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mexican | An LA Crime Story

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.”

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.

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