Summer reading for the man who said his house is "a furnace" and the woman who claimed that the temperature in her apartment at midnight was 31 degrees celsius:
"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 in a cocktail lounge."
Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind."