I had to get moving. Heading anywhere. We Angelinos don’t feel at home unless we are rolling along. I let the Crown Vic drift up over Silver Lake and down into Hollywood. She was a black, harmless looking ex-cop car, but under her hood beat the heart of a road beast. Bored, stroked and blueprinted. Hi pro cams, new top end. She was all go, no show. “Is it getting better?” Bono asked from the car speakers as I cranked U2 up and let their bleak Irish hope take me away.
Hollywood Boulevard was clogged with cruisers, shined up cars with kids hanging out the windows trying for the ever-important hookup. A lowered ‘67 Impala with candy apple metal flake paint was pulled to the curb. Its driver, a sixteen year old cholo, was sitting on the curb while the cops shined a light in his girl’s face and ran his plates. Had I remembered it was Saturday night, I never would have crossed into Hollywood. Too many cops. Too many kids. Too many hormones running wild.
Cruising down Highland, I crossed Melrose into Hancock Park. Expensive homes sat a coin toss from the homeless of Hollywood. The wind blew my sedan west on Pico. Down past the Mexican restaurants with the new immigrants, still wet from the crossing, eating bowls of goat’s head soup. Across Fairfax, where all the signs were suddenly in Hebrew, goys need not apply. Up over the hill and past the tall sound stages of 20th Century Fox, where the gates are heavily guarded to insure that no original ideas sneak onto the lot. Under the 405 freeway and there it was, calling me like a siren to the rocks. Fantasia’s neon blinked “Girls Girls Girls” and “Bikini Contest.” Even though I’d never been there before, I knew I was home. I could smell the stale beer, cheap perfume, sweat and desperation mixing with the thump of bass-driven dance music, leaking out the back door into the parking lot.
“Five bucks,” a skinny Vietnamese valet said, ready for me to argue with him.
“Twenty. I park it, you watch it. Sound fair?” I said shooting him my best I’m-not-going-to-eat-you smile. He must have been a tough guy, because he smiled back, usually people don’t.
“Okey doke,” he said. I walked towards the club, wondering what the hell I hoped to find here that wasn’t back at Club Xtasy, except maybe a job. That would show Manny.
“I saw her standing there.” Cheesy Brit pop assaulted my ears as I pushed through the curtains into Fantasia’s bikini bar. It must be said, The Beatles were pussies. John, Paul, George and that goofy mutant Ringo, pussies one and all. With their whiny, simpering love songs and simple solutions to complex questions. “Love is all you need.” Tell that to an eight year old boy whose mother is a mean drunk Jesus freak who thinks cornflakes are dinner. Fuck love, what I needed when she took a belt to my ass was a.44 and an airtight alibi.
I dropped a ten on the counter girl and looked around the big dark hall of a room. Citizens were lined up three deep at the bar. On stage, a chick in a day glow orange string bikini was twisting the night away for a group of Asian businessmen. Kneeling down, she let them stuff singles into her bikini top and cop a quick feel of her silicone-stuffed tits.
“Manager around tonight?”
“Every night, you a bouncer?”
“What, my size gave me away?”
“No, you just don’t dress hip enough to be a DJ, and you sure ain’t no dancer.”
“Could be a bartender.”
“Don’t have the style to pull that off either. No, bouncer it is.”
“Fine. Point me towards his office.”
She smirked and flicked a thumb over her shoulder. I pushed through the crowd, smiling at all the lovelies. Damn, a fine woman can bring a smile to my face.
When I knocked at the office door a smokey woman’s voice told me to enter.
She sat behind the desk, all three hundred and fifty pounds of her.
“You a bouncer?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you work?”
“Xtasy.”
“I know Manny, how did you fuck him?”
“Didn’t. Caught a girl freelancing. Stopped it. Some teeth may have gotten broken, maybe a rib or two.”
She let out a fleshy rumbling laugh. “What part of Eastern Europe did the girl come from?”
“How did you know where she was from?”
“Just a guess.”
“Any chance of picking up a shift?”
“Not a chance in hell. I don’t want to go to war with that Persian bastard Manny over a bouncer. We understand?”
“Sure, I’ll get out of your way.”
“Look, tell you what I’ll do — leave me your number, I’ll call Manny, if he’s cool, maybe something could be worked out. Could use a big no-shit guy like you.”
I left her office with the promise of a call and a free drink pass. I stood by the bar, planning not to drink. Letting my eyes move over the back bar until I spotted it: McCallans. But no, I was not going to drink.
“You want a drink?”
“Yes.” I answered without hesitation.
“McCallans, right? You’re staring at it with intent.”
“Really?”
“And now you’re staring at my tits.” She was a Japanese girl with cropped platinum hair. “So which will it be, tits or scotch?”
“Let’s start with scotch and see where that leads us.”
It’s called a slip, like you hit some black ice and booze fell into your mouth. Bullshit. Watching that magical amber liquid fill the glass I felt like I was coming home from a long lonely trip. I lifted the glass. First the smell, like liquid peat smoke. Then the taste, clean. Then the warmth.
“Again.”
“You and that glass want to get a room?” She was grinning playfully at me as she filled my glass and moved down the bar. The second drink I sipped. In the mirror behind the bar I could scan the colorful dancing room. I felt the tension and rage drift away.
I caught a glimpse of a brassy red haired girl. Spun around and near toppled a burly man in a paint-streaked work shirt. He pivoted, fast, ready, his fist cocked down low. He met my eyes.
“Whoa, Cowboy,” I said, eyes going flat. “This ain’t the OK Corral, and I’m not the black hat.”
“That’s racially insensitive,” he said, not relaxing a muscle.
“What?”
“Black hat. It implies and supports the racist view that black is bad and by contrast, white is good.”
“I’m not a racist.”
“I’m sure Hitler and his gang of psychopathic fuck-heads said the same. Point is, racists never say they’re racist.”
“That’s it, motherfucker, first you call me a racist, now a Nazi. Why don’t we take a little stroll outside so I can kick your…” My words were cut short by a thick black man pressed into overalls and a net shirt.
“We got a problem, Earl?” he said to the man.
“No problem, I was simply schooling this man in the inherent racism of modern English.”
The big man shook his head, looking at me with a knowing sadness. “Call you a racist?”
“And a Nazi.”
“You’re not the first to want to pummel him. Earl, you be a madman!”
“Thank you, sir.” Earl’s eyes flicking between us.
“But he’s our madman.” He dropped enough edge into his voice to make it clear Earl was under his protection.
“I get it.” I jutted out a hand to this fellow bouncer. “Name’s Moses McGuire.”
“They call me Mac.” He smiled, showing me several gold teeth.
“As in ‘truck’?”
“To the guys ‘round here.”
