There was a hot, dry wind coming off the high deserts of Mexico that night, drifting north across the border, blowing down the empty streets of the south side like a siren's wail.

Gerald Lloyd Kookson III was a drifter too, and having just blown into town himself, he was a long way from parking cars in LA. He had seen an old flame earlier that night. Nora had warned him there was trouble in the air, and that he should lash himself to that barstool and concentrate on keeping himself from crashing on the rocks of a highball glass until it passed.

But even with the din of the crowd and the jukebox filling his ears, the seductive allure of that ill wind filtered into his brain. Sweet. Like a brand new set of strings on a vintage Telecaster. Or the contours of a large caliber handgun traced by the manicured fingers of la doña diabla. Down in Mexico they have a name for it...

77 El Deora
Oblique Americana from the inky backwaters of the gene pool