It wasn't the cops or beatnik junkies who dropped the dime and set me on the run. No, it was that dish of a dame from the Palace Cafe who betrayed me. She’d sized me up for the reckless gambler I was and played me like a deck of marked cards. Her perfumed neck wreaked of double-cross and deception when she leaned in to light my cigarette with dark, slippery fingers. And yet, the madness of love.
Now, the body of Boss G. grew cold on the Northpoint Pool Hall's sawdust floor and the Tupelo boys were hot on my heels. My cigarette lungs were burning to the nub as I sprinted up splintered stairs to my skid row hotel room. The pay phone down the hallway rang like a brassy burglar alarm, but nothing good waited at the other end of that line. My blood-stained hands shook; I badly needed a drink. The weight of the pistol in my pocket felt reassuring and inevitable.
The Palace Cafe
A Streetcar Named Desire
And Yet, the Madness of Love
'Round Midnight
Incident on the Great highway
Street Walkers
The King is Born in Tupelo
The King is Dead
There's No Romance on Skid Row
Nothing Good at the Other End of That Line
Make the Drop Beneath the Bridge
Night of the Iguana
