Hays cared about those girls alright, he cared about seventy five grand worth. And he was pissed. He waited about twenty minutes, until he was sure the three cops had left, then he got in his Rivian and drove west on Sunset to a a steep little street between Silverlake and Chinatown.
Inside apartment number 4 in a twelve unit stucco building built in the thirties, 43 year old Panama Jones was asleep in a small bare bedroom, Twin bed. AT six three, his feet hung off the end but a cool breeze on them wasn’t what woke him.Hays cared about those girls alright, he cared about seventy five grand worth. And he was pissed. Later the next day, he walked into a little apartment on Beaudry in Echo park – a sweet little mostly Mexican hood that hugs the boulevard between Silverlake and downtown.
A sky-blue old surfboard propped up against the living room wall was the only bit of personality in the cracked plaster interior of the little one bedroom garden apartment in the twelve unit stucco building built in the thirties. It wasn’t Hays’s apartment but he had a key.
“Mr. Jones?” he asked as he slipped the key back into his pocket and closed the door behind him, “You here? I’m gonna kill you.”
“—was an accident, Leland.” Panama said as he came out of the kitchen cubicle with a lime in one hand and a twenty year old glock in the other. “And stop threatening me every time shit happens.”
“Shit?!” Hays hissed, turning red. “That’s seventy five grand up in smoke! What the hell were they doing in there?!”
“Ozrin wanted the pick-up there.”
“He never told me.”
“I thought–“
“You thought?! No. No. You don’t think, you do as your told. When the hell were you gonna tell me?! I had to hear it from the cops? The COPS!”
“I just found out.” Panama put the gun down, then the lime.
“When?”
“This morning. I went over there for the pick-up, saw the Police–”
“Fire was three days ago. You were gonna leave them there for three days?”
“…I left them food.” Panama took out a knife, sliced the lime in half.
“I called him. Ozrin. He says the pick up was tomorrow.”
Panama opened a beer. “Tomorrow? No–” He squeezed a lime into it.
“And he said location was never changed–“
Panama put the beer to his mouth, “Ozrin’s paranoid. He changes the location every other time then changes it back.”
Hays watched
Panama take a long pull of the beer.
“Thought you quit that.”
Panama took another. “I did.” He took a moment then asked,
“–fire was three days ago? Cops told you that ?” Hays stared at him. He took out his wallet, “Get three more now, Before Ozrin takes his business somewhere else.” He tossed five twenties on the worn counter. “There’s a hundred for gas.” Then he started to leave.
“Those girls dying is on you.” Then he was gone.
Panama checked the time. Three fifteen. Four more hours of sunlight. He dumped the rest of the beer, grabbed his board and left.
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.
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.
Hays cared about those girls alright, he cared about seventy five grand worth. And he was pissed. Later the next day, he walked into a little apartment on Beaudry in Echo park – a sweet little mostly Mexican hood that hugs the boulevard between Silverlake and downtown.
A sky-blue old surfboard propped up against the living room wall was the only bit of personality in the cracked plaster interior of the little one bedroom garden apartment in the twelve unit stucco building built in the thirties. It wasn’t Hays’s apartment but he had a key.
“Mr. Jones?” he asked as he slipped the key back into his pocket and closed the door behind him, “You here? I’m gonna kill you.”
“—was an accident, Leland.” Panama said as he came out of the kitchen cubicle with a lime in one hand and a twenty year old glock in the other. “And stop threatening me every time shit happens.”
“Shit?!” Hays hissed, turning red. “That’s seventy five grand up in smoke! What the hell were they doing in there?!”
“Ozrin wanted the pick-up there.”
“He never told me.”
“I thought–“
“You thought?! No. No. You don’t think, you do as your told. When the hell were you gonna tell me?! I had to hear it from the cops? The COPS!”
“I just found out.” Panama put the gun down, then the lime.
“When?”
“This morning. I went over there for the pick-up, saw the Police–”
“Fire was three days ago. You were gonna leave them there for three days?”
“…I left them food.” Panama took out a knife, sliced the lime in half.
“I called him. Ozrin. He says the pick up was tomorrow.”
Panama opened a beer. “Tomorrow? No–” He squeezed a lime into it.
“And he said location was never changed–“
Panama put the beer to his mouth, “Ozrin’s paranoid. He changes the location every other time then changes it back.”
Hays watched
Panama take a long pull of the beer.
“Thought you quit that.”
Panama took another. “I did.” He took a moment then asked,
“–fire was three days ago? Cops told you that ?” Hays stared at him. He took out his wallet, “Get three more now, Before Ozrin takes his business somewhere else.” He tossed five twenties on the worn counter. “There’s a hundred for gas.” Then he started to leave.
“Those girls dying is on you.” Then he was gone.
Panama checked the time. Three fifteen. Four more hours of sunlight. He dumped the rest of the beer, grabbed his board and left.
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’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 but she was completely indifferent.
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.”
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