The Hollywood Trilogy by Don Carpenter Read Free Book Online Page A

teeth.
    Their faces just barely had time to register recognition when Jim swerved the rent-a-car sharply into the front fender of the Chevy pickup, hard, jamming, the metal screaming in shock, the pickup bucking like a scared horse as it passed over the gravel roadside and the lip of the slough, and then suddenly plunged down the bank and into the water.
    I looked back just in time to see the truck go over on its side in the black muddy water, sending up a filthy spray and then quickly sinking in the mud. It was a miracle the driver was able to keep the truck from bashing into the bank and killing them all. I’m certain they were okay, maybe a broken arm or two, and I surely didn’t give a shit.
    â€œLet’s turn on the radio,” Jim said.
    â€œFuck, yes,” I said.

    THE TROUBLE with turning on the radio in a car with Jim is that he will either be gloomy because of what he hears (I guess) or he will sing along with the cut, especially if it’s one of his, and you might think it would be a doubleblessing to be an audience of one for a popular singing star harmonizing with himself, but take my word for it, it isn’t such a treat. You have to wear a fixed smile and wave your hand, or tap the dashboard to show that you are with it, or Jim will change the station in the middle of the tune—“You don’t like it!”—and the whole thing starts again, or he will turn the radio off and drive along at forty miles an hour dead silent, and just as I am about to broach some topic or other, he will burst out a capella some new song or part of a song, and there you go again, forced to grin and tap your foot and nod your head, and when he yells at me, “Isn’t that great? ” I still have to worry about my response because one way he might brood for an hour and another he might just keep singing some awful song that will never be recorded.
    These little snatches of songs are never the ones he records. They are always songs that are not his style, leading me to believe that Jim isn’t all that comfortable with the “Isn’t it wonderful to be in love on a day like this” songs, even though those are the ones that bring home the gold.
    Jim drives fast or slow according to his mood, rather than traffic conditions, which adds an element of suspense to the whole business. Usually he is deep in thought and drives very slowly, slowly enough to make you crazy if you want to get somewhere, but just as you are about to speak up and ask him to drive faster or pay closer attention to the road he will burst out in song and the car will lurch forward and start weaving in and out among the trucks and police cars. Police don’t bother Jim. They pull him over and he charms them out of giving him a ticket. Jim is never smartass with the cops, just humble and modest and agreeable, always admitting he was in the wrong and apologizing, with that little bit of a smile that makes you want to hug him, and the cops mostly would rather get his autograph than give him a ticket.
    As we slid down 101 toward the Golden Gate Bridge Jim was singing along with himself, a happy love song, naturally, since it was on the radio, when he interrupted himself and yelled at me, “Hey there’s a girl I use to know in Sausalito, okay?” and cut off the freeway in front of a truck at the Marin City exit. Jim talked enthusiastically about the girl, Linda or Susan her name was, and how they had had a fine time last time Jim had been through, as we drove past Gate Five, and while I was trying to remember how many years it had been since Jim had been in Sausalito, Jim tried to find her house. We drove up one street and down another, all the streets in Sausalito being on hills. We had KJAZ on the radio and the windows down and had justfinished smoking a joint, so I felt pretty good, even though Jim did not seem to be able to find the place. Twice we stopped and he said, “This has got to be