knew this girl in my detox, the last time—homie girl they all call ‘Zippo’—when she smoke rock, for fun, if someone pissed her off, she used to squirt lighter fluid on their house, their trees n’ cars n’ shit, then light ‘em up. She showed me how to burn stuff. You know, just stand there on the street and watch the shit go up. Crazy. You’re like her, man. You don’t give a fuck. You burn up everything around you. You don’t give a fuck.’
‘So—everything’s okay?’
‘My brother-in-law, another cabezón like you, wants me out. My rent’s three weeks back. I’m broke. Unemployed. I can’t get no dancing jobs. No man, everything’s not okay.’
‘What about McGee? What happened with him?’
‘He got fired! Mister Kammegian fired him. You knew tha.’
‘I mean about you and him? What happened with that?’
‘Bruno. Jesus! I’m a lap-dancer, man. I suck dick for money. What do you think happened?’
‘It was my fault. I pushed myself on you. You couldn’t escape.’
‘I need money, man. I’m all fucked up. You got money?’
It was in her voice. I could hear it. I had to ask. ‘Are you back on rock, Jimmi?’
‘…I gotta go.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘You got twenty bucks?’
‘Can we get together and talk?’
‘Why?’
‘I just said why. To talk.’
A thud and silence. She’d dropped the phone or set it down. In the background, I began to hear other objects colliding and falling. A drawer slid open—slammed closed. Finally, she was back. ‘Okay…Bruno?’
‘I’m here.’
‘…You know where I live, right? My sister, Sema’s house? You dropped me off before.’
‘I remember. I know the address.’
‘Listen…park your car in the spot behind my bug. Knock on the side door. Knock twice. Bring me twenty bucks.’
‘No problem. The twenty is no problem.’
‘How soon?’
‘I’m leaving now.’
The ride to Los Feliz from my motel was fast at night with no traffic. Thirty-five minutes. Santa Monica Freeway. Hollywood Freeway. Then the 5. The booze was working again, so I drove carefully, observing the speed limit.
Jimmi’s sister Sema’s house was on Rowena. 3373. A beat up twenties vintage craftsman with heavy concrete pillars supporting the porch’s roof. Once an upper-middle class neighborhood, the dark street with its crowded, sweating sycamores, concealed eighty years of L.A.’s decomposition. Turning the corner to her block, the smell and taste of sludge was in the air. By morning, over the palm trees slums in Boil Heights, the fireball summer sun would re-ignite the smog. A city of thirteen million being choked to death one day at a time.
As I pulled in behind Jimmi’s rag-top bug, I misjudged the curb and the distance, bumping a sports car in her neighbor’s driveway. It wasn’t a bad dent—not much of anything—but I didn’t want any trouble, so I backed out and reparked on the street.
After climbing the front steps, I walked around to Jimmi’s side door entrance. I was about to knock, when my dead brother Rick’s voice began yelling inside my skull: ‘ Yo, fucko! Are you crazy? This bitch is a crack addict—a goddamn train wreck…Go home! You just smacked a fucking car. Get outa here, man! Run. Go back to your motel room—lock yourself in!’
I knocked, then pushed at the door. It popped open.
Inside, the room’s illumination came from a flickering TV screen. Jimmi was on her bed, sitting up, wearing a stretch top and shorts, her straight black hair piled and tied on her head.
Seeing her was always a shock. Her beauty. The dark, smooth skin, the deep blue blazing eyes. She was barefoot, smiling up at me, but not smiling. Long brown legs full-length against the bed’s light-colored quilt. ‘Hi, baby,’ she cooed above the sound of a cable TV movie.
‘Hi,’ I said.
She was whispering, as if we weren’t alone. ‘Close the door, baby.’
Stepping back, I swung it closed. The air inside was worse than the Los
‘So—everything’s okay?’
‘My brother-in-law, another cabezón like you, wants me out. My rent’s three weeks back. I’m broke. Unemployed. I can’t get no dancing jobs. No man, everything’s not okay.’
‘What about McGee? What happened with him?’
‘He got fired! Mister Kammegian fired him. You knew tha.’
‘I mean about you and him? What happened with that?’
‘Bruno. Jesus! I’m a lap-dancer, man. I suck dick for money. What do you think happened?’
‘It was my fault. I pushed myself on you. You couldn’t escape.’
‘I need money, man. I’m all fucked up. You got money?’
It was in her voice. I could hear it. I had to ask. ‘Are you back on rock, Jimmi?’
‘…I gotta go.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘You got twenty bucks?’
‘Can we get together and talk?’
‘Why?’
‘I just said why. To talk.’
A thud and silence. She’d dropped the phone or set it down. In the background, I began to hear other objects colliding and falling. A drawer slid open—slammed closed. Finally, she was back. ‘Okay…Bruno?’
‘I’m here.’
‘…You know where I live, right? My sister, Sema’s house? You dropped me off before.’
‘I remember. I know the address.’
‘Listen…park your car in the spot behind my bug. Knock on the side door. Knock twice. Bring me twenty bucks.’
‘No problem. The twenty is no problem.’
‘How soon?’
‘I’m leaving now.’
The ride to Los Feliz from my motel was fast at night with no traffic. Thirty-five minutes. Santa Monica Freeway. Hollywood Freeway. Then the 5. The booze was working again, so I drove carefully, observing the speed limit.
Jimmi’s sister Sema’s house was on Rowena. 3373. A beat up twenties vintage craftsman with heavy concrete pillars supporting the porch’s roof. Once an upper-middle class neighborhood, the dark street with its crowded, sweating sycamores, concealed eighty years of L.A.’s decomposition. Turning the corner to her block, the smell and taste of sludge was in the air. By morning, over the palm trees slums in Boil Heights, the fireball summer sun would re-ignite the smog. A city of thirteen million being choked to death one day at a time.
As I pulled in behind Jimmi’s rag-top bug, I misjudged the curb and the distance, bumping a sports car in her neighbor’s driveway. It wasn’t a bad dent—not much of anything—but I didn’t want any trouble, so I backed out and reparked on the street.
After climbing the front steps, I walked around to Jimmi’s side door entrance. I was about to knock, when my dead brother Rick’s voice began yelling inside my skull: ‘ Yo, fucko! Are you crazy? This bitch is a crack addict—a goddamn train wreck…Go home! You just smacked a fucking car. Get outa here, man! Run. Go back to your motel room—lock yourself in!’
I knocked, then pushed at the door. It popped open.
Inside, the room’s illumination came from a flickering TV screen. Jimmi was on her bed, sitting up, wearing a stretch top and shorts, her straight black hair piled and tied on her head.
Seeing her was always a shock. Her beauty. The dark, smooth skin, the deep blue blazing eyes. She was barefoot, smiling up at me, but not smiling. Long brown legs full-length against the bed’s light-colored quilt. ‘Hi, baby,’ she cooed above the sound of a cable TV movie.
‘Hi,’ I said.
She was whispering, as if we weren’t alone. ‘Close the door, baby.’
Stepping back, I swung it closed. The air inside was worse than the Los
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