Today is one of those Sacramento days (temperatures in the 90s, winds in the 20-30s) that always make me think of "Red Wind," the great short story by Raymond Chandler, and its classic beginning:
There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.
Anything can happen...and probably will.
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