The wipers slapped four-four time to Roger McGuinn nasal voice and his equally twangy Rickenbacker
A time to plant a time to reap
then another blast of lightening put a bad mojo on the WLAC signal tower and static pushed the Byrds off the bandbox and roared in synch with the wipers. Madison had his chin on the dash, a Pall Mall bobbing dangerously close to the plastic surface, as he gazed through the inch-wide clear strip in the overall smudge left by the defective left blade. "A time to ramble, a time to creep" Madison finished for McGuinn. He leaned back momentarily to glance at the gas gauge. Shit. Still empty. He tried to remember the last time he had actually put any fuel in the Mercury. You just couldn't stretch 5 dollars worth of unleaded like you used to.
The radio locked on the signal, Tom Petty intoning "don't do me like that", and Madison wildly slapped buttons on the Delco combination AmFmCassette, snarling "goddam McGuinn impostor."
Big puddles lay in the asphalt of Sunset Strip. Madison hit one near the Viper Room that washed over the hood of the Merc and obliterated his vision until he had passed the Whiskey A Go Go. When he could see again, he swung the car over to the curb where two hookers were just coming out from under the canopy in front of the Subway. Blake slid across the seat to the passenger door, the door that worked, popped it open and stumbled out onto the pavement. He smiled at the hookers and said "Morning!". They cowered slightly, causing Madison to cup his hand in front of his mouth and huff a breath, detecting only Four Roses with a slight Cheetoe undercurrent. Shaking his head to free his hair from some of the rainwater that had splashed down from the Subway awning, Madison lit a Pall Mall and stalked toward the door of Murph's La Cienega Pub.
Why she would want to meet him here, he had no idea. He wouldn't call Cal Murphy's a place for fun, not unless you considered being insulted by Murph fun, or having your wallet lifted in the john a good time. One good thing about Murph, though. He knew his clientele. Murph poured a quick three fingers of Four Roses and slid it in front of the stool next to the lady's room, saying "three fitty, Madison. Pay first, smart ass."
"Missed you too, Murphy" said Madison as he sank the bourbon in his gut and slapped a fiver on the bar. From a slender form that sat in the half darkness a voice purred "buy a lady a drink, Mr Madison?" Madison shoved the glass back in front of Murphy, who filled it, and Blake tipped it back before saying. "For a Lady,sure. Good luck findin one in this dump." She tapped a cigarette from a gold case, and Madison snapped open his zippo. The light lay on her face like a revelation. Just for a moment he thought of an art history class he had taken at Pomona Community, Raphael, Vermeer, Tintoretto. She had the face of a courtesan, or the Holy Virgin. She smiled, then blew out the flame.
"Give her one of whatever she's having, Murphy."