Uncategorized

The soft sausage tacos at Guisado’s in Boyle Heights used a chorizo from the meat market next door to the Cesar Chavez eatery. It was good, full of pork and grease and spices. No soy. It was surprising to Panama Jones how much of the commercial chorizo available in LA added soy. He hated soy. And it was everywhere – he was never a food-label reader and loathed being one of those picky pris-pots but he hated the bitter taste that soy added, especially since two weeks earlier a chance internet encounter had scared him sober and his taste buds now seemed more sensitive. 

That encounter – that mind-blowing revelation – had happened on a Monday afternoon. He’d been surfing the web for a good Posole recipie – he’d been cooking more lately, trying to save a few bucks. He’d been cutting back on work, telling Hays he was sick or out-of-town when he was due for another run down to Baja or Mexicali or Albuquerque or the suburbs of San Diego. He was tired of twenty-some years of working for Hays; tired of feeling like something just wasn’t right; maybe even tired of whisking those feelings away with a few Tecates and half a joint of OG Purple Haze every day. 

He had wanted to try his hand at making his own Posole. He knew it had pork and tortillas and chilis in it but he was unsure of what spices to use. It was a Monday afternoon in May, cool – about sixty-eight degrees outside.  so he did a search. His four-year-old Samsung had auto-corrected his “Mexican Food Posole” search to “Mexican food porn”. Instead of hitting the back-button, he inadvertently clicked on a site and there, on his screen was a big old guy slamming a creamy barely-legal brown skinned girl with a giant cuke. Whoa. He looked closer. His blood chilled instantly. The girl – what he could see of her face – looked familiar – a few years older but familiar. He’d brought her up from Mexicali when she was nine. He remembered her because her name was Horizon. Hays said she was going to live in Malibu with a famous chef who liked her name so much he and his wife weren’t going to change it. Panama wondered for a minute what had happened to her – had she run away? Gotten pimped? But he knew that probably wasn’t true. He knew that he’d been lied to all these years and he’d chosen to believe it –  chosen to believe  that these little girls were poor and unwanted and he was giving them a better life in LA. What a crock. What a fool. What an idiot he was. “She just told me her Dad works at The Cheesecake Factory.” he’d once told Hays when he delivered a girl to him that he’d nabbed in a Walmart parking lot in Chula Vista.” “Yeah. And her mom’s Miss Universe.” Hays shot back. “I told you not to talk to them about their family. Talk about dresses and ice cream and kittens.” By that time, he was in too deep so he shut up – stayed high –  and did as he was told. A few   Now he suspected most of them ended up sold, trafficked or dead. He wondered what had happened to his first – that little five-year-old blond girl who’d left a note for her sister under a rock on that desert road.

Panama threw out his weed that night. And the beers, except for two San Miguels.  He started surfing again every day. He ate better; almost went to church; made a plan.  

Now, ready to execute that plan, he bought six of Guisado’s tacos, three chorizo and three carne asada and three champurrados. All to-go. 

west on Sunset to Beaudry and turned right, winding up to the little stucco houses above Chinatown. He parked in front of a squat tan box of a house with a dead front yard.

He leaned against the side of the garage, keeping out of sight. After a few minutes, the garage door opened and a rusting Honda exited. As it turned down Beaudry, the garage door started to close. Panama rolled under it. 

Inside, once the door closed completely, Panama entered the house through a door that led to the kitchen.  The house was built in ’57 and hadn’t been updated since. Panama set the bag of tacos on the speckled Formica counter. He took a key off a hook and walked through the little living room, down a dark hall to a locked solid slab door. He put the key in the lock and gently pushed it open, calling, “Gabby. Horatio. Nyeeli.” 

Three Mexican girls: six, seven and nine – sitting on blankets on the carpeted floor looked up at him and smiled. They were shy and scared but they trusted him. That killed him. He smiled back and said, in Spanish, “Hey guys, I got you some good food. Let’s go eat in the car, OK?  Then I’ll take you for ice cream.” That was an easy sell. Besides, they liked Panama; so far he’d been nice to them. He’d played fun music on his car radio on the drive to LA from Ensenada. And he’d bought them Twinkies, Fritos, orange juice, red licorice, churros and some pretty good chicharrones from a liquor store in Tecate.

“Bring your dolls, too.” he told them. They did, gathering the two dolls and four stuffed animals he and Myrna had bought the girls to play with while they waited at the bungalow to be sold. In her haste to hold on to her doll, the littlest girl, Horatio, left behind her stuffed duck.

In the long shadows of early evening, all three girls hurried around the corner to Panama’s car and slipped into the backseat. Without being told, they ducked down, out of sight.  Careful to abide by all traffic rules, Panama drove slowly back down Beaudry to Sunset.  He turned east on Sunset and plodded though heavy traffic across the Chavez Bridge to Mission. He turned left then left again into the weedy parking spot behind the dusty, sad, closed bar called Domingos. The lot it sat on was just above the cement wall that contained the trickle of water known as the LA River. Behind it was a tire dump. No one could see Panama’s car where it was parked. He felt somewhat safe as he unlocked the bolt across the steel back door. He opened it a crack then ushered the three girls out of the back of his car and into the building.

Inside, Panama shut the door, locked it and turned on a light. The room was a small commercial kitchen. There was a long beat-up old wooden table in the center and an old stove against a wall. Though clearly it hadn’t been used in awhile, it looked cozy. There were stools for the girls at the table. He put the bag from Guisados on the table and took out the tacos. 

“There’s two each here.” He told them. “And plenty of soda in here–” he opened a storage room door. On the floor was a case of Seven-up. On some bare shelves were two cans of corn, three cans of hominy and one can of turkey chili. Hormel.

“Keep quiet and I’ll be back tomorrow to take you home.”

At the word “home.” The girls looked excited. Could it be true?

“Yes.” Panama told them. “I’m taking you back home.” 

They cried. Happy. He left and bolted the door from the outside. 

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

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

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

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

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

Before she left, she bought two classic taquitos from the corner stand so it wouldn’t be a complete loss. She ate the beef-stuffed rolled tortillas, deep fried and smothered in a classic green sauce, at a little yellow table, wobbling on the brick-paved street. She took notes. “–a sinewy gaucho casually walking by bought me three taquitos with extra heat for five-twenty-five and he sprung for a Champurrado. In the back of his Camaro parked in a lot on Main,

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

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

she got her first notepad from Strickland when she was sixteen, a terrified kid looking to him for hope on the darkest night of her life.

“…write down anything you remember.” He’d told her as he wrote his phone number on the pad, “Anything at all, then call me. Anytime.”

She wished she could call him now and tell him how sorry she was for letting him down. But she couldn’t. She wrote. She had to make a lot of it up… “–a sinewy gaucho casually walking by bought me three taquitos with extra heat for five-twenty-five and he sprung for a Champurrado. In the back of his Camaro parked in a lot on Main, he turned me into a liar for every time I’ve ever said “no” to a man or a meal that could set me on fire..” She hated making it up. She wanted it real. She found a snack sized bag of Maui potato chips and turned on the tv. Not much was on her basic cable. OVC. News reruns. Old PBS shows. She settled on a Huell Howser re-run. He was visiting Porto’s Bakery. It was an entire show about cakes: Mango cheesecake. White chocolate raspberry mousse. Kiwi merengue torte. Grand Mariner with chocolate ganache. Lemon curd pound cake. Vanilla custard cake with pineapple filling… she should have turned it off but her mood was dark and so she watched and let her mind be pierced with thoughts of her sister.

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

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

There are more than twenty-one-hundred bars in LA. Rhea narrowed her search down to twenty-seven. Figuring that a fifty-something year old Mexican woman wouldn’t be mixing Twinki-tinis at the Skybar or pulling drafts at Barney’s Beanery or keeping it neat at the Frolic Room eliminated over a thousand. Adding in the geography of LA and transit times, that knocked out another nine hundred.

Rhea started at eight at La Golondrina. It was Friday night. The popular place stayed open until eight-thirty. Weird. Especially for a tourist place but that’s the way it was. She knew Myrna probably wouldn’t be there but La Golondrina was on Olvera Street and walking Olvera was a good place to start – walking Olvera was also, for Rhea, a self-inflicted wound.

The trinkets and sweet treats sold at the brightly-colored wooden vendor booths hadn’t changed in twenty years, making it easy for Rhea to let the pain of her past memory there fuse with the goal of the present. Pain always focused Rhea, as did guilt. And the three-buck taquitos with green sauce at Cielito Lindo momentarily took the edge off. She bought two classic ones. She took them to a little green table and dug in. Heaven. Not wasting the moment and thinking ahead, she took out a little paper notepad she carried and a pencil and jotted down a few words: Young. Creamy, Hot Mouthful – about the creamy tang of the signature sauce that blanketed crispy curled tortillas and the promising guy who was dipping them into the fryer.

Downing the last bite, she walked across the brick path to the famed La Golondrina. The bar area was packed. The two bartenders were male. “Is Myrna on tonight?” Rhea asked one of them. “Who?” he replied. Rhea waved him off; knowing it was a long shot to ever expect to see a woman bartender working an old-school Mexican restaurant.

Next up, she crossed Alameda and went into Union Station. The deco Traxx restaurant had an old bartender who looked like Nosferatu. But they didn’t have a Myrna.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth bars were scattered over a few blocks around downtown. All bartenders were men except for one transgender Russian woman. None had heard of a Myrna.

The seventh was a dark-red old-world bar in a classic Chinatown joint that featured Mu Shu pork, Won Ton soup and lots of plum sauce. Behind that small bar was a snake-skinned old dame named Madame Wu. Rhea asked her over a sidecar if she knew of another woman in town who poured named Myrna. Her dyed-black eyebrow barely raised. But it raised in recognition of the name Myrna. Ignoring Rhea, she moved down the bar to pour a shot of Chartreuse for a ninety-year old dancer. Rhea now had an answer. Myrna Saldano was real. And local.

It was last call. Rhea left three-fourths of her sidecar on the bar and left.

Once home, Rhea forced her mind away from bartenders and darkness and tried to finish her taquito review. She fished the notepad from her purse and jotted some more thoughts down. She liked using paper. She’d been using paper to take notes ever since she got her first notepad from Strickland when she was sixteen, a terrified kid looking to him for hope on the darkest night of her life.

“…write down anything you remember.” He’d told her as he wrote his phone number on the pad, “Anything at all, then call me. Anytime.”

She wished she could call him now and tell him how sorry she was for letting him down. But she couldn’t. She wrote. She had to make a lot of it up… “–a sinewy gaucho casually walking by bought me three taquitos with extra heat for five-twenty-five and he sprung for a Champurrado. In the back of his Camaro parked in a lot on Main, he turned me into a liar for every time I’ve ever said “no” to a man or a meal that could set me on fire..” She hated making it up. She wanted it real. She found a snack sized bag of Maui potato chips and turned on the tv. Not much was on her basic cable. OVC. News reruns. Old PBS shows. She settled on a Huell Howser re-run. He was visiting Porto’s Bakery. It was an entire show about cakes: Mango cheesecake. White chocolate raspberry mousse. Kiwi merengue torte. Grand Mariner with chocolate ganache. Lemon curd pound cake. Vanilla custard cake with pineapple filling… she should have turned it off but her mood was dark and so she watched and let her mind be pierced with thoughts of her sister.

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

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

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. Just past Chinatown, he turned right on Beaudry, a steep little street lined with little houses and small apartment buildings.

Inside apartment number 2 in a four unit 30’s stucco building, 43 year old Panama Jones was not asleep in a small bare bedroom. Twin bed. But he was trying. At six three, his feet hung off the end but the cool breeze blowing on them wasn’t what made him sit up. It was the sound of a key in the lock of his front door. He got up. Picked up his gun. Waited. He listened to the front door open and close. Then he heard, “Jones? You here?” came a voice he knew. And hated. “I’m gonna kill you.” It was Hays. Panama went into the living room. A battered blue surfboard leaned against a wall, the only personality in the place except for Hays. who was standing there. Mad as hell. Jones put down the gun, “Stop threatening me everytime some shit happens.” “Some shit?!” Hays hissed, turning red. “That’s seventy five grand up in smoke! Why the hell were they even 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. Myrna.” “You just found out? Fire was two days ago.” “…I left them food.” Panama walked three steps to his kitchenette. Opened the fridge and took out a bag of coffee beans. “Coffee?” Hays stared at him. He took out his wallet, “Get me 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. Four am. He filled a coffee grinder with beans and ground them.