At times the whole street seemed alive with Hell’s Angels. It was more than any taxpaying property owner should have to bear. Actually, their visits were marked by nothing more sinister than loud music, a few bikes on the sidewalk, and an occasional shot out the back window. Most of the bad action came on nights when
there was no Angels around: one of my most respectable visitors, an advertising executive
from New York, became hungry after a long night of drink and stole a ham from the
refrigerator in a nearby apartment; another guest set my mattress afire with a flare and we
had to throw it out the back window; another ran wild on the street with a high-powered
Falcon air horn normally carried on boats for use as a distress signal; people cursed him
from at least twenty windows and he narrowly escaped injury when a man in pajamas
rushed out of a doorway and swung at him with a long white club.