Sometimes it takes me awhile to remember…. the surprise of the bacon in a Bull Taco burrito, the pain of the light of day or the truth in what people say. George had left at a quarter to two, after we’d eaten her last four pear cream tarts. Two hours later I was still wide awake, thoughts running through my head even after nine drops of white chestnut bark. Then one thought slammed home like tomatillos and lime or the truth after a night of lying: I remembered Sakuri at the Polo Lounge saying , “…he must’ve bought one…” she wasn’t talking about a Malibu view or the Forty dollar Kobe Burger, medium well done. She was talking about little girls and Matt Ozrin.
When I’d first followed the child there, I’d hoped, against gut, he was some kind of saviour. Who’d ever want to believe there’s evil in a well-lit neighbor? But I knew what I knew: she was the child I saw in Ensenada transported to an alley in L.A. where my dead sister flew. And Ozrin owner her. And Myrna had driven her there. And somehow, Panama had been wooed. He couldn’t have been intentionally involved; after all I’d f***ed him. And though I never seemed to get good guys, none knew the devil as kin. And… he was still my only way in. And he liked the pork buns at Madame Tu’s and Garcia’s chorizo pambazos.
In the big picture, I knew Ozrin didn’t act alone. Somewhere, there was a network, a distributor, a supplier, a boss. And I needed to figure it all out and take the girl back home. I was hoping he’d just bought her for a maid and she was comforted by a warm place to sleep in her own little room somewhere in back. And I was wishing I was more than a hack. But I wasn’t. Still, or because of that…
I waited until dusk, until the end of the day at Manuel’s auto repair. Fernando Alvarez does transmission work there… and he knows every taco in town. I paid him thirty bucks for an oil change and a tip on where else a pambazo devotee might be found. I waited an extra hour after dawn then headed east on the boulevard… turned right off Chavez down Pleasant to Boyle then south a little below Eighth. Then I saw him: fluid on the street, eating a crispy flauta, oozing red chili and faith. Now this I remembered. Stopping halfway down the block, I could feel his addiction. He felt something too and turned to me, hungry, like this city’s fiction.
I think he was glad to see me.
Rhea.
