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An LA Crime Story

Feb 12
0

Delivery

By | Serial | No Comments

“I had a craving for cool-weather food last night, for thicker sauces, a deeper carnal connection. I was ready for summer to be over. I ordered the slow braised oxtails from Madame Matisse on Sunset near Lucille and waited for my delivery.

My window was open to the warm LA air, thick with nicotine light and the soft thudding flutter of namesake wings. From the corner of Wilcox, I could smell grilled chorizo and onion rings. Two buck tacos. Always an option. But I waited.

Forty minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, hungry for that meat but there stood a whole other treat. Delivery Boy, standing on my step, smelling like carne and youth.

Good God he was gorgeous, in a Chalamet way, with a little more hunk but less soul.

“I have an order for–” said hunk said, trying to read the name on the order.

“It’s for me.” I took the bag, packed with three take-out cartons – the tails and two sides. I breathed in deep. He watched.

“It does smell good.” he commented.

“So do you.” I smiled and tipped him a twenty.

Made him blush; I didn’t think a thing more of it. “Thanks.” he said, “Appreciate it–” I thought he meant the twenty but when I started to close the door, I felt him linger.

“Hope you enjoy your–?”

“Oxtails.” I told him.

“Oh.” he pulled back. No bueno.

“They’re nice…” I tried to entice him, “…she braises them until mouth tender; shreds the meat and layers it inside little pillows of dough, then sautees them to a crisp in butter.”

“I like butter.” he smiled. It was a good one.

“And duck.” he carried on, “I like her duck.” He stepped a little closer, “Simmered in fat and Remy.”

OK, he knew a thing or two, but…

“Are you old enough for Remy–?” I asked, needing to make sure, in case….

“The alcohol burns off.” he looked me in the eye, “But yeah, I’m old enough.”

I held his gaze, not sure what to say. He was,

“It’s the end of my shift.”

His car was idling out front. Someone in a Vega pulled out of a parking spot across the street. I pointed at it, “If you hurry–”

Three minutes later, I let him inside. I got two beers out of the fridge. Tsing Dao. It went well with beef. Two kinds.

He said his name was Andy. That was a lie. It didn’t matter. As he mouthed the neck of that beer, I couldn’t stop thinking how smooth his arms were, how young his dick was, how good it would feel and… But the cartons were hard to get open. He took over; opened them like a pro. I got napkins. And pillows.

We started with asparagus, their shanks sauteed but firm; their warm tips swollen with tangy cream. They went down my throat like a treat. We followed with a mound of roasted mushrooms: fleshy shitake, pungent oyster; their umami filled his mouth like a dream.

An hour in, skin to skin, we shared every inch of those buttery, warm oxtails from Madame Matisse.

My name is Rhea Porter. I eat.

Madame Matisse. Sunset near Lucille. Open for lunch and dinner. They deliver.”

Joe’s

At a little after eight under a dusk blue Ensenada sky, thirty-eight-year-old Rhea Porter navigated her ninety-three LeBaron around the potholes on the east end of Avenida Placido. She found a space outside Boom Boom Carneceria, parked, finished the last few bites of a glazed papaya donut and chased it with a swig of thermos coffee. She got out, locked her car and headed toward Joe’s café, two doors down. Between Boom Boom and Joe’s, she passed six little kids begging for money. She looked away.

Rhea paused outside Joe’s; a wave of hesitation stalled her. She shook it off, opened the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t a cafe anymore. Gone were the smells of citrus and cinnamon, of cilantro and chilis, gone were the sounds a radio playing; friends talking and gone were the little tables where a child left alone for a moment could slip outside, chasing after a bluebird.

Now there was a makeshift stage in the center of the room. On it, eight stone-faced half-naked women swayed to Dylan’s “Mr. Jones”. Smelling of Bal de Versailles, lemongrass and cooze, their scent
was sweeter than the stagnant breaths haloing the dozen male customers scattered around the room, watching them.

Man she wanted to leave. Then she spotted him, behind the bar that spanned the back wall: a small, graceful man she had once known. He had to be in his sixties now. He looked good, despite everything. When she was a girl, he’d taught her about the joys of rellanos fried in chili butter, the pungence of fresh hoja santa, the particular tang of lemons grown near the sea. He’d revealed a world to her – and though now, 22 years later, she could still find joy in a good chili relleno, chicken pot pie or Kimchee turkey melt, it was fleeting.

After awhile the man looked up and saw her. It took him a moment, then a smile accordioned his eyes. As she shoved off the wall and headed toward him, she passed a skinny jackass who thought licking his lips at her was appealing.
She reached the bar. And the bartender. Christ she was nervous. So was he.

“Hello Joe.” she stuck out her hand. He took it, drinking in her once familiar face.

“Rhea.” It really was her. He held on. “You look–”

“Tired. Yeah.” She cut him off. She knew what she looked like.

“No. Good. You look…” He was at a loss to describe how she looked to him after so many years and so much loss, “It is good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too.” She held on to his hand. “I was in town– and wanted to see if you were still here. And you are–”

“Yes. I stay. In case–” An unbearable, familiar pain filled his eyes; she couldn’t stand it.

She let go of his hand. She looked around at the stale incarnation of the once charming cafe.

“I hate what you’ve done with the place.”

He laughed, “There’s more money in–” his waving gesture referenced the room, the booze and sex.

But there was something else. Another reason he’d given up the light-filled cafe. Here there were no kids allowed.

They both let it go. Too hard to talk about.

He kept it safe, “Get you a beer?”

She shook her head, “I’m driving back to LA. Just came for the day… I saw officer Nala,” she stumbled on, not wanting to explain but needing to, ”-he’s still working– Detective Nala now–”

“Is there some news–?”

“No.” Rhea answered fast, shutting down his hope. “I thought maybe there was, but no.”

Hope. That smirk of light that makes you think the lost will be found, that love will prevail; that smirk of evidence that had sent her back to Baja. For nothing. That was that. Neither wanted to think anymore of the past, even though that’s all they had. Except…

“You still cook?” she asked.

That’s all he needed. He poured her a lime soda, “Give me a few minutes.”

He gestured for one of the dancers to take over then slipped through a curtain to a back room.

Rhea drank. It was good. Until she could feel the skinny jackass oozing toward her. She angled away from him. The stool next to her was empty. She put her purse on it as though she was saving it for someone. She pulled out her phone, starting writing on its notepad, looking occupied, sending “stay away” vibes. Jackass hovered but kept a distance, watching the show, beer in one hand, the other hand deep in his left pocket. Stroking.

Six long minutes later, Joe emerged from the back with a small, fat hunk of sizzling halibut, nestled on a pillow of tomatillo salsa, drizzled with thick crema, with a side of hot fried tortilla strips.

He set it down. She gave it her full attention. T’was a thing of beauty. She swirled the crema into the tomatillo, cut the fish with her fork, slid it through the sauce and ate it.

It was so good it made her laugh. “Still the best in town.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.” No more talking. She ate. He watched her. It was good to see her like this.

She finished; full, for now.

“Thank you, Joe.” She started to get up.

“Don’t go yet–” He went back through the curtain, into the back room.

She was alone again. Fair game. The Jackass seized the moment. He came up behind her. As he put his empty glass on the bar, he leaned into her, pressing against her, smelling of tobacco and wet cement. Fucker. She elbowed him but not too hard – gotta be careful with sleaze.

Joe came back. Jackass retreated. Joe put a take-out carton of the salsa and two bags of hot, greasy fried strips on the bar, “For the drive back”. She pulled out a twenty. He wouldn’t take it.

“Please, Joe, please– C’mon Joe–” She leaned over the bar, leaned into his face and kissed his cheek,

“It wasn’t your fault.” she whispered, “It was mine.” She set the money on the bar. She took the salsa and strips and left.

As she walked toward the door, she felt the Jackass behind her. By the time she reached it, she felt his menace. She opened the door and stepped outside.

The air was sharp with the edge it gets just before a Santa Ana has been freed. It got under her skin, irritated her. Man she was tired of hurrying away. She stopped, turned, faced him and pulled open her jacket. He looked her up and down. She knew this could go either way. He backed away. For now. She buttoned back up and headed for her car.

Rhea passed the young beggars, this time she looked at them: two were sisters, holding hands. She fished in her pockets and thrust whatever money she had left into their hands. “Go home! Vete a casa!” she snapped. The younger girl grabbed hold of the money. “Vete a casa” Rhea said again, “Ahora. Por favor.” She gave them a bag of strips too. She walked to her car. She got in and watched them until they walked away, hopefully to home.

She looked back at Joe’s and saw the Jackass step outside. He had two friends with him. “Here we go–” she thought.

She started her car. They spotted her. She whipped a U and headed up the street, out of town.

As Rhea hit the outskirts, there were three roads ahead, all leading out. One was highway 3, the main paved road heading north to Tijuana and the US border. There might be someone on th at road she could flag down for help, if needed. The second was a dirt road leading to a cluster of squat faded houses. The third was a cracked blacktop heading northeast, into the open desert.

Rhea checked her rearview; a car was approaching. The three guys were in it. Fuck it. She chose option three and headed into the desert. They followed.

The road got bumpy: potholes and scrub growing through the cracks and hares hopping across the pavement slowed her down. A coyote howled.

The trio gained on her. Her adrenaline soared but she kept her speed steady. Her headlights revealed a turnout a few hundred yards ahead.

She sped up. She swerved into it and spun-out, so that she faced them when they skidded to a halt, inches from her LeBaron. One had a gun drawn, the other a knife. She was pretty sure the skinny asshole driving had zip ties. She snatched her gun from the console and shot all three, Crack! Cxrack! Crack! Hand. Shoulder. Eye. Blood splattered. Zip tie guy could still drive. He got them the hell out of there.

Feeling relaxed, feeling a little free, Rhea took a minute to finish her coffee and breathe in the clear desert night.

Time to go home. She started the LeBaron. As she pulled away she heard a “crunch”. Damn. She got out and checked the back of the car. When she’d first spun out, a taillight had cracked on a rock, breaking the red plastic. A piece had broken off and she’d rolled over it. She picked it up. It wasn’t too bad; an easy superglue fix once she got home. The tail light, now white, shone on the rock she’d hit – a small boulder. Sticking out from under it was a slip of paper. Curious, she wedged it out. It was an old, faded receipt; hard to see where it was from. She turned the receipt over.

On the back was a handwritten note, also faded, “Dear Rhea Porter, I am here. Aggie.”

Feb 18
0

After Hours

By | Serial | No Comments

About Seven Months Earlier

At one in the morning it’s about as dark as it gets in LA. As Rhea was cruised down Hollywood Boulevard, she slowed her LeBaron as she passed the 24-hour Tommy’s Burgers on the corner of Hollywood and Bronson. A few young men were hanging out in the parking lot. They watched her as she turned up a side street, her car disappearing from view.

On the residential block, Rhea cruised slowly, looking for a rare parking place. Spotting one outside a faded ‘70’s apartment building, she inched into it. She turned off her car and waited.

Ten minutes later, one of the guys from Tommy’s walked up the street, looking around. He looked about twenty, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. 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 beautiful.
She waited while he pulled his vax card out of a back pocket and put it against the window. She checked it then flashed her card at him, a common formality these days. He nodded, “Cool.”

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.

“Yeah.” He agreed, thinking, “The alley behind the IHOP is 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. They looked 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 dog 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. 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 in 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 head, a little annoyed. He shook it off and nestled his face back between her thighs. She held his head and 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 to go to her happy place, to a December night when she was sixteen, sitting on her boyfriend’s lap in the front seat of his truck, sharing a bag of cinnamon sugar dusted sweet potato fries, so hungry for each other.

“Wait–!” she jerked away again, flush with an idea.

“What now?”

“Sit here. Under me.” She told him, “In the driver’s seat.”

“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.

“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.

Dec 16
0

Bigger Fare

By | Serial | No Comments

The coyote wasn’t gone. It continued its saunter along the path that surrounded the Hollywood reservoir. Under the sliver of a moon, the forest on either side of the path was dark. Lizards and bugs scurrying around the woods tempted the coyote but it was hungry for – hoping for – bigger fare. A few minutes later it reached a familiar spot on the west side of the reservoir. It leapt over a low wall and scrambled through the brush to a woody ravine at the base of the hill below the Hollywood sign. There it stood, still. Poised. Listening for what soon came: the sound of an animal scratching in the brush. The coyote pounced.

On the top of the hill above the ravine, an old stucco house nestled into a ridge overlooking the forest and reservoir below. Twenty-seven-year-old Daisy Valentine sat barefoot on a low stone wall that partly crumbled down into the brush. She was eating a MoonPie. An old Pentax 35mm camera rested in her lap. She watched a few tiny shimmers of light drift up from the bramble, so small they looked like dandelion fluff. She listened to the coyote and its prey scuffling. “Sadie?” she called out into the dark.

Deep in the brush, the coyote looked up. It had a squirrel in its mouth.

“Sadie! Let it go–” It heard Daisy’s voice call again but it ignored her.

Daisy was uneasy, it was always hard to hear those sounds. She waited for silence. When it came, she raised her camera. As a larger shimmer of light – about the size of a squirrel – drifted up out of the brush and disappeared into the sky, she took its picture.

Jun 28
1

Bottled

By | Serial | No Comments

Twenty minutes later Rhea was at the Denny’s on Sunset and Gower, sprinkling Tabasco on a side order of onion rings. The waitress, George, was hovering behind the counter. She looked around to make sure no one was looking then slipped Rhea’s tamale out of a microwave and gave it to her.

“I owe you.” Rhea thanked her.

“Yep.” George agreed.

Rhea sprinkled it with bottled green taco sauce. George poured her 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.

“So will LA.” Rhea replied, “Yet here I stay.”

Three empty stools down, a stylish Mexican man working on a Denver omelette chuckled.

“You love it here.” George affirmed.

“It’s unrequited.” Rhea pointed out.

George leaned in, tried to pump her up a little, “You’ll get your job back.”

Rhea let out a breath, she did not want to talk about it, “Can you get me the “Cholula” too, please?” She asked.

“Bad night?” George asked as she got Rhea the third bottle of hot sauce, the “Cholula”.

“Bad date. I’m out two tamales and I’ve got chili sauce all down my thighs.”

The omelette man looked up.

Rhea drizzled Cholula over her food.

“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 that too. The tamale on the other hand, was pretty fine and she ate it with pleasure.

“You know, that editor guy who comes in here really likes you.” George continued.

“He’s not my type.” Rhea dismissed the idea.

“What, too nice?” George dug in.

Rhea winced, “Yeah. Maybe I should just date you.”

George leaned in close, “You’re not gay.”

Rhea smiled, “My biggest flaw.”

“Hardly.” George let her know and left for another customer.

Rhea laughed. It felt good. George was a friend, maybe even a good one. She knew a thing or two about Rhea.

“Where do you get the tamales?” the fifty-ish omelette man asked.

Rhea looked at him for a minute. So the Vato was an eavesdropper. Well, wasn’t everyone?

“Out of the trunk of a Buick in Boyle Heights.” She smiled then turned away but the man wasn’t done.

He moved closer and asked, “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 then asked, “But I like the way you eat. Can you write?”

“What?” she said, looking at him again, closer. He was sober. Present. Serious.

“Can you write?” he asked again.

“A little.” She found herself answering, oddly wanting to impress him. “Mostly reports. Sometimes some… musings I guess you could say. Why?”

“I need a food writer.” He explained.

“Seriously?” Rhea didn’t believe him. Getting offered an interesting gig at two in the morning at Denny’s seemed unlikely. Cool shit like that didn’t happen. Not to her.

“Seriously.” Omelette Man confirmed.

Feb 13
0

Hot Sauce

By | Serial | No Comments

The Omelette Man was Manny Valdez, an East LA native who put hot sauce on everything: eggs, donuts, french fries, ice cream – He kept little packets of the stuff in his car and his desk drawer. It’s what he first noticed about Rhea – her triple use of Tabasco, Verde and Cholula. The second thing was the way she alluded to food with sex. Valdez published a little local throwaway rag, “The Hollywood Pulse.” It was one of those freebies stacked at the grocery stores that featured blurbs on local events, local politics and food – covering stuff like the chorizo at Yucca Meats, traffic on Franklin and the craft fair at Cheramoya Elementary. His aging food reviewer was growing partial to “senior specials” which was a valid market but Valdez wanted to “tart up” the Pulse – make it more hip – to try and get in some new advertisers and more classifieds. He needed a new reviewer and he needed an angle. This Rhea chick could be it. It also looked like she was a low-rent eater. That was definitely a must.

“A cheap food writer.” He specified.

“Cheap food or cheap writer?” Rhea asked him, already let down before she even got the job.

“Both.” Valdez answered.

“How cheap?”

“Twenty five cents a word, five to seven hundred words plus thirty bucks a week for food. No single item or entree over five bucks.”

“Five bucks? Rhea challenged him, “You’re talking a short stack, or a half-side of Mee Grob or a family sized payday and a Yoo Hoo at 7-11.”

“Exactly.” Manny assured her. “And… I’m looking for an angle. I liked that sexy thing you said about the guy and the tomatillo sauce.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Rhea pulled back.

“I heard things.”

“What do you think you heard?”

“A date. A tamale. An encounter…”

Rhea’s arm shot out fast as she reached over and yanked open the right side of his jacket, “You Vice?”

“What?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen you before. Are. You. Vice?”

“No…” Valdez smiled. This was getting interesting, “A little paranoid?” he commented.

“With cause.” She acknowledged.

They were quiet for a minute. Manny spoke first, “So… are you interested?

Rhea wanted the job. It could work out to a seven hundred a month plus the 120 for food. It wasn’t much but it was something. Still, “I’m not sure I’ll be any good.” She worried.

“Me either.” Manny shrugged. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Two things…” Rhea hesitated, “There’s some food I just don’t like–”

“Oh crap–” Valdez thought hoping she wasn’t some bagel-scooping, anti-sugar, fake-allergy claiming nut. “Like what–?”

“Cantaloupe, turkey bacon, soy, kale, veal – on principal – and duck, except Peking.” She told him.

Valdez nodded, that wasn’t too bad. He hated turkey bacon too. “And the second thing?”

“You can’t tell me what to eat.”

“Let’s give it a shot.” Valdez agreed and stuck out his hand.

Rhea shook it.

Feb 16
0

Ice Cream Night

By | Serial | No Comments

About Seven Months Earlier…

“Make it extra crispy.” east-LA native Panama Jones said into the drive-through squawk box at the Pioneer Chicken on the corner of Soto Street and Whittier Boulevard. Once a prime cruising spot for low-riders and lovers in the sixties, the Boulevard remained a haven for Mexican life in present day LA. The Micky D’s there puts chorizo in their breakfast burritos and still makes their tortillas with lard. But it was the buttered cloud of a biscuit and the spicy crunch of the fried batter at Pioneer that drew Panama to the fast-food window. A complicated man of marred beauty, he ordered the family meal with three large sides, and four medium drinks. “Thirty-six-forty-nine.” the squawk box squawked. As Angie in the delivery window handed him the two large bags, he gave her forty bucks, “Quédese con el cambio” he told her. The smile on her face getting a three-plus dollar tip made him feel good. A rarity.

He drove away, heading up Soto to Chavez. He turned west, cruising through Boyle Heights to Chinatown. He eased up and around Beaudry Street to a block of small stucco bungalows that overlooked downtown LA. Sweet street with a killer view. He parked in the driveway of a dusty white house, got out and knocked on the front door.

A fifty-ish woman opened it. “What’d you get?”

“Pioneer.” he told her.

“Extra crispy?” He nodded. She looked around then let him in, watching as he almost sauntered past her. Something was different.

“What’s up with you?”

Nothing got past her so he told her, “I’m sober. Two weeks.”

“Why?” She didn’t like this; didn’t like change. It scared her. But a lot of things did.

Panama headed into the living room. Faded swag curtains and a plastic palm dominated the room where three Mexican girls: six, seven and nine played with dolls on the carpeted floor. They smiled when they saw him, grinned when they saw the food. “Mira esto–” he smiled back and opened a third bag, showing them Twinkies, M&Ms and some pretty good chicharrones, “For later.” He put the chicken on the table. They all scrambled to eat. He promised he’d take them out for ice cream after they ate.

“You have time?” the woman asked.

The man nodded, “Yeah. You want some? Pistachio? Rocky Road?”

She shook her head, “It’ll melt.”

She went to a bedroom to gather the girls’ things. Panama quickly opened a sideboard drawer, took out a single key and pocketed it.

An hour later, in the long shadows of late evening, all three girls hurried out to Panama’s car and slipped into the backseat. Without being told, they ducked down, out of sight. Panama got in and drove them down the street, back to Sunset. A few blocks up, he pulled into a strip mall parking lot. Anchoring the north end was a Baskin Robbins. A Mexican kid was working. Panama gave the oldest girl twenty dollars and sent all three girls in to get, “consigue lo que quieras.”

They ran inside to try their best to decide between strawberry, lemon, fudge swirl, chocolate chip and twenty-seven other flavors. Panama stayed in the car and made a call. It was quick.

“Hey man, look– Sorry about this but it’s gonna be a few days late, Tuesdy. is Tuesday OK? No, they’re not getting any younger but it’s just the day after tomorrow.”

Apr 10
0

Marigold Walls

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The marigold colored walls of Barragan’s main room screamed sunshine. Rhea headed for the darkness of the bar. It was a little after seven on “Dollar Taco Monday” – an easy choice for her first review. The tacos were OK – somewhere between the fresh grilled asada ones at the Saturday night Pop-ups on Yale St. and the ones at Taco Bell. And at a buck a piece she could easily meet Manny’s five dollar limit.

She sat at the end bar stool next to a long verticle window. where she had a sliver of a view of the street outside. Sunset Boulevard started in heart of Boyle Heights – as Cesar Chavez Boulevard – it danced west through the brightly colored hood that defined LA’s origins; it shot past Chinatown where its name changed to Sunset then wove through the hip haunts of Hollywood – gliding past the glitz of the strip, winding through half a dozen stately hoods dripping with the trappings of wealth glimpsed through high hedges and iron gates before it sailed down its final hill and ended at the Pacific. Quite a street. And her view of the Hollywood boys strutting down it was a treat.

“San Miguel dark, right?” The bartender smiled at her. She smiled back,

“Yeah Ernie, thanks. And five tacos. Mixed.”

He slid her the beer and wrote up her order. She took a swig. After thinking a little, she took out her phone. She opened her notepad app and wrote a few words: “Dollar tacos. Back room. Sunset Boys. San Miguel.” She looked out the window, straining to see the boys on the street. It was a good spot to check them out – and maybe she’d find one to share a few tacos with. Several potentials hustled by. But it was still light out and she could see the frays on the edges of their strut and the tired in their eyes. This glimpse of reality sometimes made her wonder what the hell she was doing. Sometimes it even made her vow to quit. She wanted someone with hope and plans and laughter and sincere lust for her. But then dusk would fall and the boys looked better and her need overcame her vow.

A waiter brought Rhea her tacos, a display of chorizo, beefy oxtail, lime chicken, herbs, beans and cacique cream encased in fried tortillas. Heaven. She looked back out the window, maybe someone to share with would walk by. A scruffy girl about sixteen came into view, carrying an overstuffed blue IKEA bag. Rhea drained half the beer in a single gulp, wrapped the tacos in a few napkins, slapped ten dollars on the counter, took the tacos and left.

Outside, Rhea looked for the girl. She hurried past a mobile covid vax truck and two food trucks parked behind it, selling fried chicken, plantains and waffles to the newly vaxxed.

Rhea spotted the girl on the corner. She approached her.

“Sheena?” Rhea said, close behind. The girl turned.

“Officer Porter!” she cried out, recognizing Rhea.

The girl seemed shaky. Are you OK?” Rhea asked her.

“Yeah. Yeah…” Sheena answered, unconvincingly then looked at the napkin-wrapped bundle Rhea was holding. “Those tacos?”

Rhea offered them to her, “One is chorizo.”

Sheena flashed a brief smile as she took four of the little tacos, leaving the chorizo one. “I’ve been looking for you. Where’ve you been?”

“Sorta on a break.” Rhea explained then asked again, “Everything OK?”

Sheena wolfed a taco. Finally she answered, “No.”

“What happened?” Rhea asked.

“Nothing happened really, it’s just… There’s this smell…”

“Where?”

“Down by camp.”

Rhea looked at Sheena’s IKEA bag, “So you’re moving?”

She nodded “Just until it goes away… ”

“It’s that bad?”

“Yeah.” Sheena confirmed.

Rhea tried to offer an explanation, “It’s probably just all the trash there. Or maybe all the piss, soaking the ground.”

“No…” Sheena said, kind of slow. Something was bothering her.

“Could be the muck in the L.A. River.” was Rhea’s next idea.

Sheena looked her in the eye, “It’s kind of a scary smell.”

Apr 10
0

Remains

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A little after nine that night Rhea followed Sheena along the top of the cement embankment of the LA River. Daylight was nearly gone; shadows were long. As they neared the Chavez Bridge, Sheena pointed down, to a clump of debris under the bridge.

“There.”

“Stay here.” Rhea told Sheena as she scrambled down the bank where it trickled under the Chavez bridge. She walked a few yards to the remains of a homeless camp: a moldy sleeping bag, some squishy old sweat pants, three empty Cheetos bags and an empty can of diet Coke and Progresso Lite Pot Pie soup.

A sudden whoosh of air brushed down on her. She thought nothing of it – LA was a city of Santa Anas – she was used to sudden gusts. But the tail end of the second gust carried on it a faint smell. She knew it well. She looked around for a body but she knew it would be a little farther away. She took another whiff then looked up the opposite embankment toward the street above. A Chavez street bridge crossed over it. The young woman photographer was walking over it. Then she stopped. Through an opening between balustrades, Rhea could see the woman was barefoot. Was she homeless? Rhea wondered, though she seemed too clean. Plus she carried an old 35mm camera and an air of cool. Then she stopped. She looked down. At Rhea. Her expectant look pulled Rhea in like a memory.

“Find anything?” Sheena’s voice broke the spell.

Rhea turned. Sheena was about to skitter down the embankment.

“Stay there!” Rhea called up to her. Rhea glanced back up at the woman on the bridge. She was moving on, crossing to the side Sheena was on. Rhea decided the woman was just another hipster photog, looking for a moody downtown LA pic.

Rhea went back to Sheena. “You have somewhere you can stay for a few nights?” she asked her.

“What is it?”

“Probably just a dead dog or racoon. I’ll get animal control to pick it up in the morning. Is there somewhere you can-”

“I can crash downtown–”

“Try the shelter on San Pedro–”

Sheena shook her head. Hard.

“They’ve got better security now–” Rhea half-heartedly tried to convince her but Sheena wasn’t having it. Rhea understood – it would take an army of security and the compassion of masses to stem the violence and troubles of the homeless in LA. Rhea dug around in her pockets and gave Sheena almost seventeen dollars.
“Get some food. And be careful–”

Sheena took the money. Suddenly she grabbed Rhea and hugged her close. “You too.” she cautioned then hurried across the street and headed downtown.

Rhea walked across the Chavez Bridge. Below her was the homeless camp. Behind her was the city skyline. A few yards from the boulevard on the northeast side of the bridge was a sagging, shuttered old bar called Domingos. She went around to the back. She checked in trash cans and knee high weeds, sniffing and honing in on a spot behind an old tire. There it was: a rotting dead possum. She backed away then turned around. She was facing the back of the bar. She sniffed; smelled something. She walked to the bolted back door and put her nose to the edge of it. She sniffed. She went around to the front. That door was jammed tight with twenty years of grime and a ten dollar lock. Deciding the smell gave her cause, she jimmied it open. Air that held the whiff of charred beans kissed her as it escaped the place. She went inside.

Her eyes adjusted to a hazy darkness. The significant light of an LA night bled through three small curtained windows. She saw a bar against one wall, a pool table in the middle of the small room and a closed door in the back. A page of smoke slid out from under it. The door was locked. Three kicks knocked it open. Smoke veiled the room. Rhea walked through it. A blackened stove stood against against a burned wall, splattered with the scorched remains of a pot of beans that had exploded.

Rhea slid a finger through a layer of soot that covered everything. It was pitted by drops of water from the ceiling sprinklers that had put out the fire. But they hadn’t put it out fast enough. There was a spent extinguisher on the floor, still in the hand of a dead girl lying there. Rhea braced herself against the smell and bent over her. The girl looked Mexican. Her other arm reached out to two more dead Mexican girls, huddled together by the bolted back door. The girls from Chinatown. Their arms were around each other. Their eyes were open. Their bodies were splattered with extinguisher foam. They’re nostrils were blackened with smoke. The youngest one was still warm. Rhea checked for a pulse.

She pressed the sides of the girl’s mouth open. Her blue lips puckered like a snap dragon. The air above her shimmered and rippled then fluttered away, as though she’d exhaled one last dream.

Rhea jumped, a little freaked by the other-worldliness of it.

Back outside on the cement bank across the river from Domingos, the photographer dropped to one knee, steadied her lens and snapped off a half dozen pictures of the shimmer as it rose up into the night sky just above Domingos.

In the blackened kitchen, Rhea checked again for a pulse on the little girl. Nothing. The girl was dead. Rhea took out her phone and snapped a few pics of the dead girls. Then she called the boss.

Jun 21
0

Baseball Nut

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It was Detective Sergeant Matt Strickland’s night off. He’d had Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner, with an added sprinkle of romano, grilled to bubbling in a toaster oven. He’d watered the 57 succulents he kept on the screened-in little terrace of his ground-floor one-bedroom Hollywood apartment. He’d watched the nine o’clock news then taken four herbal sleep aids. He woke up fast when his cell phone buzzed. When he heard Rhea’s familiar cadence, “Hey Strickland–” he was fully awake.

“Detective– ” he automatically responded, “Are you ok? Where are you?”

“Fine. Cesar Chavez, a half block up from Pleasant. Place called Domingos.” She said no more. She didn’t need to.

He already had one leg in his pants. He hung up, stuck his other leg in, gave his balls a sprinkle with Gold Bond, swished a mouthful of Listerine, shrugged on a worn-out short-sleeved shirt, grabbed his gun and was out the door.

Nineteen minutes later he was inside Domingos, standing next to Rhea, looking down at the three small bodies. He took out his phone and called it in. Rhea hung close, trying to hear as he asked dispatch who was available to partner.

“Who’s coming in?” she asked him after he hung up. He ignored her and looked back at the dead.

“Think they died of smoke?” Rhea asked him for an early opinion.

He knelt down and looked closely at the girls’ sooty mouths. “Probably but…” He looked around “If there was enough smoke to kill them… why wasn’t a fire called in?”

“Grease fire…?” she suggested.

He agreed with the probability. He looked around the room. There were no other exits— “Just these two doors. Locked.” He looked at her. She agreed, pointing to the kitchen door. “I busted that one down.”

“Three girls. Locked in.” he continued his early questions, adding, “Mexican?”

Rhea looked back at them. “I’d say so. They have that beauty.”

He looked around the room again; he peered into empty cupboards and into the empty pantry. Rhea spotted a dense cobweb strung from a corner of a worn counter to the wall. She blew on it. Dusty smoke scattered.

“This place has been closed for awhile.” she realized.

He nodded. “Might be a stash joint.”

“For Illegals.” She said. He nodded again, still thinking. She watched them for a minute, sad. “Some sanctuary city we are…”

He went over to the stove, he studied the burned food that had exploded against the wall. “Probably just cooking some dinner and it caught fire.”

Rhea nodded, “Still… somebody locked them in. Once we find them–”

He turned and gave her a long look. “We?”

Rhea ignored him. She looked closer at the burnt food on the wall.

“Have you even gone to therapy?” Strickland asked.

“Yes.” Rhea answered then looked away, concentrating on some sticky white blob on the counter. Strickland watched as she smelled it. She searched the room for a trash can, finding one in a corner, she looked inside. There were some plastic utensils, two empty soda cans, an empty refied bean can dusted in soot.

She went back to the blob. She looked at Strickland.

“I wouldn’t.” He told her.

She tapped it then licked her finger. She tasted and concentrated. Finally a revelation: “Baseball Nut.”

“What?” Strickland asked.

“It’s Baseball Nut ice cream. Baskin Robbins.”

“You sure?” Strickland asked.

“Yeah.” she was sure. “They only have it in the summer. It’s pretty good. Vanilla with raspberry swirl and cashews.”

Strickland paused, taking a moment to acknowledge her deduction. “I’ll be sure to tell Dawson when he gets here–”

“Dawson.” Rhea shook her head.

“Dawson is a good cop–” he tried to cut her off.

She argued, “Dawson’s wants a headline. There’s no print in dead illegals. He’ll ditch it.”

“Maybe it’s just a fire, and that’s all.” Strickland ended it for now.

Rhea looked back at the bodies on the floor; studying them. Powerless.

Outside, across the river the photographer stood on the bank, searching the skyline. Her name was Daisy Valentine. She was twenty-seven years old. Her blonde hair hung down her back. Her t-shirt said “Endeavour”. Her stance was strong and patient as her eyes searched the skyline for any more puffs of light. Her Pentax was strung around her neck. She held it in her hand, supporting the old zoom lens; The moon was full and rising. She moved her lens until it reflected a beam of moonlight then bounced it over the river bed, pooling its way across the crack in Domingos’ bolted back door.

Inside Domingos’ kitchen, that reflected moonlight found its way through that crack and crossed over the dead girls like a laser. It hit something purple on one of their bodies. It shimmered, catching Rhea’s eye. She looked closer. Transfixed. A sound caught in her throat, a cry. Strickland turned to her and looked at what she was looking at. On one of the dead girl’s wrists – barely visible but now glinting in the sliver of moonlight – was a plastic bracelet with a purple tin charm on it that advertised “Boom Boom Carneceria. Ensenada. Mexico.”

Jul 13
0

Cold Tacos

By | Serial | No Comments

Strickland stared at the cheap little Boom Boom charm. He knew this could mean something. It could mean everything to Rhea.

Or… “It could be nothing.” He reminded her.

“Boom Boom is two doors down from Joe’s–!” Rhea nearly yelled, hating that she was getting emotional.

“I know where it is.” Strickland broke in. “But not every kid that goes missing near Boom Boom was snatched—”

“One was.” She reminded him.

“All I am saying is, you know how this goes– we’ll follow the evidence, but–”

“You need me on this.” She interrupted, emboldened.

“As soon as Dr. Gallows clears you.”

“Eighteen, Strickland. The guy was eighteen–”

“He’d been eighteen for four days.”

“Still… Legal.” She pointed out. Not for the first time. “And this is my case.”

“It’s the Department’s.” he corrected her.

“No pay.” she bargained with him, “The department won’t have to pay me. I’ll stay on unpaid leave and just work this-” Rhea gestured toward the dead girls. He saw the urgency in her eyes and the clarity. He knew she’d be an asset to the case. He knew he probably should let her back on the squad. But she’d messed up. Finding her with some teen going down on her in the back seat of her car set a bad example. Yeah the kid was eighteen and she’d hadn’t paid him – yet – or officially broken the law but Strickland was pissed at her. And hurt. Why she chose barely legal boys was beyond him. He’d invested so much in her. He’d taught her everything he knew about life. About being a cop. He knew he didn’t have a chance of influencing her romantic or sexual choices but he sure as hell was going to make her pay for her bad judgement.

“Go home.” he told her, trying to usher her out of the room.

“I’ve stopped– I promise. OK?”

He turned away as they heard cars drive up. He walked toward the door. She followed.

“OK?”

“Go home.” He told her again as he held the door open for her to leave.

Outside, Rhea crossed over Chavez and sat on a cement bridge railing.

She watched as three of her colleagues walked into Domingos: The CSI tech, the ME and smarmy Detective Dawson. It was hard being outside. She was burning with anger. This was her case. And what if–? What if it led to what happened to her sister outside Boom Boom twenty two years ago? Maybe she should go to the chief – tell him she’d been wrongly probated– But she knew he’d only listen to Strickland. Man she was hungry. She wondered if nearby Guisados was open. She wondered what young men were hanging out at Tommy’s or Torung or Alegria, eating Dim Sum and Phad Thai and French Fries and how nice it would be to eat an onion ring off of one of them. She shook her head to get those thoughts out of it. She forced her mind back to the scene and waited. She looked over the bridge, below it the 101 and the 10 freeways converged. She watched the streaks of red tail lights pouring into LA. This was nearly the exact same spot she was at on her first night in LA., completely alone at seventeen. Twenty plus years later and here she was again, still looking for her sister. What a fucking failure.

She sniffed the air, then sniffed her clothes. She pulled the last Barragan’s taco out of her pocket. The napkins it was wrapped in were blotched with grease. She ate it. It was cold and flattened but still pretty good. She opened her phone notepad. She typed a few words: sausage, ancho, warm night, dollar.

Half an hour later, the ME gently carted three small body bags out. He glanced across the street as he closed the back of the morgue van. He saw Rhea. He raised one hand in a small, inconspicuous wave. She did the same, acknowledging the solidarity. He was the only one who contacted her after her back-seat bust by Vice nine and a half weeks ago and her subsequent temporary expulsion for “indecent behavior”.

Another twenty minutes later, Strickland and Detective Dawson left Domingos and headed four and a half blocks to Main Street Headquarters downtown.

Rhea got in her car and followed. She parked her LeBaron outside and waited for Strickland and Dawson to come out. She was impatient. She took out her phone. She went to an INFO app she used to find addresses and looked up Domingos’ address. She got the name of an owner. She looked him up. He owned a furniture warehouse on Palmetto near Fourth. Just under twelve blocks away. “Furniture. Well hmmm–” she thought. She started her car and took off, heading south, toward Fourth Street.

Inside Headquarters, on the sixth floor, Strickland was online, using department software to find who owned Domingos. He loved that the internet sped all this up. Twenty years ago, he’d have to wait for “business hours” and then call around and visit the various records departments. But back then, they almost had a handle on child exploitation, child trafficking and kid porn. They were almost closing in on it; it felt like they could see an end. But now? No way. The internet was a sickos playground and there were millions of sickos in the world.

Four minutes into his search, he had a name: Leland Hays.

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