I slowed way down and made the turn onto the street carefully. The air was sweet with night blooming jasmine. The east side of the street was residential; big old cars were parked on either side so that passage was tight. The west side of the street was a large three-story stucco building with a big parking lot behind it. The green Volkswagen was gone. I could see he hadn’t had time to hit the other side of the little valley. It all looks flat from downtown, but there are a surprising number of small hills. The graffiti confirmed that I was in Happy Valley gang territory. As I drove into the parking lot, which was full, I saw the Volkswagen again over in the second row of cars, moving slowly, looking for a place to park. A Mexican family got out of an old Plymouth sedan, the woman straightening the red dress of her chubby little girl and yelling at the boy, who started to run in front of my car.

She jerked the boy back by the arm. After smacking him on the butt, she led her family toward the stucco building, on which were painted the words “El Mercado” in big letters. My quarry moved farther toward the edge of the lot, still looking for a parking space. Suddenly a pink-and-black Chrysler backed out in front of me without looking. I slammed on the brakes and threw my car into reverse. When I looked up the Volkswagen was at the far end of the lot and going out a driveway that exited on the same street I had followed it down.

The Volkswagen disappeared again.

I pointed my car toward the same driveway, but before I got there, I saw the guy with the blue baseball cap strolling down the sidewalk toward the building. I turned my head away so he wouldn’t see me. He had his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants. He was whistling a happy tune.

By the time I found a parking space at the end of the block, he was gone. The street was dark with overhanging palm trees. As I walked up the grade toward the parking lot and the stucco building, it was quiet except for the sound of rats scurrying across telephone lines. I cut through the lot, which was illuminated by a ring of lights around the top of the building. As I got closer, I heard mariachi music.

The entrance to the building was covered with multicolored makeshift awnings and crowded with stalls. Women were selling mangos on popsicle sticks, baby clothes, enamel cooking pots and whistles cut from gourds. Babies were crying. Children yelling. Voices were raised in Spanish, and there was laughter. A man tried to sell me a giant black sombrero with “Mexico” scrawled on it in silver glitter.