Sonoran Sunset
Marjorie Kellerman hoped for a prince for twenty-nine years, beginning at age five thanks to Disney. She was tired of kissing frogs. Most men were disappointments in ill-fitting suits, but Jay Orbin really did seem different. This was at the Moulin on Fremont one mild August night in 1963. He
Prime Cuts
The rain wasn’t letting up … three days without a break, driving grime down the smokestacks to dump into the gutters, then into roads and alleys and sidewalks, onto rivulets and oily puddles, then clinging to the coats of rodents and cats and the hands of trash pickers and the
Given in Kind
Randall stood in his own hallway like a stranger on the subway, overcoat on shoulder, briefcase in hand, breathing the faint and familiar odors of domestic bliss — a whiff of Shalimar and Glo-Coat; a hint of caramelized onions; the earthy comfort of collected coffee grounds. Estrangement made this blend become
Hard Bop
The evening began like any other Tuesday after ten: rain drumming against the windows of the Moulin Bleu, smoke creeping along the ceiling like a wayward shroud, Blake nursing his first bourbon to the right of the stage, keeping an eye on the wise guys and riffraff. But when the
Blake sat slouched at the end of the bar, nursing the last of his downmarket bourbon. The place was quiet, the kind of quiet that came with weight, as if something bad had just happened or was soon to. He took a tight sip and scanned the room, dwelling on
In the flickering neon glare of a city that never quits, a battered van delivers newspaper bundles each morning to a labyrinth of century-old alleys. The headlines snarled, like rabid curs, to the frightened few left of the late night wanderers. Gutters, overflowing with oily rain scum, caught the neon