The wind blew hot through Long Beach that summer. It was an annual event, this dry air coming from inland, rushing toward the ocean, known as the Santa Annas unless you were raised around there and then they were called Santanas. It remained hot even at night.
Fredrick knocked on the front door and Ramone peeked through the small grate. “Hey, bro. C’mon in. Long time no see, pard.” The men did a ritual clasp of fingertips that slid into a palm press with thumbs hooked which gave way to a curled finger tug that collapsed on itself in an embrace, a hug of friendship. “Lance and some new dudes in the living room toking. You looking to score?” Ramone thumped Fredrick’s back several times.
“Yah, Donna sent me to get a lid. Got any shit for sale?”
“Indeed we do, we do indeed.”
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Fredrick thumbed over his shoulder, turned in the doorway before Ramone could shut it behind him. “Nice ride. Whose is it?”
The house was set quite a ways back from Redondo Avenue and the cement driveway was long and double wide. There were two beaters and a pickup as well as a nice looking machine that was completely out of place. “Oh, yah, the Jag. Lance landed a sweet Hollywood deal.”
“Some movie star?”
“Stella Stevens. He’s painting her short with psychedelic paisleys.”
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