which is why no one in Little Aleppo use them any more. Safety is further compromised when the door has been left ajar, which #6 was.

The women stood at the doorway. Tiresias poked her head out back into the semi-enclosed one-car garage, looked both ways, at Sheila, shrugged.

“Knock knock!”

“Helloooooo?”

Both of them began rapping on the dark-brown door, and it glid open.

“Liz!?”

“Lynn.”

“Lynn!?

The lights were off in the apartment, but it was still softly purple outside and they could see the room: there was a couch from the thrift store and a brand-new teevee. Foreign movie posters framed on the walls. A vision board. Tiresias leaned in, and then Sheila, and then they were standing in the living room. The kitchen was off to the left, and so were the stairs.

“It smells nice in here,” Tiresias said.

“She doesn’t smoke.”

“Nah, she murders old rich guy’s wives and takes their places.”

“Yeah, that’s wrong, but it doesn’t smell up the place.”

“Look how many scripts this bitch has!”

Tiresias strode over to a table piled high with thin screenplays with red covers.

“Is she going in on all of these?”

“Tirry, focus.”

She grabbed the top script and jammed it into Sheila’s purse, who slapped at her hand.

“It’s got her agent’s information on it. I’m calling that motherfucker.”

Sheila spent the first chunk of her life getting her ass kicked. She was different; people are cruel, and she was small. She learned to smell the situation turning, like meat going from cooked to burned. Her neck got hot. She did not know why, precisely, it was her throat but the sudden prickly heat had never been wrong. On occasion, she had not trusted the feeling or downplayed its warning; she had always paid for it. Her neck was on fire.

“Tirry, we need to leave.”

“You needed to not come in at all, ma’am,” came the deep voice from behind them, and then the door with the cage over the peephole SLAMMED shut; the women turned around and there was a man, thick across the shoulders and thin up top, standing there. Gray sport coat, and clean-shaven. Haircut that would walk a little old lady across the street.

The man tossed an object to Sheila, who didn’t see him doing it and so flailed out at it  and batted it into the air, where Tiresias snatched it with her free hand. It was a .22 pistol. She stood with the gun and the briefcase in the middle of the living room and said,

“What the fuck?”

Sheila said,

“Shit.”

The man said,

“Yup.”

“Lynn’s dead upstairs, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yeah,” the man said.

“And you’re framing us for it?”

“Also right.”

“Any other fun facts?”

The man reached inside his sport coat and pulled out a leather wallet, flipped it open. Big shiny badge with a big shiny building on it. Off in the distance were sirens, and they were getting closer, and both women suddenly felt very far away from Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.