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Don’t Live in a Murder House
In the summer of 1988, my friend Kevin was looking for a place to live. His actress girlfriend Leigh wanted to live in the Hollywood Hills but Los Angeles rents were soaring. “It’s too damn expensive,” Kevin told Leigh. “I’m freelance and you’re unemployed. How are we going to afford it?”
Their relationship was rocky and maybe a new home above the flat lands was what they needed. Kevin scoured the local papers and rental guides. All he could afford was $700 a month and everything north of Sunset was more than $1400. He called a realtor in Laurel Canyon.
“You know anyone who’s having a hard time selling their house who might be open to renting,” Kevin asked.
“Well there is this one place…”
In retrospect, Kevin should have asked some questions. He always considered himself a pragmatist but $450 a month sounded pretty good. Kevin met the aging realtor halfway up Wonderland Avenue. The home was a two-story stucco townhouse with flaking paint and rusted bars fronting the balcony. It wasn’t much to look at but the neighborhood was gorgeous.
“How long is the lease?”
“Month to month,” the realtor said.
“I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to look inside?”
