I was never one for Los Angeles, or the happy hours, or the fluid lines of Hollywood sketched on the scratchy surface of a new canvas. But in L.A. now, with the sky black and the night a sullen, sweaty blanket, I think it is beautiful.
         My rental car does not blend with those on the Sunset Strip, so I park several blocks away, in a sidewalk slot beside a loading zone; my quarters are not registered by the meter, so I climb back into the car and drive a little longer. At last, some eighteen or twenty blocks from the restaurant—a little dive called Kinky Joe’s, which has a tasty menu and a tastier name—I find another spot and claim it. The meter grudgingly accepts my money, and I begin to walk.
         My T-shirt clings wetly to me, and I pull it off of my skin and delight in the small billows of cool air that I feel before the shirt becomes clammy and sticky again. For once it appears that I am going to enjoy myself in this city; I have not been mugged yet (I was robbed three times on my last visit—if you ask me, New York criminals have nothing on L.A. birds) and that is a relief I won’t allow myself to bask in until I’m back on the plane and floating somewhere above California.
         Kinky Joe’s was pointed out to me by a business associate when I came through last fall. An odd combination of soul food restaurant, bottomless strip club and moody jazz joint, it’s a place of its own distinction. I’ve never been anywhere like it.
         The last time I was there, I sat in a high round table in the shadows, eating an omelette spiced up with juicy green peppers and onions and a touch of chili. My business associate sat across from me, and we both stared at right angles toward the two stages—on the right stage was a jazz quartet tinkling out a snappy, heartbreaking little melody; on the left was a girl peeling her G-string past her knees, moving her body to the gentle sway of the music.
         My associate nudged my elbow as if to say Well, whaddya think? I nodded at him, to say I like it, and I did. There was something more than sexy about watching this anonymous girl remove her clothing to this music—something almost romantic. I watched her through cracked eyes and imagined that the rest of the room was empty; that we were back in my Brooklyn apartment, and she was undressing for me as I put on a record.

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         But now Kinky Joe’s is gone; there is a McDonald’s in its place, and I stop on the sidewalk and stare, thinking that maybe I’m on the wrong street. Was the place on La Brea? Maybe it was.
         A policeman is leaning on a newspaper box beside the McDonald’s Playland, and I say, “Excuse me. What happened to...” I wave my hand at the fast food restaurant.
          He shakes his head mournfully. “Kinky’s?”
         “Yes.”
         “Gone, man, gone. They ripped it down couple of months ago. Underage girls and all that jazz. Put this up in its place. Ruined my beat, let me tell you that.”
         I sigh.
         “I know the feeling,” he says. “Listen, there’s another place up on Mulholland, run out of a fag’s house.” He sees my eyebrow raise and says, “No, no, man, it’s both crowds. Mostly the straight-liners, but a few of the wobbly-walkers mixed in. Guy named Eldorado runs it—like the car, but not as sleek. No jazz, though; he keeps Madonna on the speakers. Somethin’ ‘bout fags and Madonna, man. Don’t ask me.”
         “Thanks,” I say. “But the jazz kinda made it for me.”
         He doesn’t believe me; kind of snickers. “Sure, man. Well, take it easy.”
         So I walk back to my car—by the time I get inside I’m practically drenched—and drive away with the air conditioner on. There’s probably a moral in this somewhere, I think, but screw it—I wanted to hear some good jazz and pretend those girls really wanted me again. Just once more.