The man with the woman head Polynesian wallpaper made the face stand out, a mixture of Oriental and early vaudeville jazz poofter, forming a hard, beetle-like, triangular chin much like a praying mantis. Smoky razor-cut, low on the ear neck profile. The face the color of a nicotine-stained hand. Dark circles collected under the wrinkled, folded eyes, map-like from too much turquoise eyepaint. He showed his old tongue through ill-fitting wooden teeth, stained from too much opium, chipped from the years. The feet, brown wrinkles above straw loafers. A piece of cocoanut in a pink seashell caught the tongue and knotted into thin white strings. Charcoal grey Eisenhower jacket zipped into a load of green ascot. A coil of ashes collected on the white-on-yellow dacs. Four slender bones with rings and nails endured the weight of a hard fast black rubber cigarette holder. I could just make out Ace as he carried the tray and mouthed, "You cheap son of a bitch" as a straw fell out of a Coke, cartwheeled into the gutter. So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood, So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood, So this was a drive-in restaurant in Hollywood.