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160 pages, Paperback
Published November 1, 2016
She was in a white linen suit with sheer black stockings and black pumps, a black purse hanging from her arm. Her hair was a froth of shimmering black, her face exquisite, illumined by black eyes. There was so much to see as I looked at her, and my eyes fell upon the contour of her body, the sensuality of her waist and hips, tantalizing, challenging, unbelievable. I had looked at thousands of beautiful women since arriving in Los Angeles but Jennifer Lovelace’s beauty had me by the throat.
Instantly I was aware of her sensational ass, a Hollywood perfecto. She moved like a snake, a large snake, a lustful boa constrictor. I was very pleased. She knocked on Schindler’s door and opened it.
I looked around. It was indeed a den. Every inch of wallspace was crowded with autographed photos of film stars. The beautiful people. So handsome, so full of buoyant smiles and glittering teeth and graceful hands and beautiful skins. But it was a sad room too, a kind of mausoleum, a display of the living and the dead. Velda looked at them reverently.
“My beloved friends,” she sighed.





“¿Qué te he hecho, Señor? ¿Por qué me castigas? Lo único que pido es una oportunidad para escribir, para tener un par de amigos y que cese esta lucha. Dame paz, Señor. Haz de mí algo que valga la pena. Que la máquina de escribir cante. Encuentra la canción dentro de mí. Sé bueno conmigo, porque estoy solo.”