Readers. Other writers. Anyone who knows their way around a book, a play, a poem, and wants to sit up all night over a bottle of tequila and a deck of smokes and talk about it. Especially those crazy, wonderful, colorful characters who roam this planet with vivid dreams and a passion for life, who I sometimes think I only invented in my books."Still..."The sea rolls out,A gray velvet carpetThat gently lifts the deck.So still,So still,So softly still.While I, hunkered down in leather and wool against the mild sting of salt spray,Watch the lights on shore,Glistening like jewels on black silk,Bringing you closer to me.Are you still there?In that tiny cantina with the tin roof,Sawdust and peanut shells on the stone floor.I saw you through the glowing smoke,Behind the bar, wiping a glass clear,Your black gypsy eyes on me,Piercing the haze.That damned silly old songFed the roar around us as we tried to talk:"Brandy, you're a fine girl.What a good wife you would be.Your eyes could steal a sailorFrom the sea."We had to yell over it,Me in my fractured Spanish,You with your broken English,Though we didn't need words,Just smiles lancing deepInto each other's eyes."Brandy used to watch his eyesAs he told his sailor's stories.She could feel the ocean fall and rise,She saw its raging glory.But he had always told the truth,Oh he was an honest man,And Brandy does her best to understand..."Did we live in a song?I gave you no braided chainMade of finest silverFrom the north of Spain.I slipped on your slender wristA silver braceletI picked up for penniesIn the port of Marjorca.I bought it not for you.I bought it for no one,Not even me.Too big,It slid down your arm,But you turned it in your long fingersLike a jewel,As tears swelled in your eyes."The sailor said, Brandy, you're a fine girl.What a good wife you would be.But my life, my lover, my lady,Is the sea."Did we live only in a song?The lights ashore loom largerThrough the night fog,Glowing like your eyes.I can see the fuzzy outline of the cantina.Are you watching its door from behind the bar?Does a silver bracelet glisten on your wrist?Are you there,Still...Chapter One from my novel, "I Only Wanna Be With You""UPTOWN GIRL"She stepped out of the sunlight into the dark cantina, whipped off her wraparound shades, stabbed the other hand through her tangled copper hair, and stalked to the bar without breaking stride.Rick Boston watched her come toward him. He'd seen her before - tall redhead, long legs, slim curves, with the mannish Lauren Bacall walk, the Jill Hennessy face. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, big brown eyes - who wears purple, like today.Christ, Boston thought, you been in L-fucking-A too long when the only thing you can compare a beautiful girl to is movie and TV stars.A lioness, Boston thought. She comes out of that sunlight like a sleek lioness stepping into a jungle clearing.She stopped two stools away from him and said to the bartender, "Just coffee."Frank, the bartender in the Aces'N'Eights, nodded and moved to the coffee pot.Boston watched her.She looked around the bar. There wasn't much to see. Boston knew she'd seen it all before. Dark red walls, small brown leather booths against the wall, a glowing jukebox as big as a Christmas tree. A large TV mounted near the low ceiling, tuned to a silent CNN, showed a car burning in downtown Baghdad, bleeding Iraqis being lead off-camera, American Marines in helmets and desert cammies directing people away from the area.She and Boston were the only customers in the place.She looked at Boston. He was tall and lean, with a mane of silver-black hair. Like an old-time gunslinger. Something dangerous about him, though she couldn't quite put her finger on what, he was just sitting there with a shot of whiskey and a steaming black coffee mug before him. Narrow craggy face. Steady dark green eyes. She thought it was a face that belonged on a biker, a sea captain, in a newsroom. And in a saloon.He wore jeans and boots and a large black sweater with the sleeves pushed up. Tats on the right forearm. Two rings on the fingers of the right fist resting on the bar.She said, "Hi."Boston nodded. He sipped his Bushmills. He lifted the black coffee mug and said, "Hi.""That breakfast?" She nodded at the amber whiskey in the shot glass."Breakfast was steak and eggs," Boston said. "This is dessert.""I've seen you here before," she said.She extended a long pale freckled hand."Meredith," she said.Boston took her hand. "Rick."They shook, short and sharp. They nodded to each other. She smiled slightly.Dimples, Boston thought. Huge dark brown eyes, one slightly askew. Not wall-eyed, Boston thought, not Jean-Paul Sartre certainly, but a little off. You couldn't tell if she was focusing on you directly. A thick copper waterfall slashed down over half her face. She sliced the hair back."You live in the neighborhood," she said."I do."Frank set a steaming black mug in front of her, said, "That's a buck.""I got it," Boston said. He slid two ones at Frank from the stack of ones and fives atop his LA Times crossword."Thanks, Rick," Frank nodded. He rapped the wood bar with his knuckles."Thanks, Rick," she said.She hoisted the coffee mug in a toast. Boston nodded. He drank his coffee, swallowed some more Bushmills. The whiskey glowed going down.She slid onto the stool, keeping one seat between them. She leaned her elbow on the bar. She studied him.Purple, Boston thought. A deep purple tank top, the deep purple of royalty, with faded tight jeans and high-heeled sandals of braided leather. The dangling ear chains were braided silver with tiny purple jewels.Very uptown, Boston thought - slumming in East Hollywood."You live around here?" Boston said."Getting my car fixed," she said. "What do you do?"Boston shrugged. "This'n'that."She hadn't answered his question."Must be nice," she said."No complaints."She leaned forward, looked down at the newspaper crossword. It was nearly all filled in."Buchan," she said."Sorry?""Thirty nine across. 'Lord Tweedsmuir aka Hitchcock author' was John Buchan. Alfred Hitchcock made a movie of one of his books."Boston slid on his reading glasses. He clicked his black pen, filled in the squares."Thanks.""I'm a big Hitchcock fan," she said.She drained the coffee mug, tilting her head back. Long elegant throat, the wavy hair thrown back, heavy as a theatre curtain.She set the mug on the bar. She looked directly at Boston."Gotta go.""Good to meet you, Meredith."He extended his hand. She shook it firmly. Nodded, her eyes steady on his face."See you again, Rick.""I'll be here."She slipped off the bar stool and walked out.Boston stared after her.Who the hell did she remind him of? The thought had flashed at him before, the first time he saw her, whenever the hell that was.He knocked back the whiskey, swallowed coffee. Both burned, and the whiskey hit him. The glow spread to the tips of his fingers.Frank carried the Bushmills bottle down the bar. He refilled the shot glass."Know her, Frank?" Boston said.Frank shook his head. "She's been in a couple times. Not really in the mornings. I seen her when I'm in here at night. Not much when I'm workin'.""What's she drink?""Wine. Maybe one glass, but not in the mornings.""She live around here?"Frank shrugged. "She must. Rick, more coffee?"Boston stayed the rest of the day at the bar. The only thing he had to eat was the steak and eggs for breakfast. He was there when Frank left at noon. He stayed, drinking, through Lee, the bar owner's afternoon shift. He was there when Big Mario came on-duty at six.Mario, washing glasses behind the bar, grinned at Boston."Que pasa, Rick?""Nada, Mario. How the hell are you?"Boston wasn't slurring his words. His green eyes were bright as glass."You hangin' in there?" Mario said."I am.""Need anything?""I do." Boston shoved the empty shot glass forward. He'd abandoned the coffee long ago.Mario brought the Bushmills bottle down the bar and poured. He lifted a five from the stack."Keep it," Boston said heavily.Mario tapped knuckles on the bar.Who the fuck, Boston thought, does she remind me of? Feels like I know her. Can't be. Who? Motherfucker. Hate this when it happens. Gettin' old, Boston, gettin' motherfuckin' old. Gonna be 50 this year. Man. Can't remember shit anymore.The bar was full when Boston realized he'd been drinking for 12 hours straight. She hadn't come back. He stood and walked slowly, steadily, to the door, out into a cold night.IIShe was sitting in a booth the next evening. When Boston walked in, he didn't see her in the dark.Softly she said "Hey, Rick."He stopped. She had a tall tulip glass of red wine on the table in front of her. A low burning candle threw sharp black shadows across her lean face.A man's voice said, "My man Ricardo."LeMar, a tall muscular black man, his head shaved smooth, slipped around Boston from the bar. He sat beside the girl. LeMar put a Hennessy and Coke on the table next to her wine."LeMar," Boston nodded, and the two men touched fists.LeMar said, "You know Ali?" He nodded at her."Not by name," Boston said, extending his hand. "Rick.""Hi," she said, holding his eyes, her lips pressed together in a suppressed smile. "Join us?""Thanks anyway," Boston said. "I just stopped in for one. I'll find space at the bar."Boston was nursing his second Irish whiskey and a cold Budweiser when LeMar, headed for the men's room, squeezed past him through the crowd and patted his shoulder.Boston looked over at the booth. She was staring at him. She stood, smooth as a dancer, and came toward him."What is your name," Boston said when she was beside him at the bar. "Wonderly or LeBlanc?""It's Meredith. He was just having a little fun.""Where do you know LeMar from?"LeMar was a top bodyguard for the Hollywood crowd, the movie and record hotshots, always working security at the awards ceremonies, the chi-chi restaurant and hotel openings on the west side, the private parties held in the glittering hills."He's an old friend," she said. "He tells me you're a writer.""I've written," Boston said. "I've tended bar. I've boxed. Doesn't make me a bartender or a boxer. I put out a brushfire in my backyard once. Doesn't make me a fireman, either.""What are you doing now?""Drinking."He lifted the shot glass."Which does make you a drinker." She smiled at him."It does. Want one?""I have one at the table.""Which doesn't necessarily make you a drinker," he said."No," she said, "I'm not a big drinker.""You an actress?""Do I," she said, "look like an actress?"He almost said she looked like a couple of actresses, reminded him of a couple, Bacall and Hennessy, to name two; he almost said she was easily beautiful enough to be an actress.Instead he said, "Never can tell. You can't swing a dead cat in this town without taking out a dozen actresses.""I'm not an actress.""Good.""You don't like actresses.""I was once married to one. Catherine Spencer, ever see any of her movies?"Meredith shook her head, the heavy hair moving gently as if caught in a slight breeze."Long time ago," Boston said heavily. "You wouldn't remember her. Sometimes even I have trouble remembering her.""What do you do when you're not drinking?"Boston shrugged.She stared at him."You play cards?" she said.Boston nodded.LeMar came out of the men's room.She saw LeMar and said to Boston, "Maybe we'll play cards sometime."She stepped away from the bar and walked back to the booth with LeMar.When Boston glanced toward the booth a little later, they were gone.Boston didn't go to the bar the next day. He'd do that - disappear from the bar for a couple days, just to prove to himself he could stay out of the place.He laid around his one-room apartment, the first day, reading and napping.When he was trying to read, his mind would wander to the girl, and he'd wonder what she was doing. Every time he dozed off, he woke up thinking about her.The second day he backed his Jeep out of the carport and drove west on Sunset through traffic until he reached Santa Monica. He stuck the Jeep on a lot off Wilshire and walked down to the beach.It was early February, really too cold for the beach, but Boston liked it before the summer tourists arrived, when the Santa Monica residents still avoided oceanside, and the town was sleepy and quiet.The Pacific was flat and gray, soldered to the silver horizon. A steady chill wind came off the water. He was warm enough in a black hooded fleece and Yankees cap worn backwards.He'd once lived only a few miles away, in a house on the beach, with a model named Jill Monroe, who was much younger than he was. He no longer saw her face pop up in magazine ads. She probably married a dentist, moved to Pasadena, Boston thought. Good for her. Mr. White Picket Fence is who she'd wanted.He seldom thought about her anymore.He stared out at the ocean and lit a cigarette.What is it with this Meredith girl? He couldn't stop thinking about her.He thought, this is goddamn dangerous. She has to be 12, maybe even 15 years, younger. No fool like a 49 year-old fool. What was it about her that was familiar?He thought he saw her a few times as he walked back to the Jeep, up the Third Street Promenade with its cafes and boutiques and cinemas. He thought he saw her coming out of the Borders Book Store, a flash of tall redhead with that confident long-legged stride in a long black coat. He got a weird tingle when he saw her. Then her face turned toward him, over her shoulder...No. Of course it wasn't her.He didn't go to the bar that night. When he got back to East Hollywood, he went to the French restaurant at Vermont and Melbourne. He ate dinner - rare steak and thick fries with a raw red wine - at a sidewalk table, and topped it off with crème bule, brandy, coffee and cigarettes.Three times that night he thought he saw her.He didn't want breakfast the next morning. Boston went straight to the bar."Morning, Frank.""Rick." Frank was wiping his hands on a bar towel. CNN near the ceiling was silently going strong.At the other end of the bar was a black coffee mug. A deck of cards was splayed out - somebody had dealt themselves a hand of solitaire. Beside the coffee mug sat a small black leather purse."Just coffee for now," Boston said. "Somebody beat me in.""Third day in a row," Frank said, pouring Boston's coffee. "She don't drink this early, but she sure tips good on the coffee, so what do I care."She came out of the ladies room. She wore a deep purple hooded fleece with a zipper down the front. She stopped when she saw Boston. She smiled. She sliced him a quick salute and sat down at the bar."I got that, Frank," she said."OK, Meredith," Frank smiled at her.Boston carried the mug down and sat beside her."Good morning," he said."Good morning. Where have you been?""I don't hang in here everyday. I drink, I'm not a screaming alcoholic.""I was beginning to wonder... Care for a game?"She scooped up all the cards and shuffled them in a blur, like a Vegas pro, long elegant fingers, her eyes on his face."Of?""You call it," she said.She shuffled again, the cards whipping together in her hands with a machine-like whirr."Gin rummy?" Boston said."I've heard of it.""Stakes?" he said."Go ahead," she said."Penny a point."She rolled her big eyes."What a high roller!""You can afford to lose more?" Boston said.She laughed, shuffled the cards. "I haven't lost anything yet.""Nickel," Boston said.She shrugged, shuffled. "We can start there."Boston said, "Deal.""Frank," Meredith called, "can we have a pad and pen, please?"She dealt the cards.That, Boston would later think, was really the beginning...They sat in the bar all day. Boston didn't have a drink. They talked. The card game seesawed between them. Boston finally came out the winner, taking 25 dollars from her.As the sun went down and the lights came up softly in the cantina, Boston said, "Since I took your money, I'll buy you dinner."Dinner was at an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, Palermo's, an old-world family-owned place that, Boston told her, with its dark wood walls and padded red booths, reminded him of New York.His New York stories flowed out easily over their chicken alfredo and thick golden garlic bread and chilled white Chianti. He talked. She listened, intensely watching his face, big eyes, the one just slightly off-center, smiling, sometimes laughing - he liked making her laugh - while Boston was aware that he was talking more than he'd talked to anyone in a long time.New York was on his mind suddenly, back when he'd worked as a reporter, then when he'd been writing and publishing novels, then later, after his third wife Cassandra died, when he was married to Nicole Kincaid, who was also a writer, when they were Rick and Nic, the Battling Bostons, this legendary couple of the New York literary scene who were so bad for each other and so perfect together, who wrote, drank, got drunk, fucked, fought, split up, made up, were wild for each other, who hated each other, then finally split for good.Why, Boston thought, New York? Haven't thought about all that in forever. And Nicole. Darling Nicole. She hadn't crossed his mind in months. Why the hell now?He thought, over after-dinner coffee, shut the fuck up. You never talk so much, sure as hell not about yourself. You hardly know anything about this gorgeous creature here."So," Boston said. "Where are you from?""Here," she said."Los Angeles? Nobody here is from here.""Not L.A. But California.""Where?""North.""Baby, if it was south, you'd be from Mexico. Where up north, San Francisco?"She shrugged."Is there a reason I'm not supposed to know?" he said.She shrugged. She said, "It's not important.""So what do you do to make a buck?" he said after a moment."I don't have to do anything to make a buck.""What're you, some kind of heiress? A trust fund baby? Got a sugar daddy stashed away somewhere? What?"She shrugged once again. She said, "You never told me what you do.""Well, I'm not rich," Boston said. "I managed to squirrel away some money over the years. I've been married four times, true, but I don't have any kids. My ex-wives are career women. They don't feed off me. I can make money when I want to, but I don't have the knife at my throat.""How do you make money when you want to?" she said seriously."This'n'that. Nothing special."Her eyes on him were solemn, steady. "Can we get the check?" she said.Outside the restaurant on the busy sidewalk, Boston said, "It's been a fun day.""Yes." She smiled up at him. "It has," she said."Where do you live? I'll walk you home.""That's OK," she said. "I'll be fine.""Look, it's night...""I'll be OK. See you tomorrow?""Yeah...""Good. Well…'Bye."She quickly walked off into the crowd.Boston watched her until she disappeared.She didn't look back.IIIThat first day set the pattern.They'd meet each morning at the bar. They'd have coffee. Boston wouldn't drink. They'd play cards. Meredith would win 50 dollars. Boston would win 47. Meredith would lose 30 dollars. Boston would be down 26 bucks. They tipped Frank generously. Frank was happy.The day's winner bought lunch. The loser bought dinner. They ate at any one of a dozen restaurants in the neighborhood - Italian, French, Thai, the local diner, the corner burger joint next to the movie theatre.They talked. Boston did most of the talking. She listened closely, prompting him for more stories about his writing, his wives, his years of traveling.He discovered little about her. He still didn't know where exactly in California she was from. She'd been engaged, but wouldn't say if she'd ever married - or not. She never mentioned parents, schools, siblings, where her money came from. She wouldn't say where she lived. She parried every deft and subtle inquiry like a sublime champion fencer.One evening after an early dinner, outside the diner, Boston said, "Look, enough of this nonsense. I'm walking you home."Meredith looked down at the sidewalk. She sighed. Her hair fell forward. She whipped it back as she raised her head."I've got a better idea," she said. "I'll walk you home.""What are you talking about?""I want to see where you live," she said.Boston stared at her. He said, "Yeah?""Oh, yeah."She took his arm. It was the first time they touched. They walked, as a couple, past the people on the street.IVWhen Boston woke up the next morning, he told himself he wasn't in love.But he wasn't so sure.She was gone from his bed. He lay amid the tangled sheets - the blanket and pillows had hit the floor - and listened to the lion's roar of buses and the howl of traffic come up from Vermont Avenue, and he thought about her.Last night she broke the surface of her sensuality like someone drowning who shatters the surface of a pool: desperate, gasping, grateful for release.He didn't know what time she left. When they'd finally settled down to sleep, the sky outside his windows was gray. The sun had now pierced the morning winter fog, but it was still early.He'd call her cell phone later. Let her get some sleep.Boston told himself he wasn't in love. He raised his wrist to look at his black-dial watch. Give it an hour. Let her sleep.He wished she'd stayed. He wanted to wake up next to that beautiful aristocratic face - see her unguarded, vulnerable, genuine.In time, he thought. Give it time. It's only the beginning.He suddenly realized he hadn't had a drink in almost a week.He felt ridiculously good.Boston showered and shaved and dressed in a black sweatshirt and jeans and boots. He strolled to the diner for breakfast. He kept checking his watch.A little longer, he thought, before you call her. Don't seem like an anxious kid, for God's sake. You're 49 years old.By noon, he decided he'd waited long enough."Hi." He stood on the corner of Franklin and Vermont with the cell phone, trying to hear above the traffic."Oh," she said. "Hello."Silence.He said, "How are you?""A little tired."Silence."Understandable," Boston said. "What are you doing?""Nothing special. What are you doing?""Talking to you," he said.Laughter from her.Silence."What are you doing later?" he said."I... don't really have any plans.""I'd like to see you," Boston said.Silence."I'll meet you at your place," she said.She met him in front of his apartment building at four that afternoon. She was wearing a purple sweatshirt, dark as a ripe wine grape, tight jeans, and a matching purple knit cap over her copper curls.They went upstairs and went to bed.Boston woke up alone the next morning. Damn it!He called her later in the afternoon. It was tough to wait that long.She knocked on the door of his apartment at six that evening.Boston called her as soon as he woke up the following morning. He got her voice mail.He said, "Hi. Call me. We have to talk."He showered and dressed in jeans, boots, a black sweater. He set off for the diner. He decided he wasn't going to drink today. He couldn't remember how many days it had been since he'd had a drink."Good morning, Rick, que pasa?" plump little Maria said when he sat at the counter. She brought him coffee in a white mug but no menu."Steak and eggs, Maria," Boston said.While he ate, he decided he was going to tell Meredith, "Look, I think we're on to something. I don't know how long it will last. I've got a lousy track record in relationships, I know. I'm obviously not husband material. Most of the time I'm... a happily unemployed drunk. But things can change. There's something between us. I feel like I know you. So what do you say? Do you want to give us a shot at being 'us'?"That's what he'd tell her later when he saw her. He would not tell her he loved her. He didn't love her - yet. At least he didn't think so.She didn't call him back that day.Boston slept alone that night. Not that he slept much. He woke up three times, the last time at 4:30 in the morning. No, he thought, don't be a goddamn idiot. You can't call her at this time of night. He flipped on the TV set and found a movie on TCM. Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, wrapped in a phone cord, kissing. "Notorious." Directed by Alfred Hitchcock.Christ, Boston thought, it's a fucking conspiracy to make me think about her. Wonder if she's awake, watching this too.He went to the bar early. He ordered only coffee.Frank hadn't seen Meredith.Sitting at the bar, Boston called her cell phone. He got voice mail.He said, "Hi. Hope you're OK. I didn't hear from you yesterday. Gimme a call."Boston struggled to focus on the Times crossword puzzle. He didn't drink all day.She never called back.He couldn't sleep that night. Too much coffee. And he was worried about her.VWhen he walked into the bar next morning, Frank handed him a white envelope with For Rick printed on the front."I found that taped to the door when I opened," Frank said.Boston took a typed white sheet of paper from inside the envelope. He slipped on his reading glasses.He read: Hi - I don't know what your investigation of me turned up, but it won't do you any good. By the time you get this, I'll be long gone. So we don't "have to talk" about what you've found out. But I have to hand it you. You got closer to me than anyone else has. You're good - in more ways than one. 'Bye. M.Boston read the note three times, then called her cell phone. The call went to voice mail."I just got your letter," he said, studying the page through his glasses in the dark bar. "I can't imagine what the hell you're talking about. What investigation? I... don't know what to make of this. Look. Call me. If you're in some kind of trouble, I can help. Call me. Please."Boston snapped his phone shut.Frank looked up from the sports page and said, "Everything OK, Rick?"Boston shook his head. He read the letter again. It still said the same thing, nothing more.When Boston next tried her cell phone, days after he'd gotten the note, the service was dead.A few nights later, LeMar came into the bar. Boston waved him over."What're you drinking?" Boston asked. "I got this round.""Hennessy and Coke," LeMar said. "Thanks.""And another Bushmills for me," Boston told Mario.When the drinks arrived, Boston said, "You remember that girl you introduced me to about a week ago?"LeMar said, "You mean Ali?""Her name's Meredith," Boston said.LeMar stared at Boston a long time. "She told you that?""She did. What did you tell her about me?""That you've written some screenplays and shit. She asked a lot of questions about you, but that's all I told her. It's about all I know.""What the hell's her story?"LeMar shrugged. "I don't know her that well," he said. "I hadn't seen her in a lot of years. Why?""Is somebody after her?""Not that I know of. What're you talkin' about?""I... I don't know," Boston said. "You know how to find her?""Find her? No man, I don't know where she lives. Why?"Boston shook his head again.Later Boston walked unsteadily outside the bar. He leaned his back heavily against the brick wall. He fumbled out a cigarette and lit it. He looked up through the thin fog at the moon, half hidden in shadow.He thought, she's out there somewhere.She reminded me of all of them, he thought. That's who it was - Catherine and Nicole and Cassandra, and Jill and... just all of them. That was it. That's why I thought I knew her. She was all of them, and I lost all of them, all over again.Boston thought, "In American lives, there are no second acts." Scott Fitzgerald. Poor ol' drunken Scottie.He died in this fucking town, but he springs to life again every time some college kid cracks open "The Great Gatsby." Poor ol' Scottie."We beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Yeah, poor Scottie.Boston flipped away the half-smoked cigarette. He pushed himself off the wall, staggered a step, and went back inside the bar.Get a copy of the novel and see what happens next.Order the book at www.lulu.com/content/1375161.The video below is the feature trailer for a movie, "Rite Of Passage." I co-wrote the screenplay and directed this piece. The movie has yet to be made, but maybe someday...Anyway, watch and enjoy.