Western Avenue, one of the city’s major arteries, stretches from the port in San Pedro up to where it curves into the base of the Hollywood Hills. I left Rudy Sancerre’s heading up Western a couple of miles toward Sunset to where my map book told me Casa Guatemala was located. Porno theaters, porno bookstores, the kinds of places that sell funny rubbers and blow-up dolls—that’s Western. There are a few bad bars, a wig store, some latin markets and a disproportionate number of shoe-repair shops. I cruised on Hollywood Boulevard past my office. My windows were closed. Everything looked all right. I saw the curtains blowing in Harvey’s office. About half a block east stood the heavily shuttered Falcon Studios, legendary home of swashbucklers Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and Errol Flynn. I had never paid much attention to it. Most of Hollywood is paved-over dreams and palaces that have become storefronts. Lupe could, I was sure, tell me more about its history. Would she show up to meet me or had she gone home to her baby? Was she out working or had her brother caught up with her? Guadalupe Virginia Ramos, I said aloud, trying to pronounce her name correctly and capture all the tropical essence, the Santa Ana wind sound.

Casa Guatemala was a small concrete building on the north side of Sunset. A medical clinic with barred windows stood to the side. A broken chain-link fence separated an auto body repair shop from its neighbor. I was early. The woman at the demo had told me seven. It was nearly forty minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin. I drove around the block a few times getting a sense of the neighborhood and looking for Lupe’s old Fiat. I parked my car facing down the hill on Micheltorena Street.