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Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
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on by anything. They just go through the motions.
"Like me."
"They don't know if it's congenital or not. People just go around, don't give a shit. I thought a old Black Sid wit h t he blank stare."
"Maybe it's not always congenital," Sidney Blackpool said, and Otto Stringer's rosy jowls flushed, and Sidney Blackpool knew that Otto had suddenly thought about Tommy Blackpool although they'd never discussed his boy.
Otto suddenly changed the subject saying, "Wish I hadn't buffaloed-up like this. If I was still in uniform, I'd need the jaws of life to remove my Sam Browne. Think I'd look funny in golf knickers?"
"No funnier'n Pavarotti or Tip O'Neill," Sidney Blackpool said, turning the radio to an easy-listening station and adjusting the volume just enough to give Otto some competition.
"You're thin and you still got hair. It ain't fair, middl e a ge.
"You got several hundred left," Sidney Blackpool said. "We'll get you a Loup in Palm Springs."
"Marry a rich broad, I could afford a weave."
Sidney Blackpool had been teamed with Otto Stringer for only two months and liked him fine except he figured he might have to buy a pair of earmuffs from a TWA mechanic in order to cope.
"Did you get . . . philosophical about turning forty, Sidney?" Otto asked.
"No," Sidney Blackpool said. He was still forty years old when he last saw Tommy. Sidney Blackpool stopped fearing middle age after that. In fact, he feared nothing.
"I'm getting that way," Otto mused. "I think I'm old enough to settle down with a nice ugly rich broad. Wonder if Yoko Ono goes to Palm Springs. I got this fantasy I'd like to skizzle old Yoko in a strawberry field. Tribute to the Beatles, sort of."
"That's very philosophical, all right," Sidney Blackpool said, kicking the Toyota into fifth and getting a bit less cynical about the vacation. Maybe he could straighten out the duck hook that was wrecking his tee shots lately.
The hotel was as good as the town had to offer. In the lobby was a tiled fountain with blue and red lights under the water. There was lots of rattan and wicker, and whit e c eiling fans. The hotel had a baby grand in the bar and ersatz Mexican arches over the balcony and Formica cocktail tables and more hanging ferns than Hawaii. In short, it wasjust ugly enough to make Otto Strhiger say it was absolutely mah-velous.
While they registered and were waiting for a bell-man, Otto ran to a wicker throne chair, put on his sunglasses and said, "Quick! Who am I?"
dunno," Sidney Blackpool said. "Who are you?" Reverend Jim Jones, dummy!"
"He shot himself," Sidney Blackpool said.
"Don't be morbid, Sidney," said Otto.
It was a friendly hotel like most in the desert, and like most it looked as though it was designed in the 1950's, a lousy decade for architecture, but for most desert rats the last decade that was ever worth a damn. This desert attitude was reflected in many ways. When all the tourists went home to Chicago and Canada and Beverly Hills, the desert residents settled back into the Eisenhower era. Though only two hours from L . A . it was definitely not a town for nouvelle pizza topped with Dijon mustard and truffles.
A man at the registration desk said, "Oh, Mister Blackpool and Mister Stringer? I have a package for you."
He disappeared for a moment and came back with a manila envelope that was sealed and taped shut. He handed it to Otto who grinned and winked at Sidney Blackpool. It had to be the money. Victor Watson's secretary had promised that all hotel expenses and golf arrangements were being taken care of by her and that some "expense money" would be awaiting them in the hotel safe.
There was the usual Palm Springs mix in the lobby. Conventioneers from Iowa wearing sport jackets that looked battery operated, a William Morris junior agent in for the weekend with his Indiana Jones leather jacket and a copy of Rolling Stone, and several ex--leg breakers from Las Vegas with cigars and diamonds and not a button nose in the bunch.
"Like me."
"They don't know if it's congenital or not. People just go around, don't give a shit. I thought a old Black Sid wit h t he blank stare."
"Maybe it's not always congenital," Sidney Blackpool said, and Otto Stringer's rosy jowls flushed, and Sidney Blackpool knew that Otto had suddenly thought about Tommy Blackpool although they'd never discussed his boy.
Otto suddenly changed the subject saying, "Wish I hadn't buffaloed-up like this. If I was still in uniform, I'd need the jaws of life to remove my Sam Browne. Think I'd look funny in golf knickers?"
"No funnier'n Pavarotti or Tip O'Neill," Sidney Blackpool said, turning the radio to an easy-listening station and adjusting the volume just enough to give Otto some competition.
"You're thin and you still got hair. It ain't fair, middl e a ge.
"You got several hundred left," Sidney Blackpool said. "We'll get you a Loup in Palm Springs."
"Marry a rich broad, I could afford a weave."
Sidney Blackpool had been teamed with Otto Stringer for only two months and liked him fine except he figured he might have to buy a pair of earmuffs from a TWA mechanic in order to cope.
"Did you get . . . philosophical about turning forty, Sidney?" Otto asked.
"No," Sidney Blackpool said. He was still forty years old when he last saw Tommy. Sidney Blackpool stopped fearing middle age after that. In fact, he feared nothing.
"I'm getting that way," Otto mused. "I think I'm old enough to settle down with a nice ugly rich broad. Wonder if Yoko Ono goes to Palm Springs. I got this fantasy I'd like to skizzle old Yoko in a strawberry field. Tribute to the Beatles, sort of."
"That's very philosophical, all right," Sidney Blackpool said, kicking the Toyota into fifth and getting a bit less cynical about the vacation. Maybe he could straighten out the duck hook that was wrecking his tee shots lately.
The hotel was as good as the town had to offer. In the lobby was a tiled fountain with blue and red lights under the water. There was lots of rattan and wicker, and whit e c eiling fans. The hotel had a baby grand in the bar and ersatz Mexican arches over the balcony and Formica cocktail tables and more hanging ferns than Hawaii. In short, it wasjust ugly enough to make Otto Strhiger say it was absolutely mah-velous.
While they registered and were waiting for a bell-man, Otto ran to a wicker throne chair, put on his sunglasses and said, "Quick! Who am I?"
dunno," Sidney Blackpool said. "Who are you?" Reverend Jim Jones, dummy!"
"He shot himself," Sidney Blackpool said.
"Don't be morbid, Sidney," said Otto.
It was a friendly hotel like most in the desert, and like most it looked as though it was designed in the 1950's, a lousy decade for architecture, but for most desert rats the last decade that was ever worth a damn. This desert attitude was reflected in many ways. When all the tourists went home to Chicago and Canada and Beverly Hills, the desert residents settled back into the Eisenhower era. Though only two hours from L . A . it was definitely not a town for nouvelle pizza topped with Dijon mustard and truffles.
A man at the registration desk said, "Oh, Mister Blackpool and Mister Stringer? I have a package for you."
He disappeared for a moment and came back with a manila envelope that was sealed and taped shut. He handed it to Otto who grinned and winked at Sidney Blackpool. It had to be the money. Victor Watson's secretary had promised that all hotel expenses and golf arrangements were being taken care of by her and that some "expense money" would be awaiting them in the hotel safe.
There was the usual Palm Springs mix in the lobby. Conventioneers from Iowa wearing sport jackets that looked battery operated, a William Morris junior agent in for the weekend with his Indiana Jones leather jacket and a copy of Rolling Stone, and several ex--leg breakers from Las Vegas with cigars and diamonds and not a button nose in the bunch.
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