Manifesto for the Dead
“The Hollywood Freeway ran under an escarpment nearby, and its sound rattled the buildings. In the center of all that noise was the Satellite Bar, an ugly joint, lime green, squatting between two abandoned storefronts. Its paint was peeling, the stucco crumbling, exposing the chicken wire underneath.
Find Wicks for me, Michele Haze had told him, and I will set you free.
Inside, the Satellite Bar was empty except for the man behind the counter and the sound of the freeway. The man was as big a ma...n as Thompson had ever seen.
“What can I do you?”
“A whiskey,” Thompson said. “And a beer back.”
The man stepped into the back room to get Thompson his beer, then splashed some whiskey into a glass. He wasn’t exactly polite about it. He pushed the whiskey over, watched Thompson drink like a guard watches a prisoner.
“Who sent you?”
“I’m looking for Sydney Wicks.”
“What’s your name?”
Thompson told him.
“Who sent you?”
“She … I don’t know if I should get into details.MoreLess
Find Wicks for me, Michele Haze had told him, and I will set you free.
Inside, the Satellite Bar was empty except for the man behind the counter and the sound of the freeway. The man was as big a ma...n as Thompson had ever seen.
“What can I do you?”
“A whiskey,” Thompson said. “And a beer back.”
The man stepped into the back room to get Thompson his beer, then splashed some whiskey into a glass. He wasn’t exactly polite about it. He pushed the whiskey over, watched Thompson drink like a guard watches a prisoner.
“Who sent you?”
“I’m looking for Sydney Wicks.”
“What’s your name?”
Thompson told him.
“Who sent you?”
“She … I don’t know if I should get into details.MoreLess
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