“Look, look! Isn’t it beautiful? Norma Talmadge’s husband bought it for her,” she cried, excitedly pointing out the window at an old pink-and-white building on the corner.

“The silent-screen star?”

She nodded. “This was the most fashionable area in the early part of the century. Everybody stayed at the Ambassador.” She rattled off a list of stars: Marion Davies, Charlie Chaplin, Joan Crawford . Then in a low, reverent voice she whispered, “Marilyn Monroe went to modeling school at the Ambassador.”

So that was it. The wig. The beauty mark. The whispered voice. She must have thought she was the reincarnation of poor Norma Jean. This time I looked out the window, not wanting to talk but acutely aware of a static rubbing sound like crickets as she crossed and recrossed her legs.

“Get into the other lane, then turn right,” she told me after I had driven a couple of miles east. Although she seemed to know the area, she unfolded the paper and checked the address again. Then she looked at me as though measuring me for something, double-checking me on the story I’d given her about needing an interpreter.

I slowed down and did as she said, swinging the car onto Main Street. We were on the western edge of the garment district.

“There it is,” she announced, pointing out the window again.

The building we were looking for was eleven stories of brick shaped like a U and hung with a series of orange-and-brown-striped awnings that sagged over the sidewalk. A flophouse called the Hotel Vogue was next door, and the rest of the block appeared to be businesses that either sold or repaired sewing machines. Two oriental tailors and a mini-market occupied the ground floor. A row of open windows on the second floor revealed a sweatshop with a group of hunched-over Mexican women in black listening to Spanish rock and roll. I couldn’t tell what else was upstairs. It could be hotel rooms, stores, wholesalers, more sweatshops or offices.

I pulled into a lot behind the theater across the street. The theater was real old Hollywood, with Greco-Roman columns someone had thought to update—improve, if you will—with red, yellow, green and blue neon. This was once a beautiful city. Now no one seems to care about its preservation.

Lupe got out of the car to wander around the closed ticket booth, inspecting what was left of the ornate carving. A man at the edge of a crowd waiting for a bus detached himself from the group to sidle up and whisper in her ear.

I had shoved some money into the hand of the parking attendant and now I hurried up to Lupe and touched her on the back of the elbow to get her moving.

“Hey, let’s go.”

“What do you think? I’m going to turn a trick right here?” Lupe snapped.