After I moved into my place in Echo Park, back when I was getting wasted every day, I got license plates in the mail. They belonged to the guy who’d moved out. I knew my landlady would know where he went. And I should say something. But I didn’t. I kept them. Because what if I need these plates. If I get in trouble for my crimes, I can put them on my 1979 Mercedes S Class. Leave town. They’ll think it’s another guy driving Idi Amin’s car. Continue reading
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