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Serial

Jun 26
0

Peanut Butter Cups

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Fifty-four year old Leland Hays was aging well. But then again, it was LA. In his mind, he was thirty two and after years of Juvederm injections, botox and a chin implant, he looked about forty four. Still hot enough to get cool girls. Right then on the showroom floor of his furniture warehouse, he was bending a boyish young Thai waitress over the end of an antique platform bed he’d just imported from China and slamming her from behind. Then he bent her over an Indonesian loveseat, then a Moroccan chaise until he finally came in her over an oversized ottoman sadly re-upholstered in a purple and gold polyester damask. Not his best piece. He loved antiques. Though these pieces he imported were faux-antiques, they were mostly still beautiful and people in LA paid a decent price for them.

The waitress was quiet the whole time. He liked that. He’d told her that if she was quiet, he’d give her a present. She did make some noise when she unwrapped a peanut butter cup and ate it when she was bent over the chaise but other than that, she was good. He let her pick out a small punched tin Mexican light for her apartment before kicking her out.

Rhea was parked across the street from the loading dock of the Palmetto Street warehouse. Next to it was a little green door under a nondescript sign that read: H&H Imports. She stared at the door, wondering what to do. She still had her badge. She kept it tucked in a kleenex packet in her glove box, hoping she’d be re-instated at any moment. Though she wasn’t supposed to use it, she had. Twice. Once for free valet-parking at the Grove and once for a free Metro ride to Santa Monica. Using it now could really piss Strickland off… if he found out. She figured she had about another twenty minutes to decide; she was sure he’d be over here himself with Dawson pretty soon.

The green street door opened. A young Thai woman hurried out, carrying a Mexican lamp. The woman got in her Kia and drove away. Rhea opened her glove box, unwrapped her badge and got out of her car.

Hays had decided to do some inventory. He was in his office when someone started banging on the street door. He thought maybe the girl had forgotten something. He opened his door still wearing his bathrobe. A woman cop named Porter who smelled like cilantro thrust a badge in his face and wanted to know if he owned a place called Domingos on Cesar Chavez.

He knew she knew the answer so he told her he did. “Why?” he asked her, “What’s going on?”

Before Rhea could answer, Strickland was beside her. Dawson was right behind.

“What the Hell–?” Hays asked.

“There was a fire in the kitchen at Domingos.” Strickland stepped up, shooting Rhea a look and moving in front of her.

Rhea bristled when Dawson added, “We found three bodies. Girls. Probably died trying to get out.”

“Was it bad?” Hays asked.

“Well.” Rhea commented, jostling for relevance, “There’s three dead girls in there.”

“Know anything about them?” Dawson continued, showing Hays a snap of the dead girls. Hays looked quickly and shoved it away, like he’d been dirtied.

“No. No – it’s a bar. We don’t let kids in there. Maybe they’re neighborhood kids who broke in or something and couldn’t get out–”

“Any of your employees have kids they might’ve brought there. Any of your friends?”

“No. Besides, it’s been closed for a couple weeks now–”

“Why’s that?” Strickland asked, trying to get back into it.

“The place was strictly an investment. It used to be packed. Hip types used to come in for a beer and a game of pool after doing their foodie thing on Breed Street. But ever since the city shut down all the taco pushers a year or so ago, the foodies stopped coming around. Business dried up. I opened on weekends for awhile but not recently. I was really never there and frankly, I haven’t even driven by in over a week.” He waved his hand over the warehouse, “Furniture is my main business.”

He stepped aside, allowing them a glance into the warehouse. It was cursory but something caught Rhea’s eye.

“Anyone else have access to Domingo’s, Mr. Hays? A manager, bartender, friend?” Strickland continued.

“I had a bartender but I laid her off when I closed the place. She gave her key back.” Hays told him.

“What’s her name?”

“Ahhh…” he thought for a moment, “Myrna.”

“Last name?”

Hays ran his hand through a shock of sandy blond hair plugs. “I really can’t remember.”

“Want to check your records for us? Give us a name?” Dawson asked. Hays was quiet. “No records?” Dawson pressed.

“She came in, asked for a job. She said she’d work for tips.” Hays smiled, “I’m sure she reported them all. I trust people, Detective… it’s the only way to get through life.”

“Where do you get your product from?” Rhea asked, casually.

“China, Indonesia, Thailand, a little from India, even a little from France.” Hays answered, always the salesman. “You looking for something in particular? We have good price on beds right now.”

Rhea ignored him. She pointed to a spot inside, where a rustic Mexican desk stood. “That. What’s that? Indian?”

“Ahh… Mexican.” Hays answered as Strickland looked back at Rhea. “We get a little of that but not much. Hard to compete with La Fuente and Direct From Mexico. I can give you a police discount. Five percent.”

“Thanks. Let me think about it.” Rhea said, then added “You mind if I take a quick picture?”

Hays stepped aside, gesturing for her to go ahead. As Rhea took her phone out and snapped a picture of the desk, Strickland followed her lead and asked:

“How long have you been in the furniture business, Mr. Hays?”

“Too long” Hays laughed, “A little over thirty years.”

Dawson gave Hays his card and told him to call if he remembered anything.

Hays had one last question, “Let me ask you– do you get rid of the bodies or–”

Dawson explained that they’d handle it and let him know when he could have access back to Domingos. “Might be a week. Maybe less.” He told him. Hays nodded.

As the detectives started to leave, Strickland turned back. “One last thing,” he asked, “You have insurance on the bar, right?”

Hays nodded, “As basic as it gets. I’ll be lucky if they pay for a coat of paint. Believe me, I’m the one losing out here.”

“And the dead girls.” Strickland reminded him.

A smile slid onto Hays’s face like a cat’s second eyelid. “Of course, Detective; goes without saying.” He closed the door.

Rhea held back as Strickand and Dawson walked away.

The two men reached Dawson’s car. It was parked next to Rhea’s. They waited for her to catch up.

“That wasn’t cool, Porter.” Dawson started in on her.

Rhea walked to her car, opened her car doo, paused and turned back to him,

“Say hi to Stacey for me.”

Dawson nodded.

“You’ve been together a long time, yeah?” she asked, lingering; waiting for Strickland to get closer, within earshot.

“Ten years.” Dawson admitted, curious–

“What is she now, almost twenty-six?” Rhea commented. She looked at Strickland, got in her car and drove away.

“What a piece of work.” Dawson muttered after she’d gone.

“You know her story–” Strickland started to defend her; “Sister got taken in Ensenada–”

Dawson shrugged. “Long time ago, yeah?”

Strickland nodded, “We think she was taken by some guy bringing furniture up to LA.

Dawson shrugged again; his arm gestured the myriad of warehouses, half a dozen were furniture importers. “We’ll see what we see.”

Dec 21
0

Corn Chips

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Rhea drove twelve and a half blocks west on Fourth. Once she passed the bulk of the homeless camps that bloated the sidewalks, she pulled into a 24 hr. gas station mini-mart and parked. A giant billboard loomed above her, advertising a new TV series. It was text only, presciently stating “You are 141 miles from the border.” She got a bag of Fritos and a soda from the Mart. Back in her car, she opened her phone and looked at the picture she’d taken of the Mexican desk in Hays’s warehouse. She Googled “rustic Mexican desk Ensenada”. Her phone died. She rebooted it. Her notepad came up on the home screen, with the words she’d jotted down a mere nine hours ago: “sausage, ancho, warm night”. Shit. She had to write a review. She’d totally forgotten. She started her car and left. She drove up Virgil to Sunset. It was after two in the morning. Closer to the boulevard, she cruised past a few lingering hookers and hustlers. She turned on “voice record” on her phone.

When things in her life were darker than usual – when Rhea didn’t have the time, inclination or extra money to escape the circumstances of her life or the details of her job – she either watched QVC or she wrote. Poems. Morbidly romanticized rhymes scribbled in a journal she’d sporadically kept over the years. That hobby served her now. She started to talk:

“…Street’s full of hustlers looking for cash and fools looking for love.”

As she turned onto Sunset, she passed late-night clubs and a few food trucks. Skinny hipsters were on their phones, ignoring each other. A Mexican vendor sold churros – while his wife cradled their sleeping child.

“Everyone else is looking for either fame or minimum wage…” she talked on.

A coyote crossed the street in front of her, carrying a bag of Cheetos in its mouth.

“City of Angels, my ass.”

She drove west, into Silver lake. It was coming on to three in the morning. The convertible top of her car was down. She passed strip mall restaurants that were closed for the night: –Jitlada, Alegria, Al Wazir…

She passed Yummie’s donuts. They were baking. That smell, that divine perfume wafted out. Irresistible. It drew her in. Well, that and the sinewy young hunk who was sweeping up outside, preparing to open. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Her favorite.

She pulled into the strip mall and parked outside a Baskin Robbins. A few people had gathered outside Yummie’s door, waiting for it to open. Rhea got out of her car and headed towards them and toward young Mr. Sinewy.

A twenty-something cool girl in a tie-dyed dress started talking to him. He was flirting with her. Rhea stopped. Young lust had a kind of perfection she knew she couldn’t touch. She got back in her car and drove into Hollywood. Home.

Jan 24
0

Laurel Avenue

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The Laurel Terrace Apartments on the 1500 block of North Laurel Avenue in Hollywood was a 1960’s low-slung building with the requisite palm trees, up-lighting and aqua blue courtyard pool, surrounded by one and two bedroom apartments. Rhea turned into the underground parking. She parked in her spot, walked up a ramp to the courtyard, past the kidney-shaped pool and went to apartment 114. There was a note on the door, folded in half: “Dear Ms. Porter, your rent is past due.” She tore it off and went inside.

Rhea had lucked out with this apartment. It was a decent sized one bedroom with shag carpeting and a big picture window that looked out onto that kidney-shaped swimming pool. She’d first moved in sixteen years ago. It was rent-controlled, so even now, at $1675 it was cheap. Affordable for a single woman on a veteran cop salary. But she’d sent her mom most of her paycheck over the past fifteen years and with the added expense of sex with several young dudes every month and her recent suspension, her cash flow was seriously suffering. For the first time since she’d been off the streets, she felt that familiar pang of panic about having a safe place to sleep.

She poured some leftover coffee over ice and laced it with milk and a few of the packets of Stevia George had given her. She brushed her panic away. If she lost her apartment, she was pretty sure Strickland would take her in again. But it wouldn’t come to that, she told herself. She had a new job to tide her over until… But was it enough?

She sat at her stained formica counter. She looked at her food notes. She tried to concentrate on chorizo and champurrado and San Miguel. She tried to write more. But she couldn’t. Thoughts of dead girls crowded her brain. She shoved the “rent past due” note aside and got down to her real work:

This is what she knew: she knew that there were three dead girls in a dive bar on the border of Boyle Heights. She knew they were Mexican. She knew they were illegals – either smuggled or trafficked. She knew they would not be ID’d, that the department would not pursue it and that their cremated remains would be held for three years then buried in a mass grave in a south east patch of Evergreen Cemetary in Boyle Heights with all the other un-named un-claimed remains that died that year. The grave would be marked “2019”.

Unless… She could ID them. Because in her gut Rhea also knew they were somehow connected to the disappearance of her five- year-old sister twenty-two years ago from a cafe two doors down from Boom Boom Carneceria. She knew she needed to get her ass back down to Ensenada.

Rhea looked at the pictures on her phone of the dead girls. She looked at the picture she’d taken of Hays’s rustic Mexican desk. She googled pictures of furniture from Baja Mexico. There were hundreds of places with tons of desks all over both the Baja Peninsula and mainland Mexico. She’d expected that – the desk wasn’t in any way unusual. The good news was she could place it in any one of three Ensenada stores that featured rustic items: Fausto Polanco, Sterling and Muebles La Mision. It was a start. She still had a few contacts down there and now she had the time. All she needed was money.

She figured she needed about two hundred and fifty for gas, round trip. Maybe another two hundred for a motel and essentials. She was about eighty bucks short on her rent. So total, she needed just over five hundred.

She went back to her food notes: “dollar tacos. Blue corn. Creamy.” She closed her eyes. She thought, then wrote:

“I sidled up to him in Barragan’s back room, smelling his chorizo with cacique and chipotle cream. Tucked into a mini corn tortilla, at a buck a pop – it was a two-bit writer’s dream. “Give me a bite.” I told him as I downed a swig of my San Miguel, “And I’ll give you a bite of my chicharrones on a pillow of black beans…” She wrote about skin and hands and mouths and juice, toying with it, changing a few words here and there, changing punctuation. She wondered if it was good enough. What if Valdez hated it? What if he fired her before she made a dime?

She was hungry. Again. Still. She opened her bag of Fritos. She took it to her window. As she munched, she looked out. She caught a glimpse of a coyote skulking just outside the courtyard on the far side of the pool.

She slipped out of her apartment and quietly walked toward the pool. She leaned against a palm tree, eating the Fritos, looking for the coyote. She tugged at her T-shirt, pulling the V neck down to flick off bits of salt and crumbs. She looked back up, startled to see Strickland, standing a few yards away from her, looking at her chest where her tugging had highlighted her cleavage. Even in the dim light, she could feel him blush.

What the fuck? she thought as the heat of realization rippled through her. He wanted her? It threw her for a minute. It was weird. I mean, good lord, he’d scraped her off the sidewalk more than once. Pulled her out of a dozen dark nights. Wiped her flu snot. Wiped her ass when when they’d both eaten some bad Chicken Mole on the Day of the Dead. Sure, if she thought about it, he was kind of hot in a James Comey way but he was a second father to her. More than that, he was nice. She didn’t know what to do with this. Neither did he. He looked away. He started to walk away, toward his apartment across the pool from hers. She wasn’t going to let her moment of power go.

“Did you find that bartender? Myrna?” She called after him.

He stopped; shook his head, “Not yet.”

“I’ve got three furniture joints in Ensenada that that desk in Hays’s warehouse could’ve come from.” She told him.

Strickland nodded; kept walking. He was embarrassed and needed to get away from her.

“Weird that Hays is a furniture importer, yeah?”

“Maybe.” he cautioned. “But there’s a hundred in LA, Rhea.” he added, resuming his retreat. She was losing him; losing her window of power.

She followed him. She wouldn’t let up. “There is only one who also owns a bar with three dead Mexican girls in it, at least one of whom has a tie to Boom Boom.”

He kept walking.

“I’m as good as Dawson–”

“Yes.” Strickland acknowledged.

“If I was a man, I’d never have been punished.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Nothing.” Strickland tried to claw back some control.

“Let me back, Strickland.” She whispered into his back.

He was a few feet from his door. She begged, “Please.” He slowed.

“I’m sorry, OK? What I did.” She told him, wanting him to understand, at least a little.

“Look, it’s how I deal, Strickland. That’s all. It’s just how I deal.” she offered. “And the kid was eighteen.”

He reached his door. He opened it. He turned to her, softening a little. She stepped toward him.

“How do you deal?”

He looked at her, hard. He’d known her so long. He’d seen her scared and he’d seen her brave. He’d seen her fight, learn, cry. He’d seen her chase down a lead with no sleep for three days straight. He’d seen her give up. He’d seen her start over. He’d seen her kill. He’d seen her hate. Lord knows he’d seen her eat. But looking at her now, he wondered if she’d ever really seen him.

“I garden.” he answered, a little burned she didn’t remember; she’d seen his garden a thousand times. She’d lived in it.

She realized her mistake. She started to speak. He finished,

“Fix it, Rhea. Fix yourself then come back.” He went inside and shut the door. She heard the deadbolt click shut. His light went on and his shades stayed half-down.

Rhea stood there a moment. Rebuffed, again. What the fuck? “Fix herself?” She took off her shoes. She took off her skirt. She lifted her T-shirt up over her head, baring her breasts. She dropped the t-shirt on the ground. All she had on was a pair of men’s boxers. She slipped those off, paused for moment, facing Strickland’s blinds, then dove into the pool.

Inside apartment #122, Strickland looked out the side of his front blind and watched Rhea swim under the water – rippling, shimmering. Wet. He watched her break the surface. He watched her imperfect beauty glistening in reflected pool light.

He poured himself a short iced tea and laced it with Makers Mark. He hated her right now.

Rhea tread water, watching Strickland’s window. She could feel something besides the water – a vibe. It wasn’t a good one. She swam to the steps, got out, pulled her clothes on over her wet body and hurried to her apartment.

Once inside, she wrapped herself in a towel and sat at the little table by the front window. She looked across at Strickland’s apartment. All his blinds were closed. She knew he was pissed. That wasn’t good. She was messing up right and left; miss-judging, lashing out, blowing every chance she had. Literally. God she hated self-reflection. She needed chili cheese fries. They had some good ones at that Tommy’s on Hollywood and Bronson.

Aug 22
0

Chili Fries

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Fifteen minutes later, Rhea drove up to Tommy’s. It was after three. Only a few of the late night boys were still out, hanging around on the corner. They were the not-so-beautiful. Thank God for that. She was determined to resist the urge and these were easier to ignore than the finer ones who got swooped up before eleven.

She pulled into the drive-through lane, behind a car full of Stoners.

The speaker squawked. “Welcometotommy’swhatchoowant?”

Stoner driver yelled back, “Two big motherfucking tacos and a, a–”

The speaker squawked, “We don’t have no tacos–”

“And a couple Chimmichangas–” Stoner carried on.

Squawker drowned him out, “This is Tommy’s, man–”

Stoner blasted on, “And some nachos and a–”

Squawker blasted back, “We don’t have that shit, man, lookit the menu-”

The three stoners stared at the backlit plastic menu for forever. No comprende. Rhea was hungry. And annoyed. She looked around and saw a white boy with long legs, sitting on the cement wall next to the drive-through, nursing a coke. He was definitely not ragged. And it looked like his jeans had a button fly – easy access. “Lordy, no–” she thought. I cannot go there. She looked back at the stoners, who were still staring at the menu, and honked. Loud. The stoners jumped and looked back at Rhea. The head Stoner yelled at her.

“Whatchoo want, baybee, Huh? How ’bout I getchoo a taco? Huh? You like a taco?”

Another stoner pulled him back in the car. Their windows were open. In the quiet late night air, Rhea heard every word, “No, man, she’s too old–”

Rhea had enough. She got out of her car, walked up to them and leaned into the driver’s window.

“Put the smoke down and look at the menu.” she ordered them. Still no comprende. She pointed to it and read, “Hamburger. Double Burger. Cheese Burger. Chili Dog. Fries. Double fries. Chili fries– and oooh! Look! there’s a burrito–” she leaned in farther and addressed the stoner who’d dissed her.

“Maybe just some plain fries for you, fat boy, you’re looking a little chunky.”

“Woo hoo hoo hoo hoo–” they started laughing. Cracking up. But did not look at the menu. Chunky boy started to unzip his fly, “I’ll show you something chunky, lady–”

Rhea pulled out her badge and slammed it against the windshield for all to see.

That really cracked them up. They laughed. Giggled. Guffawed. Higher than a kite. Rhea glanced up and saw the white boy looking at her, cooler than cool. He hesitated then came over. Shit. Rhea slipped her badge back into her pocket – she didn’t want the white boy to know she was a cop – just in case… As she straightened up, the stoners stepped on it and drove away.

“You OK?” White boy asked her, surprising her with his concern. A nice boy, huh, she thought. This was new. It turned her off a little but they were alone in the parking lot now and he was two, maybe three feet from her. Up close, he was beautiful. She could smell his skin. Irresistible. She was about to make her offer when the speaker squawked.

“Welcometotommy’swhatchoowant?” startling them.

“Jesus!” She laughed. She was nervous all of a sudden. Excited. She spoke back, “Double order of chili fries.” she turned to white boy, “You want anything? It’s on me.”

“Umm.” he said. “Just some regular fries. Thanks.”

She added an order of fries then told him, “You should get into my car. I’ll pull up to the window.” He did. Then she did. As they waited for their order, she kept looking at his forearms. They were lightly golden, kissed by the sun, well defined. And young. She wanted them holding her legs open as she swallowed a hunk of chili fries as he buried his head in her.

“You’re kind of wet.” he mentioned, looking at her hair.

“I just went swimming.”

“Nice.”

“You want to go?”

“Swimming?”

“Yeah.”

“Now?”

“After we eat. Yeah.”

“Naw.” he said. “Thanks anyway.”

He must’ve seen her badge, she thought. “I’m not gonna bust you.” she let him know.

“What?”

“I’m not vice.”

“Ah…OK.”

“So–you want to go?”

“Naw. I’m working.”

“I know. I’ll pay you.”

“For what?”

Well he was a coy one, she thought. Or maybe he was shy – new at this. Even better. It gave her a feeling of power, control. She was gonna like this. Maybe even love it.

Their order was ready. She paid then rather than pull into a parking spot and let him out, she pulled out and onto the boulevard.

“Where you going?” He asked.

At a red light she stopped and leaned over and whispered. “After we go swimming, I’m gonna eat these off of you.”

He backed away. She smiled, “It’ll be good.”

“You think I’m a whore?” he asked.

She was thrown a bit, she didn’t know what to say.

“Lady, I was killing time at Tommy’s waiting for the all-night lab on Vine to process some film I need to pick up.” He checked his watch, “It should be ready in, like, twenty minutes.”

Rhea looked straight at the road as she drove. She couldn’t look at him. She was embarrassed. And mad. He felt bad for her. He looked her over, deciding she was kind of cute.

Her left hand was on the steering wheel; her right hand was on her thigh. He reached over and took her hand.

She freaked. “What’re you doing?”

“Holding your hand.”

She pulled it away. Affection sooo wasn’t her thing.

They were stopped at a red light. She reached across him and opened his door, pointing up the street, “Vine’s half a block up–”

“Ok then. I’ll see you around.” He got out and hurried across the street, never looking back.

As she waited for the light to turn green, Rhea tore open her bag of chili cheese fries and started eating.

Aug 29
0

Night Flight

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After twenty-year-old Travis Del Rio got out of Rhea’s car he hurried across Vine to an alley a half-block up from Fountain. Three doors down, he pushed a button next to a steel door with a camera above it. Someone buzzed him in.

Inside the cavernous photo studio and lab, Travis went to the counter. A woman looked up. “Ah.” She said, “It’s ready.” She handed him a round tin film container about three inches in diameter. “Uncut.”

“Thanks Jess.” He told her, then left.

Back outside, on Vine, he looked around at the light traffic. He popped the tin into his pocket. When there were no cars on the block in either direction, he leapt straight up and disappeared into the night sky.

Travis loved flying at night. The skies, even over LA, weren’t very crowded between four and five. It just wasn’t an all-night town. New York was; Vegas was, Paris was but LA was a company town and that company was the film business and people had to be on set usually by five or six am. There were only a few flying about now, getting from one place to another or just digging the swoon through night air. There were a few birds and bugs out too, some of them he knew. Two night owls, Chloe and Drew, were perched on the HBO cable stretched above the little houses on Vista del Mar, looking for rats. But for the most part, he felt harmoniously alone. It was basically a forty second flight from Vine and Fountain to his boss’s house but Travis zipped on over to the Gelson’s on Franklin and Bronson. The upscale supermarket was open twenty-four hours. It also housed Victor Bene’s pastry shop. Travis bought a slice of Princess Cake, a blond brownie and an individual kiwi tart. To go.

Mar 21
0

Princess Cake

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The photographer dunked a Lorna Doone cookie into a cup of iced coffee with her left hand and bit off the wet corner. Her name was Daisy Valentine. She was twenty-seven. A skinny old cat licked up the crumbs that fell on the floor of her
stucco bungalow. Daisy’s right hand worked a computer mouse, manipulating pixels on a photo of onion rings that she was editing. It was a job for a local burger joint.

The walls of her studio were cement. The floor was chipped old Moroccan tile. Deep pink bouganvillea vines crept inside through a screen-less arched window, open to the LA night. When she heard a coyote softly howl, she grabbed her ever-ready Pentax and took it out onto 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. She sat on the wall as her eyes scanned the forest. Someone in a neighboring house played some old Stones… “Oh I am sleeping under strange strange skies…” She watched the tiny light shimmers drift up from the bramble. She didn’t take any pictures.

She heard a sound coming from her house and turned toward it. It was Travis, stepping out of her open back door onto her patio. He carried a small brown paper bag and a pastry box.

“Was it ready?” she asked.

He offered the paper bag. She got off the wall, walked to him and 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 cabinet and took out a half-full 12 inch reel of 35mm film. She took it to a second work table across from her computers. Wedged against it was an old tank of a film editor – a 1956 35mm Moviola. She removed a roll of film – uncut 35mm slides – from the bag Travis had given her. She slid it into the gears of the Movieola and turned on its light. Hand-cranking it, she viewed the uncut roll of slides: the pictures were good. There were six shots of the light shimmer 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 three light ripples rising above Domingos and six shots of Rhea, three in the cement river bed and three behind Domingos. She opened a little bottle of film glue, scraped the edge of the strip of film and spliced it to the end of the film that was on the 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. “What do you have?” He opened the pastry box. She took the piece of Princess cake and bit into it. He watched her lick crumbs from her lips. He waited. “OK?” he asked as she put it on a napkin and headed back out onto the patio. He followed, waiting for acknowledgement. There was none. A coyote came up and sat by her feet. She scratched his ear and gave him a piece of her piece of 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. Older—” Travis blushed. He had a crush on Daisy. Maybe he even loved her but she was completely indifferent.

She looked at the land, at the sloping hill just beyond her patio wall. She was impatient, a little agitated. Something was bothering her.

The coyote got up. He hopped over the low wall and walked to a flat spot of land just outside the left side of the wall. The spot was well worn. There were no plants, weeds or bushes on it. He lay down. Daisy watched him, gathering an idea.
She turned and hurried 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 Ralphie 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. “Bummer.”

Apr 27
0

Yogurt

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Strickland couldn’t sleep. He could not get Rhea out of his mind. He had thought of her almost every day since she was sixteen but not like this. From the midnight he’d first met her on the dusty border in Tecate Mexico up until last night, his thoughts had always been about protecting her. But seeing her in the moonlight brushing crumbs off her breast, gave a jolt to his groin he’d never expected. He shook off those thoughts, got out of bed at five decided to go to work. He grabbed a raspberry yogurt from his fridge and left. He had to walk past Rhea’s apartment to get to the garage. He slowed a little and looked; her sheer curtains were closed but he could see her silhouette inside, bent over her table, asleep next to an empty Tommy’s bag.

He got to headquarters by five-thirty. He still hadn’t gotten used to the newness of the building. The cleanliness. The sterility. It was an environment that demanded precision and utility. It did not scream instinct or passion like the Hollywood Division on Wilcox but here was where exploited kids dept. coalesced with the global network. So here he was. He got to work.

At six-thirty, a ray of sunlight poured through Rhea’s window and onto her head. She resisted it and stayed asleep until her phone beeped five minutes later, waking her. She had a text. From Manny. He wanted her to come in at eight. She hoped it was good news, she hoped he liked what she’d sent him and was going to pay her. Today.

Mar 22
0

Pink Polvorones

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The inauspicious office of The Hollywood Pulse was in a storefront wedged between a lavanderia and a Burger King. Manny Valdez was carefully sprinkling two drops of Tabasco on to each of six Nutter Butter cookies he’d lined up on his desk when Rhea walked in. He offered her one.

“Nutter Butter?”

“Sure.” she took one and bit into it. She nodded, nominally impressed by the added heat.

“I know.” he agreed, “The stuff is magic. “So… ” he continued, scrolling through some text on his PC. “I got your Barragans review.”

“And–?” she asked, more nervous than she expected to be.

He let out a breath, “It’s a little too prose-y, a little political–”

“Political? How?!” she cut him off.

He read from her review, “Everyone else is looking for fame or minimum wage–?”

“You used to write for that underground paper ‘Regeneracion’. In the eighties, right? I checked.”

“Yes. And you’re a benched cop. For whatever reason. I checked. Now we’re both trying to make some money.”

“Trying to–”

“Hold on– I think this is a good first effort. Tone down the politics. Keep it sexy.” He handed her a check. “Next one’s due next Wednesday by eleven. PM.”

“OK. Ahhh… Thanks.” She took the check. It wasn’t all she hoped it would be. “Ummmm… a hundred twelve dollars?”

“And seventy eight cents….” Manny added. “You gave me three hundred sixty words, minus taxes you get a hundred and twelve seventy eight.”

“Jesus. I thought it would be more.”

“Use more words.” he advised her. She nodded, agreeing and left.

It was eight fifteen when Rhea left Manny’s. Before she got in her car, she looked again at the check. So depressing. She felt that little panic again in her gut. Across the street was a Food For Less. She wasn’t much of a grocery shopper. She could get any essentials she needed – Pay Days. YooHoo. Coffee. Lime Juice. Fritos. Cold Cereal. Burritos – at any little local market or mini mart. But she’d been in the Food For Less a few times when she needed to stock up on canned soup and sour cream. She knew they had pretty good polvorones. She didn’t want to think about her situation just yet so she went in and bought three polvorones. She ate half of a pink one in her car. The sugar, flour and lard of the classic cookie soothed her enough that she gathered her logic, started her car and headed east, into Japan town.

Mar 31
0

Impossible

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Dr. Elena Gallows was fit. She had to be. Dealing with troubled cops was her specialty and though the battles were all mental, they wore hard on her body. She’d just come in from a morning kickboxing workout and was making a smoothie in the kitchenette of her office in little Tokyo, just 2 blocks from LAPD Headquarters. She was ready to take on the day, even ready to take on the surprise of Detective Rhea Porter knocking on her door. Their first and last session nearly two months ago was testy and when Rhea cut it short and left, Gallows didn’t really expect her back. She looked good, though. Calmer.

“No I don’t. I look like crap.” Rhea answered the shrink’s compliment.

“Here we go.” Gallows thought but Rhea softened.

“Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. Do you have time for me?”

Elena checked the clock. “I have twenty minutes.” she said then added. “It’s not going to be any easier.”

“I don’t care. I just need it to be fast.”

“That’s up to you.”

She gestured to a seat next to an orchid. Rhea sat. She looked at the orchid. It was fake. Gallows prided herself on being healthy – natural, yet here she was with a fake orchid. This made the doctor somehow flawed in Rhea’s eyes. It made her opinion matter less. Still, she needed the doctor on her side. She needed the doctor to tell Strickland that she was cured of her need for young men so he’d let her get back on the squad.

“Nice orchid.” Rhea smiled.

“Thank you.” Gallows responded. “Ready?”

“Ready.” she told the shrink.

“Let’s start with your sister.” Gallows dove in.

“OK.”

“Do you feel responsible?”

“Oh… we’re starting there.”

“Yep. You want fast. Let’s do it.”

“Ok…” Rhea let out a breath, “Yes.”

“You feel responsible.”

“I am responsible.”

“So you seek out men… young men… who cannot love you to punish yourself.”

“I seek out men who can fuck a lot for a long time because it stops me from thinking about dead kids, missing kids, abducted kids, homeless kids and how there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

“You could start with yourself.”

“No comparison. He wasn’t a kid. He was legal age and I don’t do that anymore, doctor.” Rhea lied, “Not in awhile.

Gallows checked Rhea’s file. “The one you were caught with – Kevin?”

Rhea nodded and reminded her. “Eighteen. He was eighteen.”

“So Detective Sergeant Strickland recommended suspending you because…?”

“He said it looked bad. To the division.”

“The Exploited Kids Division.” Gallows said, emphasizing “kids”.

“He was eighteen.” Rhea repeated.

“And a pro.” Gallows added.

Rhea opened her hands, gesturing that either she didn’t know or it didn’t matter, then added, “That’s on him.”

Gallows let it go. She had another direction to explore: “Maybe Detective Strickland was also concerned about you.” She told Rhea.

There was no way Rhea was gonna tell a shrink who worked for the force that Strickland had a thing for her; that maybe he was jealous; that maybe he was inappropriately using authority to punish her for his desire. Rhea couldn’t prove any of it and Gallows would take months delving into it. Gallows was a shrink. And shrinks loved shrinking. Better to give her less to shrink about.

“Maybe…” Rhea answered.

“Do you like being a cop?” Gallows asked, changing direction again.

“Yes.” Rhea answered.

“Why?”

“I like busting bad guys.”

“You feel like you’re making a difference?”

“No. I’ve busted forty-two preds in seventeen years. Each time I thought it was going to change things– well, at least slow down the horror. It did not make one bit of difference. Kid trafficking”, she answered, emphasizing ‘kid’, — is a booming business.”

“So… forty-two days out of seventeen years you liked your job?”

“No. I like going to work. I like chasing some bastard down. I like thinking it might be the one who took Aggie. I still like thinking I might find her.”

Gallows checked her file again, “It’s been how long–?”

“Twenty two years. She was five.” they were both quiet for awhile. “There’s a chance.” Rhea affirmed.

“OK. Look, Detective–” Gallows sounded blunt–

“I’m done with them. With younger men.” Rhea interrupted.

Gallows ignored her, “You are not only not going to get your job back any time soon, you’re going to end up in jail if you don’t stop with the boys. And you can’t stop until you stop the need to destroy yourself.”

“No–” Rhea shook her head.

“I know this is tough–”

“No no no–” Rhea went on.

“But to do that, we have to get you to a place where you can feel good about yourself and to do that–”

“Don’t say it–” Rhea kept on.

“–like I told you before, you will have to forgive yourself for what happened to your sister.”

Without hesitation, Rhea affirmed, “Not gonna happen.”

“It can be powerful. Forgiveness.”

Rhea matched her, “My power is guilt.”

Gallows looked at the clock. Time was up. She shook Rhea’s hand and held on to it as she looked her in the eye. “Fridays are good. Before nine or after four thirty. When you’re ready.” Gallows smiled then let go.

Rhea left.

Apr 27
0

Glazed

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An hour earlier, at a little after eight in the morning, Daisy Valentine walked the half mile down from her house to The Village Café, a quaintly hip diner in Beachwood Canyon village, a cluster of five shops cradled just below the Hollywood sign. The casual trendiness of the regulars reflected the old Hollywood hood, mostly peopled with mid-scale movie industry peeps who liked their eggs without yolks, their bacon without fat and their coffee organic.

Daisy picked up a Hollywood Pulse from a stack of already-read newspapers loosely scattered on a front window ledge. She took it to her usual seat at the counter, where she ordered a cappuccino and a donut with rose petals in the glaze. Her nod to the waitress was nominal. She was a regular but not really. Cordial but not chatty. She opened the pulse to the ads. Scanning them, she found an ad for a local landscaper: “Bernardo’s brush clearance and Landscaping.” It was just what she was looking for.

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