I told William to meet me in the alley between Fifth and Sixth, on the east side of Pershing Square. Pershing in those days was where LA began its slump towards the homeless camps of the dried-up river.
I liked cooking meat over coals outside on the patio barbeque for the taste and the smoky flavor and of course less kitchen mess.
I’d been in Stateline for four days, trying to find a coke dealer named Daniel Fowler. He was the reason my friend Powell was headed to San Quentin, or so I’d been told.
“Let’s not think about it,” was what he kept telling her. She knew he might kill her. She knew too much.
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I grit my teeth as I press my hand tighter against the hole in my stomach . . .
“Your first body?” “Dead one, yeah.”
Three miserable years. But there I was, fucking cigarette in my mouth . . .