Harrison’s fiction is full of men who know who Modigliani is
but also how to cut someone’s throat; now I understood where he got them.
I found Jim at the bar of the Murray Hotel, where Sam
Peckinpah once shot up the ceiling when he was having trouble with a
screenplay. I was so nervous that I hugged the great bulk of him. Vodka to
vodka, we made plans for a dinner at his home the following day.
It took me 45 minutes to drive the 9 miles from
the Murray to Jim’s house, though the speed limit is 70. I kept having to pull
over, because I’d never been in that kind of cathedral. Jim’s wife, Linda,
prepared a pot roast with carrots, potatoes, and onions from her garden, while
Jim drove me around with a cigarette and a tumbler of red wine bouncing on the
armrest between us.
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