A Luna Blued

Everybody talks about the air in L.A.  It never bothered me.  There’s namesake angels hovering there, looking for someone to free.  Though I could sure use some flight, some air, some escape, I knew my freedom wasn’t yet to be.  I had work to do.

This is, so far, what I knew: A little girl I saw begging on the streets on Ensenada, was now in L.A., hustled inside Domingo’s back door in the middle of the night.  Two: The best guy I’d ever been attracted to was hanging around the place.  Three: It could all mean nothing.  Four: It could mean the worst.  Five:  I was a coward.  Six: I was curious.  Seven:  My dead sister’s ghost had said something to me that left me no choice.  So after fourteen years of giving in to my fears, I made a move.

I locked the door, turned off the phone and ordered take-out from Madelyn Wu’s: Some basic Wor Won Ton, a side of Crispy Walnuts Duck, some peppered Calamari and her Cream Cheese Crab Puffs for luck. 

Leaving all thought of trouble and men behind, I punched up The L.A. Times and headed straight for the “Archives.” George had told me she thought there had once been a fire at Domingo’s and that someone had died.  This was before her time.  She’d had the Trop for almost six years so I dated my search six to ten years back.  I wrote in the terms: Domingo’s Bar Sunset Fire and paid ten bucks for an advanced query.  Waiting for results, while the little world turned, my Puffs and duck arrived. 

Warm cream cheese oozing from a bitten lard-fried puff reminded me of happier times: Mom’s fried pancake sandwiches late on Sunday’s after church, eaten with my little sister Ag.  Simple.  Good.  Sweet.  Family.  Gone now forever.  But I was determined to get something back.  Domingo’s was the key.  
But by the time I finished the puffs and Won Ton, the Times spit back misery:  NO RESULTS FOUND. F**k.  I was ten bucks down with no answers and no leads but, finally, trusting my gut.  I wouldn’t give up.  Tonight I’d finish the deep fried Calamari and tomorrow I’d follow my heart and try not to suck.

Because sweet dead Aggie had come to me and woken me with a whisper.  I was crying because I could never help her but she dried my tears, looked down at Domingo’s below and reminded me: “They are all our sisters.”

I woke up sweaty as the sun hit noon… thankfully alone in my bed.  I kicked him out about a quarter to three, him and his oyster creme.  It was all going swell until he wanted to know whether me downing two-buck Tikka in a strip mall joint was some kind of childhood dream. 

Now, I didn’t mind that he was asking, seemed like the usual chit-chat to me and besides, he was easy on the eyes.  But when he started pressing about what I wanted from the world, well that’s when I start telling lies.

I don’t want anyone to know what I want, ’cause when I don’t get it, it slams me to my knees.  And I end up begging the universe for just a little piece of it and I even say please.  And when that doesn’t work I start looking for anyone anywhere who’s worse off than me.  By the time I hit Sunset Boulevard, I can usually find at least three. 

And what I wanted for the last ten years was to find who did my sister in. But I was just a four-bit Taco scribbler with a two-bit Journalism degree and a penchant for east side dim sum. 

So I shared my oxtails from Madame Matisse; I shared my repartee with him. Then I kicked him out without sharing anything from within.  And yeah I could’ve pressed him about what he was really doing in that alley but it was after three and I only had one brownie and trading it for info felt like a sin. 

Now maybe you think I live my life letting opportunity slide on by, but don’t go preaching to me.  ’cause those ugly things I think I see in the night are starting to get through, finally.

What to do about it, well that’s another story.  Teddy would just tell me “Stick to food” but if I do or if I don’t I’m thinking either way, I’m gonna be sorry. 

Hope my sister’s not.

Rhea.

I watched her from the shadow of the Bluebird Cafe, watched that low-rent dame walk away… straight to Domingos back door.  Yeah, it was locked, I’d seen to that myself but what did she want to score?  They didn’t serve food, they were barely open and their beer was never cold.  Time to find out why this cool burning chick with a neon apatite had such a curious soul.    And I needed to know her name.   

I knew she scribbled for a living about lo mein and duck and the poetry of dives was her game.  I headed down Sunset, jagged left on Ord and popped into Philippe’s for a nine cent cup of joe.  I exited on Alameda, grabbed some carnitas at La Luz then crossed over to Union Station, short on dough.  But an old friend, Valma, ran the newspaper stand and let me hang out on the racks.  I scanned every paper, every guidebook, every mag, trying to get some facts.  Nada.  Then I saw a stack of throw-away “Hollywood Pulses”, grabbed one and read the food line:”…maybe the whole salsa thing is just a state of mind; like a man who knows how to take his time and Yellowtail marinated in tequila and lime.”  By-line: Rhea Porter.  Had to be her.

On a hunch, I hoofed it back across Alameda to the Plaza where there was still a booth that worked; I got in and had a look.  I scanned down the P’s and there she was.  Rhea Porter was in the book. 

I stopped off at Wang Tung’s for some take-out angel wings and oyster dew.  Eleven minutes later she opened her door with an “Oh, ****, it’s you.  I was waiting for oxtails from Madame Matisse but,” she sniffed my carton, opened her door and whispered, “That’ll do”.  I followed her inside, looked around then I saw the view:  Crimson Bouganvilla framed a sliver of the alley behind Domingos, far below.  I wondered what, if anything, did she know.  “They’ve been closed forever, ” she offered as we both looked down, “I saw a light on, thought I smelled wild things; was hoping a thrill could still be found.”  Then she brushed up beside me with that crooked smile, and the promise of Tails in her eyes.  And I believed for a moment all she lived for was cheap tikka, fried rice and Tom Ka Kai. 

The table was set, the cartons open, the wings’ sauce oozing down one side.  But when she reached into her desk drawer for chopsticks and plates, I caught a peek of a Journalism degree, telling me she lied. 

Stings like a butterfly. 

Panama G.

I remembered her from the Froo Pool Room, long legs, great smell, doubter’s scowl.  I wanted to take her home right then; hear that laugh all night; hear that howl. Then she nailed the scent of my duck dumplings and I knew she was a pro.  Time to go.  Her two-buck Tee said she didn’t review food for the Times or any rag that paid a decent wage.  Still, anyone near any newspaper world was bad news for me, it was hell.  So I left her there and headed into the night, still smelling her cilantro and knock-off Chanel. 

I don’t believe in karma, destiny or fate; I like to think I make my own world bleed.  I do my job as I’m told, with some style of my own; I play it smart and I always succeed.  But three nights later as I walked out of Domingos’ back door and headed up the alley toward Lucile, there she was… looking like a dream: that two buck tee over some pinata skirt, Garbo mouth and skin like oyster creme.  But why was she here in this dusty old block where everything was closed or torn apart?  She may be scraping rent by slurping some back room Albondigas but I sensed this chick was smart.  And the vibe I was getting from her fractured soul was: trouble and the need for more.  And she was headed right to Domingos’ back door.

I tried to woo her out of there with a tip on birria burritos but she wasn’t gonna be dissuaded.  She sucked-punched me with a snarled one-two, “You know, they buy their tortillas at Ralph’s on Vega”.  I had to admire her guile, her knowledge, her funk… and the way her walk left me rocked.  And as I watched her sway down that alley toward the dark, I thanked God… or fate that Domingos’ back door was locked.

Panama G.

Trouble comes for many at night… last night it came for me.  I had just ordered ox tails from Madame Matisse and I was waiting for a late night delivery.  I turned on the player and poured a tonic with Rose’s Lime.  The Sister’s Of Mercy sang about the Temple of Love and Ray wailed about “Crying Time.”  I opened the window to the balmy orange-scented air and waited for the beef.  The doorbell rang, I opened the door hungry for the tails but all I got was grief.

The Prowler stood there, like a dark lanky dream, with a six pack of San Miguel and a carton of oyster crème.  Good God he was gorgeous, in a Day-Lewis Way, with a little more hunk but less soul.  I blocked the door and asked “What were you doing in the alley last night, behind that low rent den?”  “Parking.” he smiled, “Sunset’s a bitch.  You gonna let me in?”

He was bad, I could feel it, he had that underworld vibe and the promise of trouble in his eyes.  My knees went weak, I couldn’t help myself… I opened the door wide.  “How’d you find me?” I asked as he slipped inside, smelling like desire insane. “You’re in the book”, he answered. I replied, “You don’t even know my name”.  “I  know you like duck simmered in Remy and you eat your tamales whole.  You like to say and do what you want but regret has a stamp on your soul.”  He tossed a copy of the “Hollywood Pulse’ onto the table, it was open to my review.  “Anyone any one who’d drive three hundred miles for salsa, I’d day is worth finding, and soon.”  “Yeah?”, I smiled, “How far would you go?”  “Elena Moreno’s–”, he started to answer. “On Whittier boulevard”, I  finished his sentence, “In East L.A. Taco row.”  “Damn, you are good”, he grinned and took out two beers. “You have no idea,” I replied.” then stuck out my hand, “Rhea Porter.”  He shook it, “Panama Garcia”, he smiled.  Then he opened the carton of oyster crème. 

Eat up.  Dream on.

Rhea Porter.

There’s a stench in the sea just south of Imperial Beach, where the border fence slices the Pacific.  It used to come from Tijuana sewage but I found out that now, it’s from something far more horrific.

Jojo Valdez used to surf “The Slough” where the Tijuana river pours into the ocean.  Waves are rough, even deadly but after a full moon the water can be flat and open.  About a week before it’s full, half a dozen times a year, he’d venture into the city streets of TJ, Ensenada, Cabo or San Felipe.  Anywhere there’s little girls begging when they should be tucked in at home, safe and sound asleep.  He’d be munching on a churro, a few spares in a bag, torn T-shit and flips flops on his bod; sun bleached blond hair halfway down his back, entitlement his own personal god.  He’d ease past the girls with a stoned smile on his face and a casual kind of walk like he owned the place.  Then he’d slow it down when he felt those hungry eyes and turn and give a churro to the one with the saddest little face. 

If I knew then what I know now: that this was happening…. but you can’t know everything. It’s hard to see, especially at dusk when the sky’s deep blue and the surf pounds home.  And Jojo’s old blue van would creep away in the night and another little girl, Horatio… or my sister… would be gone. 

I should’ve known. 

Rhea Porter.

I used to live in an 8X10 room half dream below the Hollywood sign.  Eight hundred a month for a killer view and a twin bed and mini-fridge were mine.  But at four bits a word to rhyme plum sauce f**k with tea soaked duck, I couldn’t afford the rent.  A friend of a friend who made latex movie monsters needed a house-sitter for a six months stint.  So here I was, looking out his Silverlake bungalow window at a sign on Domingos saying it opened at nine. It was six P.M. In three hours it would be my time… to rescue the kidnapped little girl and set my sister’s spirit free

I needed comfort food.  I pillaged my bottom desk drawer and yanked out a wad of take-out menus.  Carnitas took work, sushi was too present, pizza always made my hyper.  Kung Pao could sometimes fog my brain and Prik King could be a soul cipher. This evening, the Pink Elephant had exactly what I was after: A Nehi Orange, two fat Twinkies, a family-sized Payday… a side of onion rings, some chicken noodle soup and an ice cold diet Celray. 

Nine P.M., sufficiently calmed, I stepped out into the jasmine scented breeze.  I headed straight down to the bad-vibe bar, hoping to find the devil and his prey: hoping to write my story.  I turned the corner at Micheltorena then crossed Sunset in the middle of the block, approaching Domingos from the east side where three druggies outside made me stop.  Closer, I saw they were too enamored with their high to see how much I was exposed.  I reached the door, touched the old knob under the sputtering neon sign and pulled.  Nothing.  The joint was closed. 

I could’ve screamed.  Pissed, I ran around to the alley in back then I saw him: that gorgeous Prowler from the Froo Pool Room, walking toward me like a dream… and smiling curiously at me.  I stood my ground; just let him walk on by… and even though he smelled like Tacos Delta sauce, I knew he was still mean.  And as he passed, he smiled sideways and said, “There’s a birria stand down by Lucile…try the number seventeen.” 

Now, he didn’t come within a foot of me before he slipped into the dark, but I felt an old familiar twinge deep in that crazy part.  Best to damp that down for now, best to keep that demon boxed.  So I headed for the other way in, but the back door, too, was locked.

I needed coffee.  Bad.  Two hours sleep and the aftertaste of MSG and beer was wilting me in the New Year’s sun and it wasn’t even seven A.M.  I turned off Sunset, down to Temple and First, praying the Tropical Cafe was open.  It was.  Barely. 

My sometime-friend George was blending a mango smoothie for some early-rising loser at the counter.  I slid onto a stool, gave her a nod and she squeezed me a double espresso and some thunder: “Stuff’ll rot your liver.”  “So will L.A.”, I muttered, “but I’m too broke to move.”  “You love it here”, she replied, “It’s had it’s moments” I said and she answered, “Was last night one of them?”  “I worked last night, Madame Tu’s.”  “You broke a heart, too.” she sidled as the loser got up and shot me a sorry smile. 

It was a guy I’d met there, a few weeks ago, and he’d asked me out for New Year’s eve.  Oops.  He slurped the last of his mango, tipped George a buck then shuffled out with his heart on his sleeve.  I spun around on my stool, ready to creep out, then I looked across the street. 

There was a light on, already, at Domingos and it got my curiosity on the rise.  “You know…” I told her, “I saw that old joint open the other night.”  “No you didn’t,” she replied.  “I did and there’s a light on there now,” I let her know.  “Ghosts.” she answered with a cursory glance then added, “Let it go”.  But I didn’t and asked her, “Why?”  “You don’t want to know,” she warned me.  I ignored her, “Yes I do.”  “About ten years ago, in the back room, three little girls died.”  Now I was awake.  Before I could ask, she answered “Fire… Accidental… so they say.”  “You don’t think so?”  She let me know: “Place has a real bad vibe.” 
 
There are rules I break like an addict: like trusting religion or dating a guy who was good for me.  You could say it was because I didn’t like myself but I’d nail you to the nearest tree.  The truth I told myself was that I just liked being free.  And when I start thinking about what I could be, I let the hours of the night come on me like a fix and I pretend I don’t see what I see.  But it was daylight out, really sunny now and that bad vibe joint was calling me. 
 
I paid George and headed home, to write my review of Madame Tu’s.  Then, I resolved, I’d wait for the night and take a little trip to Domingos.  And if I couldn’t find out what was going on there, well… I had my own sweet little ghost and dozens of low-rent dives to review.
 
Rhea.

I woke up over some dim sum dive next to a truck-built hunk of a man.  A strawberry sweated on the floor.  Neon sputtered through a piercing dawn and I remembered the night before:  It had started with some spicy garlic prawns at Madame Tu’s on First.  And ended here, twenty-six steps above, in an octagonal room with a thirst: from crispy duck, some cheap pork buns and my young hunk’s salty skin.  It took me a few minutes to adjust to the light and realize I’d kicked off ‘08 with passion, plum sauce and sin.  Oh well… I had 365 days to redeem myself or not… and I wouldn’t bet on a high-road win.  I took one last swig of a flat margarita, grabbed my shirt and a pile of notes scribbled on a dozen take-out napkins… “Salt.  Duck.  Musky Skin.  Pork.  Redemption.  Bun.  Tongue Fun.” I’d penciled in their greasy folds.  I tucked them into my torn back pocket and hit the road.  Alone.

I stopped making resolutions when I knew I couldn’t help her, when I knew nothing I pledged could create any good.  Now I let the new years ring with determined apathy and a dark corner booth with luckless strangers and fried food.  Works for me. 

Almost home, I’d formed my review of Madame Tu’s in my head… full of fat garlic prawns and a hot, wordless man… those were editor Teddy’s rules: “Good food, bad girl, always cheap.”  It’s a job.  And I can always eat.  Here’s to 2008.

Rhea.

Four more tamales at Taco Town; two more shots of knock-off Commertivo…one more late night graze of two bit Pork Buns and this year will finally be over.  Yeah, I’m working tonight as the confetti falls and Champagne flows through the gutters.  Just trying to make a buck as the world vomits up the night and hopes for a better tomorrow: more money, less fat; more God, less war or it is more war and less God?  I can’t remember and I really don’t care.  I still don’t have a guy and the ghost of my sister has made me a lofty dare: Unearth my buried journalistic yearnings and lay the Culprit bare:  The guy who trashed her life, and tore a gash in the decent world… or at least try and find One of the Ones who hunt down little girls.  And then she’d be at peace.  Well, maybe tomorrow I’d give it a try but tonight I had a Foo Young to eat. 

I have no control over the world; no money, no power, no will.  I have no say in it’s day, in it’s future, but sometimes I wonder… why joy isn’t as infectious as hate but I know where my bread is buttered.  So I don’t think too much, I eat and I write about French Dip and Octopus Chowder.  And I bury all sightings of trouble and pain and look for that five dollar fix: a thick Albondigas, a chewy sopa or two and a hunk who knows some tricks. 

Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and try to set my conscience free.  But tonight as I suck the tail of a garlic prawn, I’ll just toast what I could be.

Happy f*****g New Year.

Rhea