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The road to the partnership began without my knowing it, and it was a revival of the Blanchard-Bleichert fight brouhaha that brought me the word.
Bud White in an unmarked, watching the "1951" on the City Hall Christmas tree blink.
He always shot up by TV light.
Thundershowers hit just before midnight, drowning out the horn honks and noisemaker blare that usually signalled New Year's on the Strip, bringing 1950 to the West Hollywood Substation in a wave of hot squeals with meat wagon backup.
Some kids found her.
Dusenberry's estimated body count was low, and Warden Wardlow's stone metaphor only partly accurate.
Wacky and I had been partners for three months when Night Train entered our lives.