Angel in this City

By Alan Shrake

An erotic romance set in Los Angeles. No bestiality, no rape, no incest, no age play, no dubious consent, no sex slavery, no pedophilia, and no pornography, Just an adult male, an adult female, music, bud, and a little action.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Shrake
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781386247555

Book preview

1

‘It is true, there is some angels in this city.’

Bevs of babes in minis and heels stood outside Tropo Mondo on Santa Monica and Westgate, tossing their hair around happily in the sticky-sweet L.A. night air, sunset an indigo twilight, buildings pink cupcakes sprinkled with colorful lights.

Mike eyed the scene driving up in his arctic blue Chevy Bolt electric, smiling at actress Marion Cotillard’s Oscar quote.

‘And tonight, I feel like one is coming my way.’

He stopped at the valet stand.

A stout Latino valet in white shirt and black pants opened his door. 

Mike rose into that same sticky-sweet air, six-foot-two frame looking good at fifty-three, gold piano jewel necklace shining out from a purple Ralph Lauren Blake tail-out, white Andrews, and white Polo deck shoes. 

He was a Polo man.

Lowering his rectangular, copper, wire-rim sunglasses with a quick smile, handing over the valet key, revealing sharp, light blue eyes on a Costneresque face framed by a dark red ponytail flipped inside like Packers linebacker A.J. Hawk, diamond ring shining on right hand, gold Citizen on left.

He pushed the sunglasses back, cool.

Walking up to the club’s entrance under its florid neon sign, he liked the girls, and they him.  He pushed open the tall wood and glass doors to enter the wide, high-ceilinged club, an atmosphere of lush trees, plants, vines, lights, abstract murals, scented candles, tropical concoctions, and babe waitresses.

All important factors in his venue search. 

And now, he and his band, Opp Street, were drawing big crowds with their mix of Latin beats, classic rock, and smooth jazz, another personal diversion from teaching, college geography.

Standing in the doorway, refreshed to see so many new faces after the recent June Gloom, he reflected it was now August.

I noted that, too, Mikey.  And who am I? 

You’ll see.

The best waitress in the house greeted him, Jazna Henriquez, a tall, voluptuous, Chilean Amazon, long, wavy, dark brown hair, a handsome face, dark eyebrows, full lips, hypnotic, brown eyes like supermodel Yamila Diaz, in white designer jeans, white designer t-shirt, gold sequins busting out all over from under a green apron, pockets full of pencils and order pads.

¡Muy hermosa!

Carrying a tray full of drinks, gold jewelry shining. 

What an angel.  His angel? 

Hey, Mike, nice to see you again, she said. 

¿Como estai?  How are you?  Capo, good, smart?

Fine, Jaz, thank you.  ¡Muy bien!

Smiling warmly, he felt that South American synergia.

Mikey.

What would you like to drink, hun, your favorite? 

Yes, please, ‘The Moth,’ one of Max’s specialties.  Max!

He waved across the room to the cheerful Irish bartender in his trendy, whipped hair, short beard, angular jaw, black Dropkick Murphies t-shirt accentuating massive pecs, and tight H&M jeans. 

Mike!  Join the club!

Max waved back, wiping up the bar top with a towel in front of glass racks filled with hundreds of shiny bottles of expensive liquor, Patron, Stoli, Johnny Walker Red Label, and surrounded by girls like Jassi, a hot, blonde model slash writer with perfect stems, full lobes and lips, low cut, black evening dress a slip, really, for her lithe, graceful body.

She waved at Mike, too, Euro style.  He waved back.

Okay, hombre, Jazna regained his attention. 

I look forward to the show.  Hanta, a lot.

Hugging him. 

Thanks, beautiful, he replied, distracted by the lively club scene, happy couples at their tables, before looking back to her.   

Your music is hot. ¡Que choro!  Very entertaining.

She spoke before going to get his drink.

That’s your name though, isn’t it?  Hott, Michael Hott.

That’s right, doll.

¡Chao pescado!  Or, ‘See you later, alligator,’ she smiled.

He appreciated her Lorenesque figure striding away. 

Then noticed his watch.  Time to play.

Walking around the edge of the massive ballroom, he shook hands with eager fans and employees, finally reaching the corridor to the dressing rooms, to meet the other band members, seasoned pros from the local union, stout Daryl Arroyo on drums, blonde Byron Hunter on bass, lanky Jerry Bouquet on guitar, and compact Charlie Sanchez on sax, all ready to go on but waiting for him, the poser, who led the group, played piano, and sang, a fake book and a few originals up his sleeve. 

But they did create a mellow atmosphere that the chicks dug. 

He exchanged slaps with each playah, in their outfits.

¡Andale, chavo! Daryl shouted, brown herringbone suit.  

Mike, Byron smiled, cobalt blue turtleneck.

Hey, mahuhn, Jerry jived, orange ascot, taffy sweater.

Charlie looked up from his huge, black Seiko watch, a bro from New Mexico, slick hair, lightweight boxer frame in shiny, black pants, shirt, and striped zoot suit.  He was a little miffed.   

Hey, Mike, what took you so long, mano?

Mike smiled happily.

Caught up in traffic . . . and dreams.

Staring dazedly out into space.

About angels.

Charlie brought him back to reality.

There you go, Joe.

Slapping his back.

And so do we.

He smiled as they hit the stage to thunderous applause.  After warm hellos to members of the audience, Mike sat down at the club’s glossy, black Kawai grand piano and lifted its cover, Daryl tested the snare on his ivory Pearl drum kit, Byron plugged his white burst MusicMan bass into an Ampeg head, Jerry began noodling some whole tone patterns up the fretboard of his semi-hollow body, sunburst black Gibson ES-335 guitar, and Charlie blew a soulful riff on his gold Selmer Mark VI tenor. 

A spotlight hit Mike’s face as he adjusted the microphone stand, also setting off his gold piano jewel necklace peeking out from under his purple shirt.  Colored beams of light swirled around him from the lighting crew, sunglasses still on, cool.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

He smiled, blue-eyeing the crowd over his shades. 

I hope you’re having a great time here tonight.

Glasses tinkled as waiters rushed about the cavernous club.

Jazna brought up his Moth, a concoction of coconut juice with small, dark, date pieces blended inside, and sat it down beside the piano bench.  Mike picked it up and took a sip.

Thanks, Jaz.

The crowd applauded.

You’re welcome, hun. ¡Bien encachade!  Good looking.

She beamed up at him, a spotlight on her as well.

Jazna Henriquez, ladies and gentlemen, Mike exclaimed. 

Isn’t she the greatest?

They clapped and whistled in agreement.

Thanks, Mike.  See you later.

She waved, fingers curling seductively, then turned to leave.

Mike was now ready, refreshed by the drink.

And Jazna’s visit. 

Ah, he sighed. 

My name is Mike Hott and we are . . . Opp Street!

He waved around to acknowledge the guys in the band. 

Daryl Arroyo on drums.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Daryl hit his snare, held up his sticks, and bowed to applause.

Byron Hunter on bass.

Buh dee puh do doe de doe doe doe doe.

Byron played a walking jazz pattern in E melodic.

Jerry Bouquet on guitar.

Wow, whir, diddle lee doe, dir da-ee doe.

Jerry blasted out some Hendrix riffs like he was his brother.  

And Charlie Sanchez on sax.

Nuh nah nah nah nah nuh neh nuh.

Wailing like another Charlie.  Parker, that is.

Mike continued.

We’re going to begin tonight with a tune by fellow Texan Delaware Doss, ‘Drive Like It Counts.’  Hope you like it. 

But before he could start, a girl called out from the crowd.

Take off your sunglasses, Mister Hott!

Mike quickly thought he knew who it was, looking into the crowd and spying one of the cashiers from Vons on Devonshire in the West Valley, where he used to go before moving to Burbank.

And here she was after a long year, Giselle Montoya, waving at him, oddly more mature in such a short time, but still long and curvy, butterscotch-brown, buxom, serene face like Mandy Moore, an infectious smile, big, tawny, brown eyes, mountains of chestnut curls, a revealing, cherry red party dress, and gold jewelry. 

The angel he’s been dreaming of?  We’ll see.

Well, okay, Giselle, if you insist.

He removed his shades, squintin’ light blues like McQueen. 

Thank you for recognizing me.  We love you.

Giselle shouted back, sitting with some girls he didn’t know. 

Thanks, I love you more.

Mike whispered to her like M.J., before taking his cue. 

And now here’s a tune that I hope y’all enjoy.

Get a move on, mahn.

‘Drive Like It Counts.’

He began slowly and seductively, with high, plaintive, block chords, while Charlie, formerly of the band Fanta Se, from Santa Fe, blew a mournful riff, as in those wild jams back at the Take Five Cafe in Albuquerque, knowing how to let the music breathe between the notes, like great saxophonist Gato Barbieri. 

Mike sang the lyrics, doubling over a soulful piano riff.

There be a day, / My daddy pray, / He got a gun, / Ain’t gonna fun, / He gotta drive, / Drive like it counts, / Or be dead again.

He laid a trill nine on top, before Charlie’s last triplet, while Byron, Jerry, and Daryl stayed in the pocket.

The crowd swayed to the beat as the band hit the chorus.

But he don’t know a single soul, / So he go on down to Jimmy’s Hole, / He gonna drive like it counts, / Drive like it counts, / Drive like it counts.  

Mike impined plaintively, as for another verse and chorus.

Drive like it counts.

Then he and the boys played a bright bridge of polychordal progressions on the harmonic gradient, over which Jerry riffed a complex solo, noodling wildly up the fretboard of his ES-335. 

The audience cheered enthusiastically.

The boys played the last verse, then the chorus hook.

Drive like it counts, / Drive like it counts.

The tune ended to loud, prolonged applause, proving Mike’s dictum: Play a song like you own it, that way you connect. 

Giselle and crew clapped along as well. 

Whew, whew, that was great!  You’re hot, Mister Hott!

She shouted, drawing laughter from the audience.

Hah, hah, hah, hah, hah.

Mike took a sip from his Moth, then looked up. 

Well, thanks, Miss Montoya. 

He smiled and pointed, before counting off his smooth jazz version of Eric Clapton’s Cocaine, with its sus7 chords. 

Love those sus7 chords.

And-a one, and-a two, and-a.

The boys hit furiously, especially on the up tempo bridge, to which the chicas in the audience danced sexily.

Cocaine, another nailed tune.

Opp Street played more from their set, standards like I Want You, Girl From Ipanema, Sweet Love, Elizabeth Reed, and Layla, also originals Mosquito, Ecocab, Hiawatha, Sabor de Ti, and Lima dol Sol, a smooth samba written for Brazilian Victoria’s Secret model Adriana Lima. 

Oh, Mikey, you do like the girls, don’t you? 

The band’s show elicited whew-whews from Giselle and her friends, and rounds of applause as the audience swayed to the music, accompanied by dancing couples, tinkling glasses, lively tables, beautiful waitresses like Jazna, and even loud parrots in the wide club adorned with trees, murals, and scented candles. 

Se jolie.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.  For our last encore.

Mike finally said at the end of the show. 

We’d like to do our Spanish version of ‘House of the Rising Sun.’

Smiling at the ladies.

Or, ‘Casa del Almanecer.’  Hope you like it.

They began the tune up tempo, translating its famous lyrics into Spanish.  Due to copyright law, you’ll just have to imagine it.

Ha . . .

Mike sang seductively over his own salsa piano counterpoint and hot leads from Charlie, Jerry, Byron, and Daryl.  Everyone in the crowd moved to the beat, twisting like the cute, little, dancing dwarf in the vocal contest on Sabado Gigante. 

After a last chorus of song title Casa del Almanecer, Casa del Almanecer, the boys were given a roaring ovation of approval as they stood at the front of the stage, bowing, waving, and smiling at the audience.  But finally the lights had to go up, allowing the crowd to disperse, eat dinner, or hang out with Max at the bar. 

Mike took his empty Moth glass and stepped down from the stage to applause and handshakes, but Giselle was not around. 

Guess not his angel.

2

Disappointed, he handed the glass back to Jazna, who gave him a new Moth, along with some banana cream pie, too busy herself to speak, with all the tables to serve.  So, he retired to the dressing room in the rear for some sustenance, while Charlie and the boys hooked up with the ladies around Max at the bar. 

Mike sat alone in a chair by a desk with a mirror, in front of walls plastered with posters of bands that had played the club. 

The pie was rejuvenating.  Thanks, Steven Tyler. 

A few fans came by for autographs but soon left.  Alone to eat again, Mike suddenly heard a rap on the dressing room door.

It was Karen Howard, head of A&R at Horner Brothers. 

Hey, Angel?

Hi, Mike, how are you doing?  Great show tonight.

She walked in, extending arms for a hug, honey blonde bob with cinnamon highlights framing a handsome, angular face like CNN news anchor Ashleigh Banfield, hazel eyes, rose lipstick, rectangular, silver glasses and silver hoop earrings, medium height, a voluptuous figure busting out of a lemon yellow blouse, light tan jacket and skirt with nice leg, perfume exquisite, coiffure elegant. 

And holding her constantly busy, silver Blackberry. 

Fine, thanks, Karen, Mike rose for a fond embrace. 

Just friends and business partners, but she did have the same kind of office attire he always found attractive, along with other uniforms, like nurses’ smocks and Demi Moore in the intro to A Few Good Men. 

Oh, Mikey.

Our recent deal with you as a singer-songwriter guitarist in a smooth jazz pop format is like Esteban without the sales pitch.

Karen smiled, joking. 

And now, the piano.

Glad you like it, Mike replied, taking another bite of pie.

But you’re both great, she said, sitting beside him. 

Thanks again, but he’s much better, Mike smiled.

Oh, I don’t know about that, Mike.

Karen smiled back slyly. 

I do know your piano playing is also phenomenal, as well as the band.  What are we doing with just guitar?  We should record you on piano as well.

Leaning over, shirt open, ample bosom exuding perfume. 

And pheromones.

Well, I like to keep those two acts separate, Kare.

Mike began to explain, eyeing her girls, peripherally that is. 

It’s awkward for me to shift from one to the other onstage.  Ruins the continuity, you see.  But somebody like the great rocker Leon Russell could pull it off.  I remember seeing him in concert in Albuquerque in 1973, with Charlie Wilson and The Gap Band second on the bill.  He took my straw cowboy hat off my head as I stood in front of the stage and wore it for a few numbers like ‘Blues Power’ before throwing it back.  Leon, that is, not Charlie.  Hah, hah.

Mike laughed.

And while he was better on piano, he also did a great job on his black Les Paul guitar.  He was one of the greatest pianists in rock and roll history, with his octave riffs and boogie woogie bass patterns.

He finished another bite of pie.

What an incredible tale, Karen exclaimed. 

And you’re right about the continuity.

She shrugged goofily.

It’s up to you.  We have a lot to work with anyway for your guitar group, Azul.  The producer, Catchmandu, finished the first single, ‘In Miami,’ in our studio in Burbank.  It’s already number 52 with a bullet on Billboard Hot 100, and doing well on Latin.

She began to count charts on her fingers.

Jazz, Hits of the Moment, EDM, R&B, Launch Pad, Radio Airplay, Social Streaming, Mainstream 40, Adult Top 40, Triple A, Heatseekers, Next Big Sound, Hot Latin Songs, Latin Airplay, Latin Pop Airplay, Tropical Airplay, Smooth Jazz Songs, Dance Club Songs, Euro, United Kingdom, France, and even K-Pop.

Smiling enthusiastically.

The only charts we’re not on right now are Country, Rock, Gospel, and World, but Internet radio streaming and subscription, Pandora, iHeart, et cetera, are hot, even after iTunes launched.  It should go platinum, especially with the YouTube video we shot.  We have five million streams, with one point five million unique views, four minutes per view.  A single multichannel network can get billions of views. 

Wow, that’s great, Karen.  Yeah, my first hit.

Mike reflected, stroking his chin, astonished. 

Only forty years after I first picked up a guitar to learn the bluegrass classic, ‘Wildwood Flower.’  That’s all I ever wanted. 

He held up his half empty plate.

And this here pie.

Well, I just came by to say hello, Karen rose. 

May I have some?

She quipped, then gingerly took a small piece from his plate, eating it in front of him. 

Uhm, tasty, she licked her fingers.

Oh, behavior, girl, Mike kidded her. 

I’m out of my coma and have more years left to boot. 

Well, I hope so, Karen said, eyeing him coyly.

Me, too, Mikey.  Who am I?  Guess later.

For sure, doll.  And I’ll see you back at HB.

Mike stood for a hug. 

I’ve been there a few times already, twice as a temp admin and now a newly-signed recording artist.  How about that?

Exclaiming excitedly, wrapping his arms around her bod.