Black

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The evening reeked of uncombusted fuel and desperation as Black wheeled down the Sunset Strip on his way home. Lifted trucks with gawping country boys blared twangy redneck boot-stomping anthems as they prowled by defiantly parading rocker chicks in lacquered micro-skirts, their hair a riotous rainbow of individuality. Low-riders crept along filled with gangsta wannabes looking for any excuse to prove how tough they were by squeezing a trigger, the police presence slim deterrent to a sixteen-year old hell-bent on making his bones. Traffic moved along in fits and starts, the evening flow coagulating at major arteries before dispersing once past the center of the action.

The city of angels had caught Black in its tractor beam twenty-three years ago - an oasis where infinite dreams and the restless young came to party and die. Little had changed over time other than the price of heroin and the music pulsing out at those who paid homage to the glitter gods. It had all seemed so vital and possible back then, but the corrosive effect of hindsight had eroded the cozy mirage, revealing a house of mirrors filled with hollow promises. But each generation had to live for its moment, and Los Angeles' seeming perpetual possibility was a powerful lure for those who believed that appearances were more important than dismal reality.

He turned onto Normandie and followed a beaten Volvo down the grade, then made a left on his street. Graffiti adorned the dumpsters next to the construction site four buildings from the Paradise Palms, proclaiming the block to be the turf of contentious warlords still in high school. As absurd as it seemed, lives were regularly lost over one group of teens disrespecting the others' block, the permanence of their poor choices a testament to the frailty of what passed for civilization in the shadows of the Hollywood sign.

Black slid from behind the wheel and checked to ensure his top was secure before slipping the anti-theft club on and fixing it in place with a secure thunk. He locked his door, considered whether this was really the week he wanted to give up smoking, and moved resignedly to his fate. The lights were on in Gracie's unit, a reflected television's image illuminating the blinds with colored flashes of meaningless imagery, and Black had to knock twice before she came to the door, the stale stink of nicotine and rotgut wafting behind her.

"Well, look who's here! The prodigal returns," she said with a cackle, and then her face grew serious. "I'm guessing you aren't here for a social call."

"I have a favor to ask you, Gracie," he said, trying to keep the bone tiredness out of his voice.

"Anything, Angel. Anything at all."

"I'm going to have Cesar work on the Cadillac tomorrow, and I need to borrow your car."

"You want to drive La Bomba? No problema, Angel. She still runs like a scared rabbit. Don't let her aging looks fool you. She's a thoroughbred. They don't build 'em like that anymore."

Gracie was right about that. The ancient Mercedes was as solid as the Matterhorn and with a little TLC would outlive them all.

"No, they don't. And they don't make them like you, either. You're a lifesaver."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, you silver-tongued devil. You wanna come in for a drink?"

"I don't know, Gracie. I'm kind of beat."

"Come on. Just one. I'll even break out the good stuff." An obvious lie. Gracie didn't have anything but glorified grain alcohol that came in plastic drugstore jugs. Black fixed on her slightly glazed eyes, hungry for any kind of company, her skin so translucent he could see the web of blue veins at her temples, and felt a surge of compassion. For Gracie, the days just blended together, some a little better than others, her life but one long bout of inebriation and hangovers, the Paradise Palms her paradise lost.