Well, that surely was one helluva goddamn weird night. Me and Wheezy figured to bust into the paint store on Euclid Avenue and get us some more to huff. Wheezy’s been huffin’ years, mostly varnish and thinners, but I just started up. Soak a rag, stuff a bag, huff it deep, stoned for keeps.
We didn’t really want nothin’ else that night. And I knew straight-up the paint store was easy thievin’. That’s how I got the street name Howie the Dog. I can sniff out easy thievin’ wherever it’s at. True fact, I never been caught for any stealin’ I done, just for somethin’ I never done at all. And the goddamn judge gimme five hard years for it. But that’s a whole other story.
Patrick G. rode waves every sunrise and prowled Venice Beach most afternoons. A hardcore, twenty-year-old California surfer with no job and an attitude problem, Patrick didn’t haunt Venice to gaze at rolling Pacific swells or ogle tiny bikinis. He watched tourists, waiting to see where they hid their wallets before they took an ocean swim.
Patrick excused his petty thievery as part of the local sideshow. Dead center in a line of beach towns dotting the coast just west of Los Angeles, Venice brings to mind a loony carnival on the sand. On this particular Tuesday, gargantuan weightlifters held a seaside snatch and curl contest. A one-eyed tattoo artist on the boardwalk inked Batman and The Joker onto a local preacher’s shaved feet, Batman atop his right foot, The Joker atop his left.
Tick, tick . . . 11:52pm. They die in eight minutes. Shadows crept across the outside walls of the house. Moonlight. Hand signals. Whispers. Cops. Three slipped to the front door. Two sneaked to the back. “Ready.” Ready just in time, Sheriff’s Detective Benton Hammel thought. They die at midnight the man had promised. Not […]
