The ex-Japanese wrestler who was into real estate sold Lydia’s house. She had to move out. There was Lydia, Tonto, Lisa and the dog, Bugbutt. In Los Angeles most landlords hang out the same sign: ADULTS ONLY. With two children and a dog it was very difficult. Only Lydia’s good looks could help her. A male landlord was needed.

I drove them all around town. It was useless. Then I stayed out of sight in the car. It still didn’t work. As we drove along Lydia screamed out the window, “Isn’t there anybody in this town who will rent to a woman with two kids and a dog?”

Unexpectedly a vacancy occurred in my court. I saw the people moving out and I went right down and talked to Mrs. O’Keefe.

“Listen,” I said, “my girlfriend needs a place to live. She has two kids and a dog but they’re all well-behaved. Will you let them move in?”

“I’ve seen that woman,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “Haven’t you noticed her eyes? She’s crazy.” “I know she’s crazy. But I care for her. She has some good qualities, really.”

“She’s too young for you! What are you going to do with a young woman like that?”
I laughed.

Mr. O’Keefe walked up behind his wife. He looked at me through the screen door. “He’s pussy-whipped, that’s all. It’s quite simple, he’s pussy-whipped.”

“How about it?” I asked.

“All right,” said Mrs. O’Keefe. “Move her in. . . .”

So Lydia rented a U-Haul and I moved her in. It was mostly clothes, all the heads she had sculpted, and a large washing machine.

“I don’t like Mrs. O’Keefe,” she told me. “Her husband looks all right, but I don’t like her.”

“She’s a good Catholic sort. And you need a place to live.”

“I don’t want you drinking with those people. They’re out to destroy you.”

“I’m only paying 85 bucks a month rent. They treat me like a son. I have to have a beer with them now and then.”

“Son, shit! You’re almost as old as they are.”

About three weeks passed. It was late one Saturday morning. I had not slept at Lydia’s the night before. I bathed and had a beer, got dressed. I disliked weekends. Everybody was out on the streets. Everybody was playing Ping-Pong or mowing their lawn or polishing their car or going to the supermarket or the beach or to the park. Crowds everywhere. Monday was my favorite day. Everybody was back on the job and out of sight. I decided to go to the racetrack despite the crowd. That would help kill Saturday. I ate a hard-boiled egg, had another beer and stepping out on my porch, locked the door. Lydia was outside playing with Bugbutt, the dog.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m going to the track.”

Lydia walked over to me. “Listen, you know what the racetrack does to you.”
She meant that I was always too tired to make love after going to the racetrack.

“You were drunk last night,” she continued. “You were horrible. You frightened Lisa. I had to run you out.” “I’m going to the racetrack.”

“All right, you go ahead and go to the racetrack. But if you do I won’t be here when you get back.”

I got into my car which was parked on the front lawn. I rolled down the windows and started the motor. Lydia was standing in the driveway. I waved goodbye to her and pulled out into the street. It was a nice summer day. I drove down to Hollywood Park. I had a new system. Each new system brought me closer and closer to wealth. It was simply a matter of time.

I lost $40 and drove home. I parked my car on the lawn and got out. As I walked around the porch to my door Mr. O’Keefe walked up the driveway. “She’s gone!”

“What?”

“Your girl. She moved out.”

I didn’t answer.

“She rented a U-Haul and loaded her stuff in it. She was mad. You know that big washing machine?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that thing’s heavy. I couldn’t lift it. She wouldn’t let the boy help her. She just lifted the thing and put it in the U– Haul. Then she got the kids, the dog, and drove off. She had a week’s rent left.”

“All right, Mr. O’Keefe. Thanks.”

“You coming down to drink tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try to make it.”

I unlocked the door and went inside. I had lent her an air-conditioner. It was sitting in a chair outside of the closet. There was a note on it and a pair of blue panties. The note was in a wild scrawl:

“Bastard, here is your air-conditioner. I am gone. I am gone for good, you son-of-a-bitch! When you get lonely you can use these panties to jack-off into. Lydia.”

I went to the refrigerator and got a beer. I drank the beer and then walked over to the air-conditioner. I picked up the panties and stood there wondering if it would work. Then I said, “Shit!” and threw them on the floor.

I went to the phone and dialed Dee Dee Bronson. She was in. “Hello?” she said. “Dee Dee,” I said, “this is Hank. . . .”