For the next several blocks Lupe lapsed into silence, for which I was grateful. Where were we going? I had told her I had a plan. We couldn’t just drive around all night. Although it was getting late, it was still in the mid-eighties. The breeze on my face was hot and smelled like lemon grass. I ran my hand over the grease stain on my pant leg and wondered whether I should tell Lupe anything about Cathy Vega. The streets of Hollywood were full of the flotsam and jetsam of the Third World, teenage girls who had gotten themselves up to look like MTV sluts and many other happy dreamers. We could, I decided finally, drive by Rudy Sancerre’s and see what kind of place it was.

I was just about to tell her this and explain what I had learned about Cathy Vega when suddenly Lupe began reciting about Jesus Christ.

Alarmed, I looked sideways at her.

“It’s from The Robe. The same book Lauren Bacall used to read out loud from to improve her voice. She used to drive up to Mulholland and read it out loud. That’s how she got that great voice.”

I turned away. What had I gotten myself into?

Rudy Sancerre’s place was called Flamingo Photo. It was on Third near Western, a small gray building with the bars in the windows painted pink. A large neon sign with the street number hung over the top of the studio, but everything was dark inside and the front windows were blacked out with heavy construction paper. An alley on the west side of the building separated it from a Mongolian barbecue joint, and to the east was another photographer’s studio with wedding pictures and immigration photos in the window. Flamingo Photo was bordered in crab orchard stone, something that you don’t see much out here but that was popular in the neighborhood where I grew up. Twice I told Lupe to drive around the block while I looked at the studio, figuring out my plan of attack.

Finally I had her turn into the alley. Right behind the studio was a small parking lot he shared with the businesses on Western. There was an oriental massage parlor with a bright light above the door and a Mexican pool hall with its door open, ranchero cowboy music with guitars mixed up too high spilling into the night. Lupe pulled into an empty space near his door. The parking lot was dark except for the halo of light above the massage parlor. Lupe’s face was in the darkness. As she pulled up the parking brake, her hand brushed against mine. Her hair smelled like lanolin. A heavier layer of perfume with a rose base made me feel dizzy for an instant.