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los angeles | An LA Crime Story - Part 2

Aug 22
0

Chili Fries

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Fifteen minutes later, closing in on four am, Rhea hit Tommy’s. There were still a scant few of the late night boys hanging around. 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 midnight or one.

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. She didn’t see him before. 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 they 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. Shit. Rhea slipped her badge back into her pocket – she didn’t want him to know she was a cop, just in case… He hesitated then came over. 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 irrestible. She could smell his skin. Deserty. Mesquite. 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 plain 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 between them.

“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.”

“Ahh…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. “It’ll be good.” she smiled,

“You think I’m a whore?” he asked.

That threw her.

“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 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. 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. 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 dug in.

Aug 29
0

Night Flight

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After nineteen-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 approached the woman behind the long white counter that spanned the back wall. She looked up from a lightbox. “It’s ready.” She handed him a round tin film container about three inches in diameter. “Uncut.”

“Thanks Jess.” He pocketed the tin, then left.

Back outside, on Vine, he checked the traffic. It was pretty light. 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 Spectrum 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 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 at his desk, sprinkling a few drops of Tabasco on to each of six Nutter Butter cookies he’d lined up when Rhea walked in. He offered her one.

“Nutter Butter?”

“Sure.” Not one to turn down a pretty good cookie, she took one and bit into it. She nodded, nominally impressed by the added heat.

“I know.” he agreed, “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… 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 ‘Regeneracion’. In the eighties? I checked.”

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

“Yeah. Trying to…”

“Hold on– I think this is an OK first effort. Tone down the politics, in future, and keep it sexy. That part’s good.” 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. “… a hundred twelve dollars?”

“And seventy five cents….” Manny added. “You gave me five hundred eleven words. Minus taxes you get a hundred and twelve seventy five.”

“Jesus. I thought it would be more.”

“Use more words.” he advised her.

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. The one where she runs out of money.

Across the street was a Food For Less. Rhea wasn’t much of a grocery shopper. She could get any essentials she needed – Pay Days. YooHoos. 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. They had pretty good polvorones.

Not wanting to think about her situation just yet, Rhea 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 to see things straight. She started her car and headed east, into Japan town.

Jun 15
0

Jim Beam

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Rhea ran out of words. After writing five hundred and twenty, she hit a wall. She was done. She couldn’t think of another thing to write about cookies and twenty-year-old men or tarts and forty-year-old men. She’d tried her best to imagine it but she couldn’t. What she had wasn’t going to cut it – word-wise and, thus, money-wise. It was time to concentrate on the Domingos case.

She entered her LAPD passwords into a department database and waited, fingers crossed. She got in. Soon she was scrolling through the histories of people and buildings – the pages that told the stories that made up LA. She searched for any info she could find on Domingos, Leland Hays and a bartender named Myrna.

Forty seven web pages into looking at Domingos’ business tax records and employee records she found little of importance except a three-year-old misdemeanor building code violation regarding the steps leading down to Domingos’s liquor storage cellar. Thinking about liquor delivery to the place, she assumed a bartender signed for the deliveries. She called seven local liquor distributors and found two who had delivered to Domingos in the last year.

Young’s Liquor Distributors had an office and warehouse five and a half blocks west of Hays’s Furniture warehouse. The manager – a neat man named Mavery – was on the floor, counting cases of Jim Beam. Rhea flashed her badge – man this was getting easy – and Mavery told her Domingos was one of their smaller accounts but he remembered them well and was “Sorry to see them shut down.”

“Do you remember who signed for the deliveries?” Rhea asked him.

“Yeah…” he thought, “The bartender. A woman. ’bout fifty. Mexican, I think.”

“Do you remember her name?” Rhea asked, trying to push back that little thrill she felt when something just might go her way.

Mavery shook his head, “No. But–” Rhea held onto the thrill and he delivered, “I should have a copy of the receipt.”

Rhea followed Mavery into his office. In the middle of a tidy book full of receipts was a messy, scrawled signature: “Myrna Saldano.” Rhea took a photo of it, thanked Mavery and left.

She got in her car and smiled. She had a name! Her first impulse was to call Strickland. It was habit. But she didn’t. Why piss him off even more. Besides, he’d get there soon enough.

Rhea went back to her apartment, determined to find Myrna Saldano. But Myrna Saldano was nowhere. On paper, she did not exist. After again scrubbing through her best databases, Rhea found no record, no past or no whereabouts of Myrna Saldano. The only hint that the woman existed was that signed liquor delivery receipt and Mavery’s description.

Still… if she did exist and lived in LA, she’d need money. Her trade was bartending. It was time to hit the streets.

Apr 04
0

Two Bits a Word

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Rhea leaned in the doorway of Manny’s office, eating a strawberry swirl ice cream sandwich. She was watching him as he finished reading her Toolong review. She was nervous, hoping he liked it. He blushed as he got to the part where she’d written “… I licked the last bit of peanut sauce off his left ball, trying to cool us both down. The hint of sesame oil in that salty butter eased us into the eve’s last hour. As his hands slipped from my head, I left him there, sated by fat noodles of buckwheat flour.”

“Poetic.” he glanced at her, still blushing. It made her laugh.

“It’s OK?” she needed to know.

“The curry thing was five-ninety-five?” he asked.

Rhea nodded, “Sorry. I’ll try and watch that.”

“OK.” He nodded, “The rest seems OK.”

“Great.” she let out her breath. “So when do I get paid?”

“You like Mexican food–?” he changed the subject.

“Who doesn’t?”

“You like Posole?”

“Of course.”

“You tried the one at Tres Hermanos?”

“Are you kidding?”

“It’s good.”

“They buy their tortillas at Ralph’s.” she informed him.

“Don’t be a snob.”

“On a five buck limit?”

“Ok. OK…” he let it go for now then informed her, “You get paid Thursday, when it prints.”

“OK, I’ll see you Thursday–” she started to leave. He stopped her, “Did you really? In the car… or– ”

“Or?” she asked him.

“Did you make that up?”

“Yes, Manny.” she answered, “I really ate in my car.”

She again started to leave. Manny stacked her notepad pages. “I’ll type this up this time but next time use a word doc and email it to me or use your phone and message it.”

“I always use paper.”

“I am your boss you know.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I know.”

Apr 07
0

A Tremble

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The moment Aggie got taken, Detective Matt Strickland was starting his second cup of coffee after a late lunch at The Pantry – eggs over medium, rye toast, sliced tomatoes. When he set the cup down after a sip, his coffee trembled – rippled like when a small earthquake aftershock rolls through. He looked up. No one else noticed anything. He knew this was internal; an instinct he almost wished he didn’t have – it had happened twice before. He finished the coffee, paid the bill and went back to LAPD Central and waited for the call he knew would come. It did. About seven hours later, a little after nine that night. It was Donnelly, calling about a missing little girl named Aggie Day Porter and a possible abductor who said his destination was a three hour drive from the border at Tecate.

“You call San Diego?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yeah, but… thought we’d better get you in right away. Kid’s American.”

Shit. It didn’t matter what nationality a kid in danger was to Strickland. But it mattered to others. It mattered in the media. An American was a bigger deal.

“Where’re the parents–” he started. “Here.” San Diego Detective Rudy Canon got on the line, letting Strickland know this was not likely a familial abduction. It was the second time that year he’d talked to Strickland. This was the third kid they’d talked about. The other two were Mexican girls – six and nine. Only the six-year-old had been found… decomposing in a trash bin on a construction site near the fourth street bridge on the east side of downtown LA. No leads. No suspects. No hope.

There was a chance the other girl and now Aggie weren’t in LA but there was a good chance they were. It was becoming a popular destination for trafficking as well as the usual runaways and illegals. And at just over five hundred square miles and nine million people, it was easy to disappear there.

“I’ll need pictures.” He told Canon, “Tonight.”

“House is in Norwalk. I can get them there by one.” Canon promised.

Strickland put out a BOLO: five year old female, blond hair, forty pounds, wearing a green jacket, white tutu and jeans. Possible suspect Mexican-American male, approximately eighteen, driving a late model blue VW van. He opened a case, drank two cups of coffee, ate a vending machine Honey Bun then at midnight, he jumped on the five and headed south.

Apr 07
0

Night Train

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Rhea didn’t want Strickland to leave. She needed his power, his confidence, his calm. She willed her mind to remember something, anything – some perfect and stunning tidbit that would lead him straight to Aggie. But nothing came. And he left. She kept staring at the closed door. She was on one side, and Aggie was somewhere outside, lost in the night. She hung on to that unbearable thought as though following it through the dark labyrinth of her imagination would lead her to her sister. But she couldn’t follow the path in her mind. She was tired. She shouldn’t be tired, her sister was missing and it was her fault – she should never ever sleep again until Aggie was home. Her eyes kept closing. What a terrible sister she was.

Stel put her thumb and forefinger on Rhea’s chin and turned her face to her own.

“Are You listening to me?”

Rhea nodded, trying to focus on what her mother was saying.

“I have to stay here, for when Aggie comes home.”

Rhea nodded again, wondering where this was going.

“Your father can’t go, look at him, he can’t even get out of that chair.”

It started to become clear. Yes! Someone in the family needed to go find Aggie because, as Stel pointed out, “That cop doesn’t know Aggie, doesn’t love her like we do. His heart isn’t in it. And she won’t be looking for him, she’ll be looking for one of us.”

“I can go…?” Rhea answered, a little unsure but as Stel firmly nodded while looking into Rhea’s eyes, Rhea became certain. This made sense. All except the details. “How will I–?” Rhea tried to make a plan–

Stel cut her off, she already had this figured out. “Trains run all night. Especially now. Christmas. Go pack a few things and I’ll take you to the Fullerton Station.”

Wow. This was really happening. Rhea felt a jolt of adrenaline and of relief. This was good. This would work. She’d find Aggie like she’d always done and everything would be back like it was.

Rhea jammed a skirt, a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, underwear, toothbrush and a picture of Aggie into her little round black patent leather case with embossed pink ballet shoes on it then zipped it up as Stel hovered, impatiently.

“Ready?”

Rhea nodded. Stel grabbed her keys. As they left, Rhea glanced at her father, searching for something in his eyes – love or at least a goodbye – but there was nothing there. She closed the door behind her.

Stel held the car door open for Rhea, trying to hurry her along. Rhea slid in. Stel hurried into the driver’s side and, not bothering to buckle her seat belt, drove them away.

At one forty nine, the Fullerton train station was still had a few people. Happy people, laughing people, setting down armloads of packages to hug their loved ones who’d come to welcome them home for the holidays.

Stel gave Rhea a ticket and a hundred and seventy-one dollars.

“It’s all I have in the house.” she said as she thrust it at Rhea. “It should be plenty for some food and a motel for a few nights.”

“Thank you.” Rhea told her mom, straining with the sudden uneasy formality.

Stel nodded and turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, she grabbed Rhea and hugged her hard and fast. Rhea hugged back. “I’ll find her, mom. I promise.”

Stel let go. “I have to get back, in case–” Rhea nodded. Stel hurried away. Rhea got on the train alone. No one waved goodbye.

The train slipped past warehouses, trailer parks, freeways and the Firestone tire factory which was built to look like a castle.

“Is she in there?” Rhea wondered as she strained against the dirty train window trying to see a glimpse of Aggie. Or in one of those trailers? Or in that laundromat? Or that Taco Bell? So many places to look…

The magnitude of the task ahead started to creep in. But for now, Rhea just focused on looking out that window. Sometimes she glanced at the blank notepad. In the course of the thirty three minute train ride to LA, all she could think to write was: bluebirds.

Apr 08
0

Rustic Imports

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One hour before Rhea got on the train, twenty-six miles north, in an alley behind Palmetto Street, Leland Hays stood on the loading ramp of his downtown LA furniture warehouse and peeled off three hundred dollars from a roll of bills and handed the money to Panama Jones.

“You told me five or six—“ Panama reminded him.

“I had to take out for gas, insurance, wear and tear—” Leland explained.

Panama wasn’t happy. “I gotta pay for that too?”

Hays went on, “You only got one girl. Don’t get me wrong, one’s OK but—five or six hundred for one? We’re trying to do these girls a favor here, right? Their new… ‘employers’… are paying me a little something but no one’s getting rich, here.”

Panama nodded, he understood. He gestured toward the closed steel door at the top of the ramp. “She still goin’ to Beverly Hills?”

“Yep. To a great family.” Hays assured him, then added, “Remember, no one knows we do this. Government wouldn’t like us not payin’ them their immigration fees–”

“I know.” Panama interrupted–

“We’d all be in deep shit—“ Hays went on, emphasizing “all”.

“I know.”

“Good.” Hays said, like a threat. “Come back by in a few weeks— I’ll have more work.”

Panama nodded and walked away, past the blue van parked in a spot in front of the warehouse, next to an old Mercedes and an ’88 Camry. He headed toward the bus stop on Fourth Street. Something felt weird to him but, he had a few joints in his pocket to smooth it all out.

Back inside his warehouse, Hays went into his office and looked around. “Larry?” he called out.

“Over here.” came a male voice. Hays followed it back outside to the top of the ramp where the furniture that was in the blue van had been unloaded. The door to the rustic cabinet was open. Inside the cabinet, Aggie was sound asleep. A balding man in his thirties, Larry Ozrin, pointed at her, smiling. Hays agreed with a smile. “Blond. Yeah–” He rubbed his fingers against his thumb in the gesture of “money.”

Ozrin nodded, “How much?”

“Extra five grand.” Hays told him. Ozrin reeled, “C’mon, man–”

“Firm.” Hays wasn’t negotiating. After a minute, Ozrin agreed. He handed over a neat stack of cash to which he added five thousand dollars.

“You’ll make that back in a week.”

“Easily.” Ozrin admitted then he lifted Aggie out of the cabinet and carried her, still sleeping, out to his Camry. He put her in the back seat, wrapped in a blanket. He drove off, keeping well within the speed limit.

May 24
0

Paradise Motel

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Almost two hours later and six city blocks away, Rhea’s train slid into Union Station. It was three in the morning and almost busy. She followed fellow travelers through the cavernous hall; hurried past a gloriously huge Christmas tree and slipped through the front doors into the night. It was cool in LA. And misty.

Rhea stopped dead in front of the station, mouth agape at what she saw: Blocks of high rises mixed with Deco buildings, wide streets and Our Lady Queen of Angels church – all asleep for the night. But the streets were alive with cars. The sheer vastness of it stunned her. Scared her. Threatened her. And this was just a corner of it. She couldn’t move – didn’t know which way to go – didn’t know where to start looking.

“Bad place to stop.” A woman snarled at Rhea as she slammed into her on the busy walk outside the station.

Rhea started walking. Then she stopped. She unzipped the patent leather bag, grabbed the photo of Aggie and ran after the woman. “Wait! Wait –” she cried as she caught up to her and grabbed her arm. The woman stopped. Rhea showed her the picture. “Have you seen this girl?” The woman looked at the picture and shook her head, backing away from Rhea’s pain. Rhea shoved the picture into the faces of anyone she could who was leaving the station. She followed them into the parking lot and onto the street. “Have you seen her? Have you seen this girl?” Nineteen, twenty, thirty five times. No one had. A Security Guard finally shooed her away. “Take that business somewhere else.”

Rhea crossed the street and started walking up Cesar Chavez Boulevard. Away from the hub of the train Station, a darker vibe set in. There were few homeless back then but the sight of them huddled in doorways, asleep on cardboard, their arms around the wad of bags and rags that were theirs – shocked Rhea. She hurried past them and crossed the street toward Chinatown. Someone in a car driving by hissed at her, “Tasty Girl…” Another car pulled to the curb a few yards up. As she passed by, a man opened the passenger door, his big dick swinging free at her, the smell of stale piss and cum penetrating the mist. She ran.

At the end of the block, two teens huffing Krylon hung out in a little parking lot. As Rhea stopped on the corner, they checked her out. As she waited for the light to turn green, they moved closer. The light turned. She started to cross. They hurried closer. In the middle of the street she suddenly turned and swung her case at them, smacking the bigger one straight across his jaw, freaking them out. She ran, across the street and up a long block. Ahead she saw the sputtering purple and green neon strips that framed the Paradise Motel. It was open.

A ninety-pound woman with a popcorn ball in one hand and a tv remote in the other waved at a sign that said “NIGHTLY RATES $45.00.” when Rhea asked her how much was a room. Rhea handed over the cash. “Checkout’s at noon.” she informed Rhea and gave her a key.

Inside room 27, Rhea locked the dead bolt. She fell on the bed, holding the picture of Aggie close to her. She fell instantly asleep. She slept for fourteen hours.

Apr 08
0

Frankincense

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Rhea woke up in room twenty-seven at the Paradise Motel, a little before six on that same Christmas Eve. She turned on the tv and watched the news while she peed, washed, brushed her hair and ate the two packs of peanut butter stuffed cheese crackers that were in a little basket on the night stand. There was no news on tv of Aggie. She left her room and went to the payphone. She called home. Stel answered. “Mom!?” Rhea cried, so happy to hear her voice. “Did you find her?” Stel asked, her voice like a raspy knife. “No, but–” Rhea answered. Stel interrupted. “Call back when you do. I have to keep the line open.” She hung up. Rhea put the phone in its cradle and left the booth. She didn’t have a clue what to do or where to go. All she knew was that she was alone and she needed to find her sister. As she started to walk back to her room to get her case, someone shoved her from behind. Hard. She fell.

“Paradise is mine. You got ten seconds to get on outta here.” A girl’s voice spat at her. Rhea looked up at an eighteen-year-old in shorts short enough for half her cooze to squish out. Rhea wondered if she was cold.

“OK.” Rhea answered, not quite understanding, “I just gotta get my suitcase.”

As Rhea got up and headed to her room, the girl followed her, pushing into the room as Rhea opened the door.

The girl spotted the ballet case and tore into it, finding the one hundred and sixty-three dollars that Rhea had left. She took it and leaned against the doorway.

“Now get outta here.”

Rhea zipped up the case. As she walked past the girl, she showed her the picture of Aggie. “Can I ask you something? Have you seen this girl?” The girl looked at the picture. “Who’s that?”

“My sister.” Rhea told her, “She got kidnapped. I gotta find her.”

The hard girl kind of crumbled, “Aw, man… No.” she shook her head and gave Rhea back the money. “That’s bad.”

“Yeah.” Rhea agreed.

It was nearing seven and way past dark. The boulevard got quieter as Christmas Eve moved toward night. Rhea spent the next three hours walking the streets of Chinatown, asking every person who would stop if they’d seen Aggie. No one had. She asked twenty three waitresses in fourteen Chinese restaurants. She asked the night manager at Madam Wu’s. She asked thirty seven store clerks, three bus drivers and sixty four people driving cars who had stopped at the red light On Broadway and Cesar Chavez. She got nothing.

Rhea crossed back over Cesar Chavez and sat on the bus bench at Spring Street. The smell of frankincense floated by, reminding her of church. And God. And how much Aggie liked God. She took the smell as a sign and followed the ancient scent across Alameda street to old Olvera.

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