Madison had a little adrenal throb in his temple. He was glad it wasn't going to be a mission from God. That kind of thing just wasn't his cup of meat. But chasing clues through the ashes of his past? That was right up his turnpike. KLAC was shooting some Love through his sound system, if you could call an AmFmCassette with 2 and 1/2 functioning speakers a "sound system".

Ain't no one in my little red book could ever compare to you


Blake glanced at the volume knob, twisted it up, then looked back up to see a flat bed truck, red cab, black-rusted bed, lettering on the cab saying Lizard Landscapers, all this in the 1/20th second before the impact.


                            -----

Blake discovered himself sitting on the hood of a '63 Falcon parked against the curb on Lankershim. He knew the place. This was the birthplace of California Honky Tonk. This was the Palomino Club. It didn't seem to matter that Madison knew the Palomino had close in the eighties. Hell, he hadn't seen the car he was sitting on since he forgot to set the parking brake at the top of Mulholland Drive in 74 and it had disappeared into a thick forest of mesquite, creosote, and yucca. He was realizing that this wasn't real, that he was dreaming, hallucinating, or dead. He was hearing familiar strains wafting from the bar, and he thought he would just go on in. It was then he saw this apparition, white and glowing, kicking along Lankershim toward him. Something about the shuffle was familiar, the shock of finger-combed brown hair, the smile he could see from 300 feet. And it wore a Nudie Suit, white, with green embroidered pot-leaves decorating the front, and some kind of big, white cape or...no! They were wings. He knew who it was right away, even before the Florida drawl hit him.
"Well I'll be damned. Ol' Blake Madison!"
"Gram? How...what are you doin' here?"
The Ghost of Gram Parsons sidled up, pulling a bottle of Jack Daniel's from under one of his wings. He took a long bubbling pull at the bottle, wiped his mouth and handed it to Madison. "Yeeeee HAR!" It said. "It's good to be back. That shit tastes ever bit as good as I remembered. How long I been gone?"
"Since 1973. Same year I lost this car I'm sittin' on.
"And what's it now?"
"2006."
"Well, I guess that explains it. You look like hell. I thought somebody was poisonin' you. Guess you just got old, huh?"
Parsons slugged at the bottle again and wiped his lips on his left wing. "Listen Blake ol' buddy, I can't stay long and I got to tell you somethin'."
"Am I dead?"
"No, but you got yourself one heck of a concussion. Right now they're pryin' you out of the wreck with the jaws of life. Wasn't your fault. Somebody's trying to kill you. They didn't want you talkin' to Cassidy. Now you need to get your ass over to the Chez Frog. Know where it is?" He slapped his forehead dramatically and continued "fuck am I talkin about? It's a bar ain't it? Course you know."
"I know a girl there."
"Yeah. Hot looking redhead. Makes me wish I was flesh and blood again." Parsons took a final slug and presented Blake with the bottle. "Keep it, but go easy until you get this one figured out. You don't wanna have too much fun. Witness yours truly. Anyway, I got to get back." The wings stretched out to an amazing breadth and Parsons smiled, a little sadness in his eye, said "adios, amigo", and shot up into the star-scattered LA sky like a klieg light, then disappeared, leaving the echoing strain of a pedal steel guitar on the wind. Blake waved at the spot where the spirit had disappeared, took another drink, and heard
"He's awake! Take that whisky bottle out of his hand and help me get him on this stretcher."