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LA | An LA Crime Story

Feb 12
0

Joe’s

By | Serial | No Comments

At ten 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, popped the last warm bite of a glazed papaya concho 
into her mouth 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.

Outside Joe’s, she took a breath, opened the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t a cafe anymore.
Gone were the little tables where a child sitting alone for a moment—near the door left ajar—could
slip outside, chasing after a bluebird. Now there was a makeshift stage in the center
of the lightless 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. But she shouldn’t without saying hello. She needed to calm herself down first; she needed to stop thinking of that blue 
bird day long ago. She looked around; forced her mind to write a story she could use for work. A few words came: “Eight fat whores looking for cash. Twelve losers looking for love. Me, I was looking for something to eat, then I saw him… ”

There he was, 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.

After awhile he looked up and saw her – the lone white American in the place. 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, studying her almost 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…” He let go of her hand.

Yes, she was different. Worn. Troubled. But no, not tired– 

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 women”. But there was something else. Another reason he’d given up the sunny 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 have a long drive back to LA. Just came for the day.” She stumbled on, not wanting to explain but
needing to, “I saw officer Nala; he’s still working– Detective Nala now–” She could feel his sudden
hope; couldn’t stop it fast enough before he asked,

“Is there some news–?”

“About Aggie? No.” Rhea answered fast, “I thought maybe there was, but no.” 

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 slipped through a curtain to a back room. Rhea drank. It was good. The moment ruined when she felt the skinny
jackass oozing toward her. She angled away from him and started writing on a napkin, more words for work: the story of which only the food part needed to be true: “He was young and lean – with a promise in his eyes
– of warm summer skin and fat chili-fries. I squeezed a lime into a cold Jarritos and took a swig. He was drinking a San Miguel.”

Jackass moved a stool closer. Man she wanted to punch him but she didn’t. She stayed focused and jotted a few of the words down on a napkin (Jarritos. Promise. San Miguel.) to remember. Jackass faded back.

Eight 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. 
Full of love. He set it down. T’was a thing of beauty. She swirled the
crema into the tomatillo; turning it a verdant, yummy green. She cut the fish with her fork and dug in. 
It was so good it made her laugh.

“Still the best in town.”

“Here or LA?”

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

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. 

The Jackass seized the moment and made his move. 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. She
elbowed him but not too hard – you have to be careful with sleaze. He backed away. He wasn’t happy. 

Joe came back with a take-out carton of the salsa and two bags of hot greasy tortilla strips. 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.

More words formed, “… I’ve had my share of olive-skinned hunks with sweet Pad Nah and nameless Joes, a’la Diabla.

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

“…many a mo`le has gotten me through a dark night and I trade it’s secrets for legal tender.”

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 walking away; hurrying away, holding back. But she did; appeasing herself with: “Ensenada Joe had stopped doing dinner years ago but tonight he cooked after hours for me. This is what I
remember–”

She 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, leading out. One was highway 3, the main paved
road heading north to Tijuana and the US border. There would probably be someone on that 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.

“…Lanky Dream followed me into the warm night; an easy lust tugging the edge of his smile–”

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.

“–I invited him in.”

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

“– cacique cream oozed from halibut skin, blistered with butter, cooled with lime…”

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

“–the tomatillo teased my mouth with a sweet tang as the dream licked it’s drops off my skin–”

She sped up and as she almost passed it, 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.

 “The warm flake of white meat in my mouth is where I began–”

She snatched her gun from the console and shot all three, one in the hand, one in the shoulder, one
in the eye. After the screaming, they got the hell out of there.

 “…the shared love of good food is where it ends.”

She took a minute to finish her coffee and jot down a few more words. 

“It’s everything. Joe’s cafe. Avenida Placido. Get the fish.”

Rhea started the LeBaron, feeling good. Maybe even feeling a little free. As she pulled away she
heard a little “crunch”. Damn. She got out and checked the back of the car. When she’d spun out, she’d
cracked taillight into a rock, breaking the red plastic. She’d just rolled over the bit that had fallen to the 
ground. It wasn’t too bad; an easy superglue fix once she got home. The taillight, now white, shone on 
the rock she’d hit. It was a small boulder. She’d hit it enough to move it a smidgen. Sticking out from 
under it was a slip of paper. Curious, she wedged it out. It was an old, faded receipt from a surf shop in 
Redondo Beach. 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

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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.

Feb 13
0

Hot Sauce

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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

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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

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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.

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.”

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.

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