Apache Rose arrived in her black Thunderbird. I didn’t hear her come in…hit the pillow after bouldering all day at the Mount Baldy Rock Garden. Her back pack’s in the corner and, dear Lord, she’s already loose. I’ll need a police sketch, a quick description to find the vixen, bitch, and possibly my only and best friend: half Apache, half Swede – she could be a cover girl for one of those bodice-ripping lust in the dust novels nana read. Specks of gold swimming in green eyes, ample lollipop boobs, sylphlike waist, and a taut, willowy 5’11” with raven hair so black it catches dark iridescent blue in the sunlight. She’s like True North magnetizing every cock in a twenty mile radius. A storm for lightning rods. I take her to bars as bait, then skim the leftovers she leaves in her wake. Wait to she gets a hold of the vanilla wafers around here. Poor shmucks don’t know what’s been unleashed. She’s either at the bar or body surfing in the dark. Or reading Rimbaud to the pigeons. Her favorite gag is to throw a monstrous dildo on the bar of some unfortunate drinking establishment: “I’ll go home with anyone who can match that. If you can’t, leave me the fuck alone. I’m here to drink.” And when she drinks, call the bail bondsman in advance.
I might as well get a hotel and view the wreckage from afar. No, I better drag the alley cat home.