Donald Rawley was an exceptional LA writer who died tragically at 40 of AIDS in 1998, a mentor who was a penetrating influence and inspiration in my own writing. This collection of California stories contain much of his best work, exhibiting every beautiful thing about his sensibility and prose. There's a lush, lyrical sound to Rawley's work, as well as a romantic, Neo-Noirish point of view.
Here's the opening to the story "DeMarco's Jazz":
"It was as though the trees around the house had been planted by fire. their branches were twisted with crippled black arms and tropical berries that looked poisonous under waxed flowers. Italian cypress, so easy to grow in Los Angeles--stuck out in neat rows, wind bend at vulgar angles and hiding things that flew. Its hedges were voluptuous as an old French bed, pulsing with fat roses that spilled over a short front lawn of pink and white gravel."
Here's a bit of "Rattlesnake Season":
"In Boston he had loved his wife. And still did. She was oxygen and musk, calculating and frail. She had natural auburn hair that seemed to mirror each season they sped through. Her white skin could powder him with heat and pornographic oaths that he never thought he knew; her arms were the only safe place left. Here in Los Angeles, in their house of riptide balconies and spiraling air, she was trapped by a sun that would burn her Irish skin, by a poverty they had tried to escape..."
I didn't realize I hadn't reviewed his work before--two collections of short stories, a novel and five poetry collections.