Here’s an appealing bit of L.A. Noir fiction by our good pal John Schulian:
The first time I laid eyes on her, I’d just spent twelve hours waiting for an accountant who wasn’t the dognapper his ex-wife made him out to be. It was three in the morning and I was piling up some expenses at the counter of Norm’s, on La Cienega. Between bites of bacon and hard-fried eggs, I thought about all the other nights I’d wasted in a lonely car on a dreary street, waiting for bad news to show up. The memories would have ruined the romance of my life as a private eye if there’d been any romance left. Then she slid onto the stool next to mine the way hot fudge goes on ice cream.
Another Asian mascara junkie, I thought at first. But I changed my mind after taking in the eyes, the arms, the mouth of her, the east, west, north and south of her.
Somewhere in the middle of the tour, she caught me staring. She didn’t bat an eye. Maybe she couldn’t.
“I see you tonight?” she asked.
“Would you remember if you had?” I said.
She laughed self-consciously. I took it as a no. But at least we had the start of something resembling a conversation. That’s how I learned she was a dancer at the Jewel Box, just down the street. “Naked body,” she said. “You better come see my show.”