Janice said, “Shit.”
Wayne opened his briefcase and prepped a spike. Janice held her arm out. Wayne found a vein, swabbed it and made a hand tourniquet. Needle and plunger, there now.
In one beat-
She tensed and lulled. Her eyelids fluttered. One yawn and out.
Wayne took her pulse. It tapped light and ran steady. Her arm weighed almost nil.
The LA. Times was open on the nightstand. It showed a photo triptych: JFK, RFK, Dr. King. Wayne folded them out of sight and watched Janice sleep.
2
Don Crutchfield
(Los Angeles, 6/15/68)
WOMEN:
Two bevies walked by the lot. The first group looked like shop girls. They wore Ivy League threads and modified bouffants. The second group was pure hippie. They wore patched-up jeans, peacenik shit and long straight hair that swirled.
They came and went. The wheelmen waved. The shop girls waved back. The hippie chicks flipped off the wheelmen. The wheelmen wolf-called.
The Shell Station lot, Beverly and Hayworth. Four pumps and a service bay/office. Three wheelmen sprawled in their sleds.
Bobby Gallard had a Rocket Olds. Phil Irwin had a 409 Chevy. Crutch had a ‘65 GTO. He was the rookie wheelman. He had the boss ride: 390, Hurst 4-speed, coon maroon paint.
Bobby and Phil were midday-blitzed on high-test vodka. Crutch was residual torqued on the girl show. He scanned the street for more walk-bys. Ziltch-just some old hebes loping to shul.
Back to the paper. Yawn-more jive on James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan. Snore-”America Grieves”/”Accused Assassin’s Lair.” Ray vibed pencilneck. Sirhan vibed towelhead. Hey, America, I got your grief swingin’.
Crutch flipped pages. He hit flyweights at the Forum and a grabber- Life magazine offers million scoots for Howard Hughes pix! A redhead walked by.