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Bran had been, who had been there only a few months before when this document
had been merely an act of preparing for the long, far inevitable future, had
chosen not to attend the burial service.
They all sat up there, larger than life, on the screen, and I thought with the
faintest flutter of trepidation, What a field day the archivists will have
with this little chunk of literary gossip.
Roll em,
C.
B. It s magic time, I thought.
Break a leg, Jimmy.
He once took me along with him on what he called a dangerous mission of
research.
Because of the confessional nature of much of what he wrote--Jimmy had
believed
Hemingway when Poppa said, a writer should never write what he doesn t
know --Kerch was forever putting himself in crazy situations where raw
material for books had to be obtained first-hand, usually at risk of one s
life or sanity; or at very least at risk of one s complexion.
He had scaled mountains, raced sports cars, worked in a steel foundry,
traveled cross-
county on a Vincent Black Shadow with Hell s Angels, marched with Chavez in
the
Coachella Valley, spent time in Southern jails for civil rights activities,
chummed it up with a
Mafia capo, managed to con a trio of radical feminist lesbians into a four-way
sexual liaison, covered a South American revolution, hired himself out to a
firm specializing in industrial espionage, and God knows what all else.
He had no secrets when he wrote. He talked about his feelings when his mother
had lingered in her endless midnight coma and he signed the order to kick out
the plug on her life-
support system; he revealed the most intimate secrets of his love life, with
Leslie and others;
he told stories on himself that men with more humility and a greater sense of
shame would have buried in the vaults of their family secrets. Probably
because of that open conversation that went on between Jimmy and his millions
of readers, his popularity grew and grew. It was possible to trust a man who
told everything, a man who could not be morally or literarily blackmailed. It
made it seem reasonable that he would go to the burning core of whatever he
wrote, because he was not afraid of sunlight striking the tomb of the vampire.
And once he took me with him.
I was living in Chicago at the time, doing editorial work on a men s magazine.
He called and asked if I was free that night, and if I was free would I like
to accompany him on a
dangerous mission of research.
Evenings spent in Jimmy s company were many things, but they were seldom dull
or uneventful. I said I was stoked for an adventure.
He picked me up in a Hertz rental at the office, and all he would say was that
we were going deep into the South Side of the city, the section commonly known
as Back of the
Yards. Oh yes, he said one more thing: he was going to see a woman who had
given him a case of the crabs.
I think I responded with the remark, Frankly, I m underwhelmed.
Page 82
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But when we got there
--there being a rundown tenement in a scuzzy section--I found an apartment
half-filled with card-carrying criminals. They had the appearance of righteous
gypsies, some kind of hyperthyroid Romany rejects. Eleven of them, looking
like road company understudies for The Wolf Man, starring Madame Maria
Ouspenskaya.
Four flights up, in what would have been called a railroad flat, had we been
in New
York and not Chicago, they sat around the kitchen staring at Jimmy and me with
dark, hooded eyes. I felt like a cobra at a mongoose rally.
An extremely attractive young woman had opened the apartment door after Jimmy
had knocked in a special cadence: two shorts close together, pause, then three
more shorts.
Open, Sesame isn t required, eh? How convenient, I said. He gave me one of
his looks.
And the door was opened by this extremely attractive young woman, who threw
her arms around him and kissed him full on the mouth. I stared beyond them,
into the kitchen, and was greeted by the massed nastiness contained in ten
pairs of dark, hooded eyes.
He held her away from him and murmured something too quietly for the gypsies
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