Love Stories Are Too Violent for Me: The Definitive Rerelease of the Cult Classic by Will Viharo

Author:Will Viharo [Viharo, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General, Hard-Boiled
ISBN: 9781939751102
Google: 6_3lngEACAAJ
Amazon: 1939751101
Publisher: Gutter Books
Published: 2013-03-14T11:00:00+00:00

9

Slay Belles

When I did wake up it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. I forced myself to get up despite that feeling of dead weight I get sometimes when I first open my eyes. It was just my usual depression intensified by the holidays, so I tried to beat it and salvage something out of the day. I showered, shaved, and put on some decent clothes and my trench coat, plus my Ray-Bans, since the sun was shining brightly, not that it mattered. I’m always in a fog.

I walked down to my favorite café, Rendezvous, which was bustling with the usual crowd of artists and students and local loners like myself, despite the holiday (open for a shortened schedule, though—even pagans want to celebrate Christmas at home), and read the paper while I sipped a latte. It was very relaxing. I felt something bordering on contentment. It was nice just to sit and take it easy and not talk to anyone or beat up anyone or get beaten up and grilled by a bunch of cops. I thought about Flora and realized what an ass I’d made of myself, belatedly. I’d really blown that one for good. Just as well. She loved another guy. And she had a flower name. No more flower names. Well, after Rose. I still had to talk to her in person, and I had to tell Tommy something. After all, he was buying me Christmas coffee, and then some.

I went back to my office to check messages. One from Tommy: “Hey fuckhead, where the fuck you been? I’m in Pennsylvania with my family. My parents and my cousins and my brothers and sisters. And aunts and uncles and grandparents. I’ll be back in a few days, after New Year’s, the day after, and you’d best have something for me. What the fuck am I paying you for? Oh yeah, Merry Christmas.” Click. He sounded drunk as usual.

The next message was from Denise: “Hey, lover man. I talked to Flora, and she never wants to see you again. She was too upset to give me all the details. What’s up? Call me tomorrow. Merry Christmas, Vic. Hope we can bail you out of this one, but it looks bad.” At least Denise and I were still on speaking terms. Then there was one last message, from Doc: “Yo, my man, come on over tonight. I got a surprise for you. Bring some wine or somethin’. Merry Christmas, my man.” After that someone had called and hung up. My heartbeat pumped like an Uzi hoping it had been Rose.

I called Doc and told him I’d be over in the early evening. He lived in the Sunset, near UCSF. He had a nice place, top story of an old Victorian, full of movie memorabilia. He wouldn’t tell me what the surprise was, and at the time I didn’t really care.

I decided to drive down to Union Square and walk around looking at the decorations and listening to street musicians play carols.

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