An LA Crime Story

Tag: story

Delivery
“I had a craving for cool-weather food last night, for thicker sauces, a deeper carnal connection. I was ready for summer to be over. I ordered the slow braised oxtails from Madame Matisse on Sunset near Lucille and waited for my delivery.
My window was open to the warm LA air, thick with nicotine light and the soft thudding flutter of namesake wings. From the corner of Wilcox, I could smell grilled chorizo and onion rings. Two buck tacos. Always an option. But I waited.
Forty minutes later, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, hungry for that meat but there stood a whole other treat: Delivery Boy, standing on my step, smelling like carne and youth.
Good God he was gorgeous, in a Chalamet way, with a little more hunk but less soul.
“I have an order for–” said hunk said, trying to read the name on the order.
“It’s for me.” I took the bag, packed with three take-out cartons – the tails and two sides. I breathed in deep. He watched.
“It does smell good.” he commented.
“So do you.” I smiled and tipped him a twenty.
Made him blush; I didn’t think a thing more of it. “Thanks.” he said, “Appreciate it–” I thought he meant the twenty but when I started to close the door, I felt him linger.
“Hope you enjoy your–?”
“Oxtails.” I told him.
“Oh.” he pulled back. No bueno.
“They’re nice…” I tried to entice him, “…she braises them until mouth tender; shreds the meat and layers it inside little pillows of dough, then sautees them to a crisp in butter.”
“I like butter.” he smiled. It was a good one.
“And duck.” he carried on, “I like her duck.” He stepped a little closer, “Simmered in fat and Remy.”
OK, he knew a thing or two, but…
“Are you old enough for Remy–?” I asked, needing to make sure, I mean, he looked at least nineteen….
“The alcohol burns off.” he looked me in the eye, “But yeah, I’m old enough.”
I held his gaze, not sure what to say. He was,
“It’s the end of my shift.”
His car was idling out front. Someone in a Vega pulled out of a parking spot across the street. I pointed at it, “If you hurry–“
Three minutes later, I let him inside. I got two beers out of the fridge. Tsing Dao. It went well with beef. Two kinds.
He said his name was Andy. That was a lie. It didn’t matter. As he mouthed the neck of that beer, I couldn’t stop thinking how smooth his arms were, how young his dick was, how good it would feel and… But the cartons were hard to get open. He took over; opened them like a pro. I got napkins. And pillows.
We started with asparagus, their shanks sauteed but firm; their warm tips swollen with tangy cream. They went down my throat like a treat. We followed with a mound of roasted mushrooms: fleshy shitake, pungent oyster; their umami filled his mouth like a dream.
An hour in, skin to skin, we shared every inch of those buttery, warm oxtails from Madame Matisse.
My name is Rhea Porter. I eat.
Madame Matisse. Sunset near Lucille. Open for lunch and dinner. They deliver.”
Joe’s
At a little 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, finished the last few bites of a glazed mango donut 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.
Rhea paused outside Joe’s; a wave of hesitation stalled her. She shook it off, opened the door and stepped inside. It wasn’t a cafe anymore. Gone were the smells of citrus and cinnamon, of cilantro and chilis; gone were the sounds radio music; friends talking and gone were the little tables where a child left alone for a moment could slip outside, chasing after a bluebird.
Now there was a makeshift stage in the center of the room. On it, eight stone-faced almost-naked women swayed to a scratchy recording of 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. Then she spotted him, 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. He’d revealed a world to her – and though now, 22 years later, she could still find joy in a good chili relleno, Musso pot pie or kimchee turkey melt, it was fleeting.
After awhile the man looked up and saw her. It took him a moment, then a smile accordioned his eyes. She shoved off the wall and headed toward him, passing 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, drinking in her once 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. Good. You look…” He was at a loss to describe how she looked to him after so many years and so much loss, “It is good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too.” She held on to his hand. “I was in town– and wanted to see if you were still here. And you are–“
“Yes. I stay. In case–” A familiar pain filled his eyes; she couldn’t stand it.
She let go of his hand. She looked around at the stale incarnation of the once charming cafe.
“I hate what you’ve done with the place.”
He nodded at the obvious, “There’s more money in–” his wave referenced the ugly room, the booze and sex.
But she knew. The real reason he’d given up the light-filled 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’m driving back to LA. Just came for the day… I saw officer Nala,” she stumbled on, not wanting to explain but needing to, ”-he’s still working– it’s Detective Nala now–“
Joe’s pulse raced, “Is there some news–?”
“No.” Rhea answered fast, shutting down his hope. “I thought maybe there was, but no.”
Hope. That smirk of light that makes you think the lost will be found, that love will prevail; that smirk of evidence that had sent her back to Baja. For nothing. 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 gestured for one of the dancers to take over the bar then slipped through a curtain to a back room.
Rhea drank. It was good. But she could feel the skinny jackass oozing toward her. She angled away from him. The stool next to her was empty. She put her purse on it. Doubling down on the “stay away” vibes, she pulled out her phone and started writing, looking occupied. Jackass hovered but kept a distance, watching the show on stage, beer in one hand, the other hand deep in his left pocket. Stroking.
Six 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.
He set it down. She gave it her full attention. T’was a thing of beauty. She swirled the crema into the tomatillo, cut the fish with her fork, slid it through the sauce and ate it.
It was so good it made her laugh. “Still the best in town.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.” No more talking. She ate. He watched her. It was good to see her like this.
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.
She was alone again. Fair game. The Jackass seized the moment. 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. Fucker. She elbowed him but not too hard – gotta be careful with sleaze.
Joe came back. Jackass retreated. Joe put a take-out carton of the salsa and two bags of hot, greasy fried strips on the bar, “For the drive back”. 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.
As she walked toward the door, she felt the Jackass behind her. By the time she reached it, she felt his menace. She opened the door and stepped outside.
The air was sharp with the edge it gets just before a Santa Ana wind has been freed. It got under her skin, irritated her. Man she was tired of always walking away. Pissed her off. She stopped hard, turned, faced him, ripped open her jacket. He looked her up and down, focused, backed away. For now. She knew it could go either way. She buttoned up and hurried away.
Rhea 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.
Rhea hit the outskirts, there were three roads ahead, all leading out. One was highway 3, the main paved road heading north to Tijuana and the US border. There might 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.
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.
The road got bumpy: potholes and scrub growing through the cracks and hares hopping across the pavement slowed her down. A coyote howled.
The trio gained on her. Her adrenaline soared but she kept her speed steady. Her headlights revealed a turnout a few hundred yards ahead.
She sped up. 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. She snatched her gun from the console and shot all three. Hand. Shoulder. Eye. Blood splattered. Zip tie guy could still drive. He got them the hell out of there.
Finally feeling relaxed, feeling a little free, Rhea took a minute to finish her coffee. Crisp, clear desert night air filled her. Time to go home.
Rhea started the LeBaron. As she pulled away she heard a “crunch”. Damn. She got out and checked the back of the car. When she’d first spun out, a taillight had cracked on a rock, breaking the red plastic. A piece had broken off and she’d rolled over it. She picked it up. It wasn’t too bad; an easy superglue fix once she got home. The tail light, now white, shone on the rock she’d hit. Sticking out from under it was a slip of paper. Curious, she wedged it out. It was an old, faded receipt; hard to see where it was from. She turned the receipt over.
On the back was a handwritten note… faded scratches of pen that came together like a dream: “Dear Rhea Porter, I am here. Aggie.”
July 22, 2025
Marigold Walls
The marigold colored walls of the main dining room at Barragan’s on Sunset screamed “sunshine!” Rhea hurried through it and headed for the darkness of the bar. It was “Two Buck Taco Tuesday” – her choice for her first review. The tacos were OK – somewhere between the soulful carne asada ones at the Saturday night pop-ups on York and the fast food addictions of Taco Bell. At two bucks a piece she could meet Manny’s ten buck limit.
Rhea sat at the end of the bar, near a window where she had a sliver of a view of the street outside. The bartender smiled at her, “San Miguel dark, right?” She smiled back, “Yeah Ernie, thanks. And five tacos. Mixed.” He slid her the beer and wrote up her order. She took a swig and took out her phone. She opened her notepad app and wrote a few words: “2 dollar tacos. back room. chorizo. Cacique. poblano.” 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 strutted up the street, fit, strutting, cocky… but the hair was too wavy, the teeth too white, the vibe too sharp.
A waiter brought Rhea her tacos. She looked back out the window. A scruffy girl about sixteen came into view, carrying an overstuffed blue IKEA bag. Rhea drained half her beer in a single gulp, wrapped the tacos in a few napkins, slapped twenty dollars on the counter, took the tacos and left.
Outside, Rhea looked for the girl. She spotted her at a stoplight half a block up. She approached.
“Sheena?” Rhea said, close now. The girl turned.
“Officer Porter!” she cried out, recognizing Rhea.
Are you OK?” Rhea asked her. The girl seemed shaky.
“Yeah. Yeah…” Sheena answered, unconvincingly then looked at the wrapped tacos.
Rhea offered them to her, “One is oxtail.”
Sheena flashed a brief smile as she took four of the little tacos, leaving the oxtail one. “I was looking for you. Where’ve you been?”
“Sorta on a break.” Rhea admitted then asked again, “Everything OK?”
Sheena, who’d devoured one taco already, shook her head.
“What happened?” Rhea asked, concerned.
“Nothing happened really, it’s just… There’s this smell…”
“Where?” Rhea asked.
“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 down there. Or maybe all the piss, soaking the ground.”
“No…” Sheena said, thinking about it. 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.”
July 23, 2025
Cold Tacos by the 101 Freeway
It was a cheap little tin charm and Strickland knew exactly what it could mean. Everything.
Or… “It could be nothing.” He reminded Rhea.
“Boom Boom is two doors down from Joe’s–!” Rhea let loose, hating the escaped emotion.
“I know where it is.” Strickland reminded her. “But not every kid that goes missing near Boom Boom was snatched—”
“One was.” She reminded him back.
“We’ll follow the evidence.”
“Yes. We.”
“As soon as you’re cleared.”
“Eighteen, Strickland. The guy was eighteen–!”
“He’d been eighteen for four days.”
“Still… Legal. I’m not stupid.” She pointed out, calming herself. “And this is my case.”
“It’s the Department’s.” he corrected her.
“I’ll stay on unpaid leave and just work this-” Rhea gestured toward the dead girls.
Strickland knew she’d be an asset. He knew he probably should let her back on the squad. But she’d messed up. Yeah, the kid was eighteen and she hadn’t paid him or officially broken the law but the image of her in the back seat of her car with him was seared to his retina. And it pissed him off. It hurt, too. Yeah that hurt was his; he wished it was hers, too. She had to pay.
They heard cars drive up.
“Go home.” he told her, ushering her out of the room.
“Don’t do this to me. I’ve stopped. OK? I promise.”
“Go home.” He held the door open for her to leave. He meant it. She left.
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 Detective Dawson. It was hard being outside. This was her case. 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 Chili 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 lone 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: beefy, ancho, warm night, two dollars.
Half an hour later, the ME 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 Headquarters.
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. Using her favorite INFO app, she looked up Domingos’ data, got the name of an owner and found out he also owned a furniture warehouse on Palmetto near Fourth. Just under twelve blocks away. She started her car and took off, heading south, toward Fourth Street.
Inside Headquarters, on the sixth floor, Strickland was online, also finding out who owned Domingos.
Four minutes into his search, he had a name: Leland Hays.
July 23, 2025
Peanut Butter Cups
Fifty-four year old Leland Hays felt like he was aging well. After twenty two years of Juvederm, Sculptra, botox, two peels, an eyelid lift 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 Mongolia and slamming her from behind. Next 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 and though these pieces were almost-antiques, they were mostly still beautiful and people in LA paid a decent price for them.
Hays liked just hearing the sound of his own self at play so he’d told the waitress to keep quiet, if she did, he’d give her a present. She did make some noise unwrapping a peanut butter cup and eating 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 lamp for her apartment before kicking her out.
Rhea was parked outside, across the loading dock, watching a little green door under a nondescript sign that read: H&H Imports. The door opened. A young woman hurried out, carrying a Mexican lamp. She got in her Kia and drove away. Rhea opened her glove box and took out her badge, figuring she had only a few minutes until Strickland and Dawson showed up.
Hays was in his office doing some inventory when someone started banging on the street door. Thinking maybe the waitress 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.
“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. They died trying to get out.”
Hays froze, mind racing. A few microbladed eyebrow hairs twitched.
“Know anything about them?” Dawson continued, showing Hays a picture of the dead girls. Hays looked quickly and shoved it away.
“No. No – it’s a bar. We don’t let kids in there. Besides, it’s been closed for a couple weeks now–“
“Why’s that?” Strickland asked.
“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 furniture 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; it’s very sad.” 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 door, “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.
July 23, 2025
Chili Fries
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.
July 23, 2025
Night Flight
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.
July 23, 2025
Impossible
In a Little Tokyo office, just 2 blocks from LAPD Headquarters, Dr. Elena Gallows was blending a kale and banana smoothie after a morning kickboxing workout. She stayed fit. She had to. Being a cop therapist wasn’t physical, but it may as well have been. Feeling strong, she was ready to take on the day, even ready to take on the surprise of Detective Rhea Porter knocking on her door. Their first and last session nearly two months ago was testy and when Rhea cut it short and left, Gallows didn’t really expect her back. Rhea looked good, though. Calmer.
“No I don’t. I look like crap.” Rhea answered the shrink’s compliment.
“Here we go.” Gallows thought but Rhea softened.
“Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. Do you have time for me?”
Gallows checked the clock. “I have a hazing-damaged rookie in twenty minutes.” she said then added. “You can have the twenty but it’s not going to be any easier than it was.”
“I don’t care. I just need it to be fast.” Rhea informed her.
“That’s up to you.” Gallows slammed back.
The Doctor gestured to a seat next to a potted orchid. Rhea sat, the orchid caught her eye. It was fake. Gallows prided herself on being healthy and all-natural, yet here she was with a fake orchid. This made the doctor somehow flawed in Rhea’s eyes. It made her opinion matter less. Still, she needed the doctor on her side. She needed the doctor to tell Strickland that she was cured of her need for young men so he’d put her back on the squad.
“Nice orchid.” Rhea smiled.
“Thank you.” Gallows responded. “Ready?”
“Ready.” she told the shrink.
“Let’s start with your sister.” Gallows dove in.
“OK.”
“Do you feel responsible?”
“Oh… we’re starting there.”
“Yep. You want fast. Let’s do it.”
“Ok…” Rhea let out a breath, “Yes.”
“You feel responsible.”
“I am responsible.”
“So you seek out men… young men… who cannot love you to punish yourself.”
“I seek out men who can fuck a lot for a long time because it stops me from thinking about dead kids, missing kids, abducted kids, homeless kids and how there is nothing I can do to stop it.”
“You could start with yourself.”
“No comparison. He wasn’t a kid. He was legal age and I don’t do that anymore, doctor.” Rhea lied, “Not in awhile.
Gallows checked Rhea’s file. “The one you were caught with – Kevin?”
Rhea nodded and pointed out, “”Caught” is a strong word.”
Gallows leaned back. “Correct me Miss Porter.”
Rhea copied her; leaned back too, “… Glimpsed. Noticed.”
“You were suspended. Detective Sergeant Strickland recommended suspending you because… you were noticed?”
“He said it looked bad. To the division.”
“The Exploited Kids Division.” Gallows said, emphasizing “kids”.
“He was eighteen.” Rhea repeated.
“And a pro.” Gallows added.
Rhea opened her hands, gesturing that either she didn’t know or it didn’t matter, then added, “That’s on him.”
Gallows let it go. She had another direction to explore: “Maybe Detective Strickland was also concerned about you.” She told Rhea.
There was no way Rhea was gonna tell a shrink who worked for the force that maybe Strickland had a thing for her; that maybe he was jealous; that maybe he was inappropriately using authority to punish her for his desire. Rhea couldn’t prove any of it and Gallows would take months delving into it. Gallows was a shrink. And shrinks loved shrinking. Better to give her less to shrink about.
“Maybe…” Rhea answered.
“Do you like being a cop?” Gallows asked, changing direction again.
“Yes.” Rhea answered.
“Why?”
“I like busting bad guys.”
“You feel like you’re making a difference?”
“No. I’ve busted forty-two preds in seventeen years. Each time I thought it was going to change things– well, at least slow down the horror. It did not make one bit of difference. Kid trafficking”, she answered, emphasizing ‘kid’, — is a booming business.”
“So… forty-two days out of seventeen years you liked your job?”
“No. I like going to work. I like chasing some bastard down. I like thinking it might be the one who took Aggie. I still like thinking I might find her.”
Gallows checked her file again, “It’s been how long–?”
“Twenty two years. She was five.” they were both quiet for awhile. “There’s a chance.” Rhea affirmed.
“OK. Look, Detective–” Gallows sounded blunt–
“I’m done with them. With younger men.” Rhea interrupted.
Gallows ignored her, “You are not going to get your job back if you don’t stop–“
“I have stopped–” Rhea interrupted.
Gallows carried on, “–if you don’t sop with the boys–“
“Young men.” Rhea corrected her.
Gallows continued, “And you can’t stop until you stop the need to destroy yourself.”
“No–” Rhea shook her head.
“I know this is tough–“
“No no no–” Rhea went on.
“But to do that, we have to get you to a place where you can feel good about yourself and to do that–“
“Don’t say it–” Rhea kept on.
“–like I told you before, you will have to forgive yourself for what happened to your sister.”
Without hesitation, Rhea affirmed, “Not gonna happen.”
“Forgiveness can be powerful.”
Rhea matched her, “My power is guilt.”
Gallows looked at the clock. Time was up. She stood up. So did Rhea. Rhea stuck out her hand, hoping. Gallows hesitated, then shook it. Then she held on and looked Rhea in the eye. “Fridays are good. Before nine or after four thirty. When you’re ready.” Gallows smiled and let go.
Rhea left.
July 23, 2025
The Last Tart
Rhea left Gallows’ office and walked to her car, parked half a block up, in the department lot. The air was thick with the undertone it gets just before a Santa Ana wind has been freed. It tickled the back of her neck and got under her skin – made her edgy. Angry. Everybody’s rules started exploding in her head: “Fix yourself. Forgive yourself. Date old guys. Don’t drink too much. Don’t eat sugar. Pay your rent. Stop the bad guys. Forgive yourself. Find your sister. Find your sister. Find your sister…”
She had a choice: continue to see Gallows and “fix herself” and go back to the LAPD or… try and up her word count at the Pulse and make enough extra money to go down to Ensenada and pursue the Domingos case – which could be connected to her sister – on her own. That wasn’t a bad idea. Working outside the system had it’s advantages. Except for the money thing. And the power thing. And the resources… She needed to think.
The crawling traffic slammed to a stop just past Micheletornia. At this rate, it would take Rhea forty minutes to go the four miles to her apartment. She needed food. A chocolate chess tart and a cup of coffee would surely help her think. The next light was Echo Park Boulevard. A right turn took her a few blocks into the little hood studded with stucco bungalows that was home to Valerie Bakery.
She was second in line at the funky neighborhood cafe, behind a tall lanky man with salty brown hair. She looked past him at the bakery case. There was one chess tart left. Then she saw his brown skinned finger point to it. She watched his backside as he paid and took the tart. He had a Day-Lewis vibe; sexy, she thought. Maybe she would ask if he wanted to split the tart. But he had to be about forty, too old to turn her on. He walked away, further on up Echo Park boulevard.
She approached the counter; got a five buck cookie called the “Durango” and a four dollar cup of coffee. At eleven dollars including tip, she was over her limit but, fuck-it.
She sat at a little outside table, wondering how many words she could possibly conjure up to describe the medium sized chocolate chunk and pecan cookie, dusted with Hickory salt. She contemplated going back to Gallows and wondered how long it would take her to successfully fake self-forgiveness.
She turned her attention to a twenty-year-old riding his bike down the street. He stopped at a stop sign. He was a little skinny but fit. He looked at her. She smiled. He smiled back and rode away. In her mind he’d have to do. Words came. She wrote a few of them down:
“He brushed past me with a smile in his eyes and a random way of walking that could easily hypnotize any two-bit writer from Paradise to Blythe and baby… that was me. I followed his invitation up a windy little street to his bungalow … and gave him a bite or two of my cookie named Durango.”
July 23, 2025
Pacific Dreams
At seventeen, Panama Jones was achingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. from his Mexican green eyes to the arch of his feet to the warmth of his smooth, sweet skin.`He didn’t think about it much, all he thought about while working part time as a janitor at the Vasquez senior center on Whittier Boulevard was making enough money to hang on to the studio apartment he shared with his mom.
After work on an August Friday, he cashed a paycheck for $237.12. He gave his mom 200 dollars toward rent. She put it on the TV stand. An hour later, her boyfriend showed up with a stash. He saw the cash and asked Panama to go get them some papers.
“Be right back.” Panama told his mom as he left, hoping the weird feeling he had would go away.
He was three yards outside the apartment when he heard the deadbolt latch shut. He went back and tried the door. Locked. He knocked. No one came to the door. And he knew. He wasn’t welcome. He said a silent goodbye to his mom, hit the boulevard and started walking. It was a little after nine.
Panama dropped down Alameda to Venice then headed west. He didn’t stop until he hit the beach a little before seven am. He’d never been there before, never seen the ocean, never been more than a dozen blocks from home. The cool mist surprised him. It cocooned him. He had thirty-seven dollars and nowhere to go but he knew he wasn’t going back.
Before the sun got high that day, he ventured into the Pacific. The force of the waves surprised him; one knocked him down, hard. A thirty-four-year-old surfer named Chelsea was just ending a long ride on a short board. She grabbed him up. Then she took him in. For three months and four days, she called him “Baby.”
“Hey, Baby, bring that lotion over here. Lie down, now… roll over on your back.” Or “Baby, you hungry?” And sometimes, “Baby, you’re gonna break my heart.”.
Chelsea shared her bed with him, her food and soon enough, her heart. She knew she couldn’t keep him but she tried.
“Just get in there, Baby, get in there. Hold your breath and dive under until you feel the rush pass over.” Chelsea taught Panama how to get past the first set of waves until they got to the breaks that were big enough to ride. He took to surfing like religion. Indeed, it was his savior. Every time he went under a wave, he forgot everything, every single wound, every single fear. The first time he rode one, good things almost seemed possible. He used Chelsea’s board every morning while she was at work. But afternoons and weekends, she wanted it for herself.
“A good used one’s under two hundred bucks.” She’d tell him, “You can save that in no time bussing tables or even working at McDonalds or Taco Bell.”
She could’ve bought him one but she knew he’d probably take it and run – he was starting to talk about the breaks at other beaches he’d heard about: Point Dume, San Onofre, Imperial, San Felipe.
She also knew he could find another woman to buy him one. And he did.
Women gave Panama everything: shelter, food, sex, pot, love. They turned him on to the chili verde at Felix’s in Redondo; the surf breaks at Solana, San Elijo, Rosarita; the strips at Huntington; Lady M weed; Astro Burgers’ onion rings; Kama Sutra positions four through sixty-nine and the Yellowtail marinated in tequila and lime at Joe’s café in Ensenada.
Panama had just finished a plate full of the fat, sizzled fish and was buying some twinkies – they called them “Bimbos” down there – at Boom Boom Carneceria just down the street from Joe’s when he first met Leland Hays. He’d been between women for a few months, sleeping on the beach, making a few bucks selling joints to surfers from the two ounces of Salinas Gold a woman in San Diego had given him.
“Could get you killed.” Leland mentioned as he slipped Panama a twenty for a joint of the smooth weed.
“Hey man, be cool.” Panama backed away, “Just a couple sticks’s all I got–“.
“I am cool.” Leland leaned in, “Just sayin’, sellin’ can get dangerous. Cartel doesn’t like competition–“
“Three sticks. That’s all I got– just need a few bucks for food.” Panama walked away.
Leland’s words slowed him, “I can get you five, six hundred for a few nights work. Easy money.”
“Easy money.” Words that should’ve made Panama run. But he was so young then… stoned and way less worldly than he thought. Five or six hundred was enough for a month’s stay at the San Ysidro Motel – he was a little scared of sleeping on the beach ever since a friend of a friend had got his head cut off one night sleeping at Imperial. Plus he could get a board of his own. He’d sold the second hand one a woman in Pismo had bought him – he’d had nowhere to keep it.
He followed Leland across the street. As Hays got into a sweet, sweet ride – a new blue VW van, Panama was right behind him.
July 23, 2025

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