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“You think so?”
He comes closer and speaks quietly.
“I know an ex-con when I see one. From your clothes, I’m guessing with your record you can’t get a decent job. I understand. I’ve been there. I can help.”
I look at my coat and boots. I’m not a fashion plate, but what the hell about them says con? Or is it just me?
Probably me.
Glancing at my crooked fairy godfather, I say, “Thanks. I’ll talk to you next time.”
He claps me on the back and shakes my hand.
“Tomorrow?” he says, anxious enough that it’s annoying.
“I’m not sure. It depends on when I can get out.”
“I understand. I have an old lady too. Well, you know where to find us. See you soon.”
He bobs his head and goes back to the fight pit, where men are stripping off shirts and shoes for the next bout.
I have an old lady too. Is that the kind of vibe I’m giving off? An ex-con with a shrew at home checking my breath for booze and my wallet for what little pay I can scrounge? I picture Candy, the very opposite of all that, and feel like more of a heel than ever. I can’t keep this up. I hate lying and I hate these people. But this regular life . . .
Sometimes it makes me want to cut my throat and head down to Hell forever. At least I understand the rules down there. But I’m not the suicide type, especially knowing how it would hurt the few people I care about.
I grab my ex-con coat and head out. When I get back to the Catalina, I check under the seat for the angel’s box. It’s right where I left it. I look at it again. Open it, take out the vial, and shake it. Black milk. It sounds charming. What every good boy and girl needs for a growing body. I put it back and slip the box back under the seat. The cut over my eye has stopped hurting. I run a finger over it and don’t find any blood. That’s good news at least. I start the car and head back into Hollywood. I need a drink to wash the taste of cheap lies out of my mouth.
A LITTLE EAST of home is Bamboo House of Dolls, the best punk tiki bar in L.A. Old Cramps and Germs posters on the walls. Plastic hula girls and palm trees behind the bar. An umbrella in your drink if you ask nicely. There’s also a brilliant jukebox. Martin Denny. Arthur Lyman. Meiko Kaji. I don’t think there’s anything on there less than forty years old.
Carlos, the bartender, laughs when he sees me.
I sit at the bar and he pours me a glass of
Aqua Regia, the number one booze in Hell.
He says, “What happened? The bigger kids took your lunch money?”
I touch my eye.
“It doesn’t look that bad, does it?”
He steps back, cocking his head from side to side like he’s trying to find the naked lady in a Picasso.
“I’ve seen you worse. The scab is almost gone, but you’ve got a nice bruise over your eye.”
“Goddammit.”
“Let me guess. You ran into a tall midget with an iron hat. Or a small giant carrying a lunch box.”
“The truth is more embarrassing, so let’s go with that last one.”
“Please tell me you at least won the fight.”
I sip the drink. It tastes like gasoline and burns just right going down.
“I won, all right. But I shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”
He picks up and tosses a couple of drink coasters some customers left behind.
