Fuckin’ Introduce the Story Already
I’ve only met Piccirilli in the flesh on one occasion, which we’ll get to and deal with in a minute. We were introduced, digitally, by Don Eduardo Gorman, head of the Cedar Rapids combine and much-loved padrone to a whole pack of upstart noir scribes, all of us dreaming about the good old days when Dick Carroll would cut you a check on the strength of a sample chapter and an outline full of automats and small town banks and a dark haired woman who held your doom somewhere beneath her gauzy babydoll.
Within the first couple of e-mails, I knew that Pic and I were long lost tribesmen. My first clue was his easy comprehension of mildly obscure pop references. We were raised on the same gutter cuisine – had mooned over the same forgotten songs, movies, TV shows and, of course, most of all, books. The guy couldn’t be stumped. I’d close out a missive with some throwaway query regarding the whereabouts of Zooey Hall. Pic’d retort – He’s still on Bomano, pining for Tiffany Bolling. I’d sign off with a line from an obscure Thin Lizzy tune; he’d counter with one from Sweet. I’d recount the joys of finding my first Silverberg paperback in a spin rack at the corner Rexall; he’d reminisce about his initial encounter with a Matheson or Philip K. Dick collection. Stuff like that.
So a few years back, we both end up in Los Angeles at the same time and conspire to get together for dinner. He was meeting people about a possible film deal – I can’t recall which book was under option. (And at this point I want to publicly confer to Pic the right to add footnotes to correct the historical record.) I was there for much less romantic and profitable reasons, on which I will not dwell beyond mentioning that they involved attorneys and depositions and the kind of bad blood that can turn the marrow forever septic.
I was bunking at the airport Hilton, honestly, swear to God, under an assumed name. Not to worry – all this was a while ago and much of this particular hash has been settled. Pic and I arranged to meet and he picked me up in a rented navy blue Crown Victoria, a cushy tank for off-duty cops and old-time leg-breakers, which, I know, is often one in the same. I was impressed and as I hopped into shotgun position and extended a hand to shake, I felt an easy camaraderie, as if we’d known each other since Sharon Stone was a virgin.
For two guys who belonged to the Church of the Gold Medal Paperback, there was little question as to where we’d dine that night. Pic jumped onto the 405 headed north and made his way, like a native, to 6667 Hollywood Boulevard and the Musso & Frank Grill.
Now, for the average tourist, Musso & Frank is a shrine that glows with the light of old Hollywood. Chaplain and Bogart and Douglas Fairbanks all hung out there. For the tourist with a literary bent, this is where Fitzgerald and Faulkner and Dorothy Parker all got hammered when in the city of angels. For the hardboiled junkie, this is, according to legend, where Raymond Chandler scribbled bits of The Big Sleep. But for two shmucks who’d give a year off the back-end of their lives for a mint copy of Black Wings Has My Angel, this old-time chop house was only the place where Jim Thompson spent many a long and boozy afternoon brooding over lost children, lost fathers, lost opportunities.
We settled ourselves into one of those red leather booths and made introductory small talk as we studied our menus and wondered silently if our particular table was where Thompson – allegedly, allegedly – had been screwed badly on the South of Heaven film deal by a slick young actor-turned-producer.
A side note: I once heard a writer-friend tell of attending a reading by a revered novelist. Throughout the event, the revered novelist sipped at a glass of water and, upon finishing the reading, left the glass on the podium, where, when the crowd thinned out, the writer claimed the glass and swilled the
I’ve only met Piccirilli in the flesh on one occasion, which we’ll get to and deal with in a minute. We were introduced, digitally, by Don Eduardo Gorman, head of the Cedar Rapids combine and much-loved padrone to a whole pack of upstart noir scribes, all of us dreaming about the good old days when Dick Carroll would cut you a check on the strength of a sample chapter and an outline full of automats and small town banks and a dark haired woman who held your doom somewhere beneath her gauzy babydoll.
Within the first couple of e-mails, I knew that Pic and I were long lost tribesmen. My first clue was his easy comprehension of mildly obscure pop references. We were raised on the same gutter cuisine – had mooned over the same forgotten songs, movies, TV shows and, of course, most of all, books. The guy couldn’t be stumped. I’d close out a missive with some throwaway query regarding the whereabouts of Zooey Hall. Pic’d retort – He’s still on Bomano, pining for Tiffany Bolling. I’d sign off with a line from an obscure Thin Lizzy tune; he’d counter with one from Sweet. I’d recount the joys of finding my first Silverberg paperback in a spin rack at the corner Rexall; he’d reminisce about his initial encounter with a Matheson or Philip K. Dick collection. Stuff like that.
So a few years back, we both end up in Los Angeles at the same time and conspire to get together for dinner. He was meeting people about a possible film deal – I can’t recall which book was under option. (And at this point I want to publicly confer to Pic the right to add footnotes to correct the historical record.) I was there for much less romantic and profitable reasons, on which I will not dwell beyond mentioning that they involved attorneys and depositions and the kind of bad blood that can turn the marrow forever septic.
I was bunking at the airport Hilton, honestly, swear to God, under an assumed name. Not to worry – all this was a while ago and much of this particular hash has been settled. Pic and I arranged to meet and he picked me up in a rented navy blue Crown Victoria, a cushy tank for off-duty cops and old-time leg-breakers, which, I know, is often one in the same. I was impressed and as I hopped into shotgun position and extended a hand to shake, I felt an easy camaraderie, as if we’d known each other since Sharon Stone was a virgin.
For two guys who belonged to the Church of the Gold Medal Paperback, there was little question as to where we’d dine that night. Pic jumped onto the 405 headed north and made his way, like a native, to 6667 Hollywood Boulevard and the Musso & Frank Grill.
Now, for the average tourist, Musso & Frank is a shrine that glows with the light of old Hollywood. Chaplain and Bogart and Douglas Fairbanks all hung out there. For the tourist with a literary bent, this is where Fitzgerald and Faulkner and Dorothy Parker all got hammered when in the city of angels. For the hardboiled junkie, this is, according to legend, where Raymond Chandler scribbled bits of The Big Sleep. But for two shmucks who’d give a year off the back-end of their lives for a mint copy of Black Wings Has My Angel, this old-time chop house was only the place where Jim Thompson spent many a long and boozy afternoon brooding over lost children, lost fathers, lost opportunities.
We settled ourselves into one of those red leather booths and made introductory small talk as we studied our menus and wondered silently if our particular table was where Thompson – allegedly, allegedly – had been screwed badly on the South of Heaven film deal by a slick young actor-turned-producer.
A side note: I once heard a writer-friend tell of attending a reading by a revered novelist. Throughout the event, the revered novelist sipped at a glass of water and, upon finishing the reading, left the glass on the podium, where, when the crowd thinned out, the writer claimed the glass and swilled the
Similar Books
