LA is BIG. Likes to celebrate. Likes to party. Likes to eat. And drink. They have a lot of bars to do it in, more that twenty-one-hundred. Rhea narrowed her search for Myrna down to twenty-seven. Doubting that a fifty-something year old Mexican woman would be mixing Twinki-tinis at the Skybar or pulling drafts at Barney’s Beanery or pouring it neat at the Frolic Room, or any other similar scene, she eliminated over a thousand. The massive size of LA knocked out another nine hundred. She settled on the 27 bars closest to Domingos. The closest of those was Traxx, inside Union Station.

Rhea hated Union Station. She hated the air, heavy with stories of people leaving; the echo that footsteps made on the old deco tiles; the memory of racing down the long corridor from the trains to the night outside and finding no one she wanted or needed there. But here she was again. Still looking. She sucked it up and headed inside.

Besides the Christmas Eve Rhea had first arrived in LA., she’d been in Union Station one other time, working security at Tony Villarogosa’s mayoral victory party. Back then, Traxx had an old bartender who was a dead ringer for Nosferatu. The guy was still there. On the night shift. But they didn’t have a Myrna.

Rhea left the station and crossed Alameda to Olvera Street, another self-inflicted wound.

A new joint, Time Out, had taken over where the iconic La Golandrina had once held center stage on the old tourist haunt. Two smooth and creamy thirty-year-olds were blending classic margaritas behind a hundred year old bar. No Myrna. She asked.

Before she left, she grabbed the special at Cielito Lindo, so it wouldn’t be a complete loss. She ate the beef-stuffed rolled tortillas, deep fried and smothered in a classic green sauce, at a little yellow table, wobbling on the brick-paved street.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth bars were scattered over a few blocks in a radius extending from Domingos. Three of the bartenders were men, the fourth was a transgender Russian woman mixing Zubrovka mules at a vodka bar on San Pedro St. None had heard of a Myrna.

The seventh was a dark 30’s Chinese restaurant bar on Broadway that featured Chow Mein, Mu Shu pork, Won Ton soup and Peking Duck. They were out of duck. Rhea ordered a Tsing Dao and crispy wontons from a snake-skinned old bartender named Madame Wu, who Rhea once knew. This red-walled grease stained joint was the third in Rhea’s tour of her past this burdened night; it was a place she’d come to for help many years before. Madame didn’t let on if she remembered Rhea and Rhea didn’t ask. She did ask if Wu knew of another woman in town who bartended named Myrna. Madame’s dyed-black eyebrow barely raised, but it raised a little twitch in response to the name. Ignoring Rhea, she moved down the bar to pour a shot of Chartreuse for a ninety-year old dancer. Rhea scooted down a seat, tapped on her phone to bring up a photo of the three dead girls and slid her phone down the bar, toward Wu and the dancer. “She used to bartend at Domingos. She might know something about this…” Seeing dead kids, or a photo of them, changes things. Sometimes. It did this time.

“I served her twice. Good gin.” Wu informed her.

“Recently?”

“Once was. Last week.”

“The other time?”

“Years ago.”

Rhea switched her phone app to “notepad” and wrote it all down.

“…write down anything you remember.” Strickland had told her when she was sixteen, a terrified kid looking to him for hope on the darkest night of her life. He’d given her a note pad; wrote his phone number on the pad, “Anything at all, then call me. Anytime.”

His phone number hadn’t changed. Hours later, back in her apartment, she called him, left a message, told him Saldano was Myrna’s last name and she sometimes hung out in Chinatown. So there. She turned to her Cielito notes, started writing a review, making some of it up… “–a sinewy gaucho walking by bought me three taquitos with extra heat for five-twenty-five and he sprung for a Champurrado. In the back of his Camaro parked in a lot on Main…” She couldn’t finish right now; making up the good part sucked. She found a snack sized bag of Maui potato chips and turned on the tv. Not much was on her basic cable. QVC. News. Old PBS shows. She settled on a Huell Howser re-run. He was visiting Porto’s Bakery. It was an entire show about cakes: Mango cheesecake. White chocolate raspberry mousse. Kiwi merengue torte. Grand Mariner with chocolate ganache. Lemon curd pound cake. Vanilla custard cake with pineapple filling… she should have turned it off but her mood was dark and so she watched and let her mind be pierced with thoughts of her sister.

A pledge break reeled her mind in. She turned the tv off and went outside to the courtyard. It was late. All the apartments were dark. She sat in a plastic chair by the pool. The only sound was the constant whisper of cars driving by outside.

A moving shadow startled her. A young coyote darted from behind a trash bin enclosure. It stopped when it saw her – stared her down, unafraid. Finally it skulked away and slipped out between the rails of the courtyard gate, heading up Laurel, toward the hills. A greeting came to it from somewhere in those hills, the sound of its entire pack howling. It died down. Rhea shivered. She looked at her phone. Three AM. When the quiet settles into the cracks of the night and the ghosts in the air kiss your skin.

Fuscia bouganvillea vines crept inside the open arched window of a stone-walled room in the old stucco house on the ridge overlooking the Hollywood reservoir. Twenty-seven-year-old photographer Daisy Valentine dunked a Lorna Doone into an iced coffee and took a bite. She broke off another corner and fed it to a skinny old cat curled up next to her keyboard as she manipulating pixels on a photo of onion rings that she was editing. It was a job for a local burger joint.

A coyote cooed. The cat looked up. Daisy grabbed her Pentax and went out to her back patio. She made her way across the flagstones and weeds to that low back wall just below the Hollywood sign. Beyond the forest and reservoir, the lights of LA glittered like distant sands. Someone in a neighboring house played some old Stones… “Oh I am sleeping under strange strange skies…”

Travis appeared on her patio, softly landing. She put down the Pentax.

“You got it?” she asked.

He slipped the tin film can out of his pocket. She took it as she passed by and went back into her house. He followed, “I got some food. Gelsons was open.”

“In a minute.” she told him as she went back into her studio.

Daisy unlocked a steel safe and took out a half-full 12 inch reel of 35mm film. She brought it to a second work table across from her computers. Wedged against it was an old tank of a film editor – ’56 35mm Moviola. She opened the film tim Travis had brought her and took out a roll of uncut 35mm slides. She slid it into the gears of the Movieola. Hand-cranking it, she viewed the film: the pictures were good. There were six shots of the light shimmers coming up from the forest. There were nine individual shots of the three Domingos’ dead girls, two shots of the two girls holding each other and one group shot of the three of them. Each individual shot had a small ripple of light rising above each girl. She also had twelve exterior shots of the barely-visible light ripples rising above Domingos and six shots of Rhea, three in the cement river bed and three behind Domingos. She glue-spliced the roll of film onto the bigger, 12-inch reel. She put the reel back into the cabinet and locked it. It was her proof. Her bank.”

“It’s ok?” Travis asked as she came back out of the studio. “Yep.” She said, then pointed to the pastry box. “What do you have?” He opened it. She took the piece of Princess cake, put it on a napkin and headed back out onto the patio. He followed. He watched her licking crumbs from her lips as she ate. A coyote came up and sat by her feet. She scratched his ear and gave him a piece of her cake.

“Some old chick tried to bang me.” He broke the silence.
“Bang?
“Screw. Do. Fuck—”
“I know what it means.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Old?”
“No. Older, like thirty five. I like old…er—” Travis blushed. He had a crush on Daisy. Maybe he even loved her.

The coyote got up. He hopped over the low wall and walked to a flat spot of land just outside the wall. The spot was well worn. There were no plants, weeds or bushes on it. He lay down. Daisy watched him. She looked at the land, at the sloping hill just beyond. An idea came. She went back inside. She rummaged through a cabinet where she kept all her important stuff: papers, lenses, a purple cat collar. She found a surveyor’s drawing of her property. She took it outside, comparing it to her back yard.

“Travis, come here–” she told her young assistant. He obliged. She showed him the drawing.

“You see this line, here? The edge of my property?” He looked; nodded. “Yeah–“

“Do you think Ralph is inside it or outside it?” she asked, pointing to the reclining coyote.

Travis looked from the drawing to the hill back to the drawing then back to the hill. “Outside.”

“Yeah..” Daisy agreed, still thinking. “But pretty close.”

The coyote wasn’t gone. It continued its saunter along the path that surrounded the Hollywood reservoir, stealth eyes darting to the moonlit forest on either side of the path, looking for a snack. Lizards and mice scurrying through the woods were tempting but it was hungry for bigger, more satisfying fare. A few minutes later it reached a familiar spot on the east side of the reservoir. It leapt over a low wall and scrambled up through the brush that angled up to a woody ravine at the base of the hill below the Hollywood sign. It stopped there, under a four foot high chapparel and stood still. Poised. Listening. The sound of twigs cracking and leaves rustling signaled a squirrel, hare or rat was nearby.

On the top of the hill above the ravine, a row of houses nestled onto a ridge overlooking the forest and reservoir below. The crumbling stucco house on the end of the row had a low stone wall that edged the brush. A young woman sat on the wall, bare feet dangling down. She was eating a MoonPie. An old Pentax 35mm camera rested in her lap. She looked into the forest, watching little puffs of light rising up, so small they looked like dandelion fluff. The moment was broken by the scuffling sound of the coyote and its prey in a dance of death coming from down the hill.

“Let it go–” the woman called out.

The coyote heard her and looked up; a squirrel in its mouth. It thought about it but it didn’t let go.

The woman listened, through more scuffling, squeaks and squeals, waiting for silence. When it came, she raised her camera. As a larger shimmer of light drifted up out of the brush and disappeared into the sky, she took its picture, in a sequence of stills as the shimmer disappeared into the night sky.

About Seven Months Earlier

The Tommy’s Burgers on Hollywood and Bronson was a 24/7 joint. Rhea slowed as she approached it, driving west  on the Boulevard. It was one in the morning and about as dark as it gets in LA. Four guys were hanging out in the parking lot. One of them caught her eye, watching her as she turned up a residential side street, her car disappearing from view.

About a half block up, Rhea eyed a parking spot outside a 70’s apartment building, darkened by a broken street light. She inched into it, turned off her car and waited.

A few minutes later, the guy from Tommy’s walked up the street. He spotted Rhea’s car and approached. He tapped lightly on the passenger side window. She leaned over and rolled it down a crack.

“You got something?” he asked.

“Yeah.” she nodded. She tried not to smile too much; he was around nineteen, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans and he was beautiful.

She unlocked the passenger door. He looked around, opened it and got in.

She looked him over. She could clearly see the black motorcycle logo on his dark gray T-Shirt.

“It’s too light here.” She realized, out loud.

“Yeah.” He agreed, thinking, “The alley behind the IHOP gets kinda dark–“

She shook her head, “They closed it off. Construction.”

“The streets around Echo Park?” he suggested.

“There’s zero parking there.” She reminded him.

“How about your place…” He asked, casually; he’d heard from a co-worker she lived nearby.

“No.” she told him. That wasn’t going to happen. She’d made that mistake before. She started the car, “Let’s keep looking.” She maneuvered out of the spot and onto the street. She turned left on the Boulevard.

They rode for a while in silence as she drove east, into Hollywood. Both were thinking of dark places to park. Looking for places; looking past straggly hipsters leaving clubs without a score; past late-shift workers waiting for a bus; past the homeless sleeping on the sidewalks. They peered up side streets and between buildings. A racoon wrestled with an empty Cheetos bag. Two bus boys took a smoking break outside a Thai restaurant.

“Hey…” he said after a minute, “You know the reservoir?”

“Silverlake?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head, “The Hollywood one.”

She thought for a second then smiled at him, “Yeah…”

She took Franklin west to Cahuenga then cruised up into the Hollywood Hills. She took a few side streets, easing up a twisty road past million-dollar houses crammed against each other like gilded sardines. The road dead-ended in a little dirt parking lot outside the chained gate of the Hollywood reservoir.

Rhea parked up against a dusty chaparral bush. It was quiet. The city lights spread out below like a blanket of stars. The sky above had none. She looked around. And though it wasn’t dark-dark – it never was in LA – they were alone. She reached onto the back seat and grabbed a small paper bag. She opened it and looked inside.

“What did you get?” he asked.

“Two chili cheese, a carne asada and a chicken.” She handed him the bag, “You pick.”

He pulled out a paper-wrapped tamale, the parchment was shiny with grease. He unwrapped it. As he broke open the pliant masa and revealed an ooze of cheese, Rhea leaned over and looked, eager for a taste. He snatched it away, teasing.

“Lean back.” He told her.

She did, watching as he slid a finger down the inside of the paper, gathering the red ancho-tinged oil. He turned to her and wiped it across her lips. She licked them.

“Good?” he asked.

She laughed, “Definitely.”

He unbuckled his seat belt. He broke a big piece off the end of the tamale then leaned over her, “Open.”

She opened her mouth; he eased it inside. It was good – thick and warm and flecked with smoky heat. But it was a little dry.

“It needs some sauce–” she told him, trying to swallow.

He took a Styrofoam cup out of the bag. He pried off the lid, the cup was full of a dense red chili sauce. He plunged two fingers deep into it, scooping some up. He put his fingers in her mouth. She sucked the sauce off and swallowed it.

“Better?” he asked. She nodded. Then he kissed her, tasting the sauce still on her lips. “That is good.”

“Lupita’s.” she told him, kissing him back, “On Chavez.”

“Oh yeah, I know that place, they have those fried jalapeno brownies.” He added as he broke off another hunk of tamale.

“You’re thinking of Estrella’s” She corrected him, watching him dip the hunk into the thick liquid. She opened her mouth, ready for it.

“Estrella’s is on York.” He corrected her back as he dipped again, coating the tamale.

“No that’s on Yucca. And they do Serrano brownies– Hey!” She freaked as he popped the piece into his own mouth.

“Oh wow…” The full taste of it hit him. He dipped another bit of the tamale, forgetting about her. She snatched it from him and ate it, letting some sauce dribble down her chin, down her neck. He remembered why he was there. He leaned in and began to nibble it off her skin, those soft young lips of his following a little drizzle that slid down toward her breast. He pushed her skirt up with his left hand and reached back with his right, dipping the tamale end, letting the sauce drip on her thighs. She leaned back as he kissed that sauce off too. She closed her eyes and slipped into a groove, her slow rocking moves inviting his kiss. Suddenly, she jerked up, whacking his head into the steering wheel.

“Ouch!” He yelped.

“Sorry. Some sauce just went down my–” She squirmed a little; adjusting her behind. “It’s OK now.”

He rubbed his the whacked spot on his head, a little annoyed. He shook it off and nestled his face back between her thighs. She closed her eyes, trying to lose herself; trying to fill the night. Fill time. Fill the void.

She tried hard. Too hard. She just couldn’t get there. She forced her mind back to a December, in the front seat of Javier Valdez’s old blue Toyota truck, Straddling his lap, making out like there was nothing else in the world except the double order of hot onion rings they shared when they came up for air. Every touch, every bite, every moan, every breath was desire. Unlimited. Time of her life.

She jerked him away again; flush with an idea.

“What now?”

“Sit under me.” She told him.

“Why?”

“Just do it.” She added a “Please.” as she lifted herself up.

He slipped underneath her, holding her ass as he eased her down onto his lap. He slid a hand under her skirt and fed her another bite. She swallowed and grooved and tried. Man oh man she tried.

“You gotta relax.” he told her.

“I’m trying to! Just do your job.” She snapped, losing her groove.

“I’m trying to! Relax.” He said like a mantra, “Relax…”

She breathed deep. She leaned back, leaned into it. Deeper. Deeper, then–

THWUMP! the whole car shook with a sudden impact, freaking them out.

“Jesus!” It was a coyote who’d jumped onto the hood of the car, using it as a booster to then jump over the reservoir fence and saunter away.

“This isn’t working.” Rhea concluded.

“No kidding.” he agreed. Rhea lifted herself up. He moved back to the passenger seat and zipped up.

“I can drop you off on Vine.” Rhea offered.

“That’s OK. I’ll Uber.” he said as he opened the car door. He turned back to her and held out his hand.

“What?” she asked, knowing what he wanted.

“It’s forty.”

“I don’t think so.”

He kept his hand out. She found twenty bucks in a pocket and offered it to him. “Here. Totally not worth it but–“

As he took the money, he reached over and grabbed the bag of tamales.

“Those are mine—!” she tried to grab them back but he held on. The bag tore, three tamales spilled out. They both scrambled for them. Rhea got one. He got two. And the cup of sauce.

She grabbed his hand, “At least give me the sauce.”

“No way.”

“Wait–!” she pleaded. Man she wanted that sauce. “I got the carne asada one. That sauce goes best with the carne–“

He shut the door and walked away. She started the car. As she drove out of there, she rolled down her window wanting to say something to him, wanting one more try to get that sauce. She rounded a corner, sure he’d be there but just like that coyote, he was already gone.

At the bottom of that forest, the twisted drive heading away from the reservoir was dead quiet. Rhea stopped and put the top down, letting the two AM summer night air curl around her, making her forget the bad vibe that whole tamale debacle was. Almost. And even though she hit some traffic once she turned onto Cahuenga, it still only took her seven minutes to get to the Denny’s on Sunset and Gower and that was something. Rhea went straight for the pancakes: A short stack with butter and fake syrup. She didn’t want to go home; didnt want to think. Pancakes were good for that: for not thinking. They were numbing, filling. They didn’t have the edges of a waffle or the versitility of a crepe. But she needed, wanted more. Waitress George wandered back over, one hand on bountiful hip. “And?” she asked; checking Rhea’s half-assed smile. Rhea slid the bagged tamale across the formica. George checked around to make sure none of the seven other people at the counter were looking. Six of them were on their phones. The seventh, a stylish Mexican man in his fifties, wearing a sixty dollar suit and working on a Denver Omelette was reading a paper. George slipped the tamale into a microwave, gave it a thirty second nuke, then slipped it onto Rhea’s plate. “I owe you.” Rhea thanked her. “Yep.” George agreed. Rhea sprinkled it with bottled green taco sauce. Then she dotted the syruped pancakes with tabasco. Omelette Man noticed. George poured Rhea an iced coffee then watched as Rhea tore the ends off three packs of Sweet ‘n Low and stirred them into it. “That stuff’ll rot your brain.” George commented. “Unlike LA?” “You love it here.” George chided her. “It’s unrequited.” Rhea pointed out. “That editor guy who comes in here really likes you.” “Not my type.” “What, too nice?” “Yeah, maybe I should just date you.” “Dream on.” Rhea laughed. It felt good. George knew a thing or two about Rhea. Maybe they were even friends. Like Rhea and everyone else in la – dead and alive – she was waiting for a break. “But if you don’t get your job back, I’ll put in a word for you here.” “Just get me the Cholula.” Omeletts Man heard that too, looked up. An order was up. George went to get it. After she served it to a drag couple six stools down, she returned to Rhea with the Cholula. Rhea generously dumped it on her food. “Whoa. Bad night?” George asked as she watched. “Bad date. I’m out two tamales and I’ve got ancho sauce all down my thighs.” “Where do you find them?” George asked her. “The guys or the tamales?” Rhea asked as she took a bite. “The guys.” “…they’re around.” Rhea demurred. She was tired and frustrated and wanted to forget about it. The tamale, on the other hand, was pretty fine. Omelette Man watched her dig in. “Where do you get the tamales?” he asked. Rhea looked at him for a minute. So, the Vato was an eavesdropper. Well, wasn’t everyone? “Out of a steamer in the trunk of a Buick in Boyle Heights.” She smiled then turned away. Omelette Man wasn’t done. He moved closer. She ignored him. He leaned in, “I heard her say you lost your job?” “So?” “You want to make a little money?” WTF, Rhea thought. “Sorry, Dude, I don’t do old guys.” “I don’t do white chicks.” He shot back, “But I like the way you eat.” “What?” “I like the way you eat. Can you write?” “What??” “Can you write? Do you write? Stories. Articles. Letters. Google reviews. Yelp–” She looked at him, closer. He was sober. Present. Serious. “No.” she turned away. Curiosity got her, though. She turned back. “Why?” “I need a food writer.” He explained. “Seriously?” Rhea didn’t believe him. “Seriously.” Omelette Man confirmed. “Well…” she found herself replying, “I’ve written reports. And sometimes some… musings, I guess you could say.”