Chapter Two

“They don’t need that to do anything.”

So, I say there was a girl on those steps.  

And everyone else calls me crazy.  

“You sure she was down there?” Big Willie was sitting across from me in some holding cell downtown.  

They had us in a small metal room with six other dudes of similar shades. All of either blending in or clashing with the piss-yellow-paint on the walls. The place smelled like it’d been submerged in a Louisiana swamp for forty years.  

“Pretty sure.” I told the man taking up one of the metal benches on the wall, leaving three presumed criminals to huddle in a corner together, wondering whether they’ve ever seen a man this big. 

“Pretty sure.” He echoed me.  

I just nodded at him and looked at one of the men in the corner, trying to play it cool, like he’d chosen to stand where he was. He had a tattoo on his forearm of a cross, with 1915 etched along the vertical shaft.  


He pretended not to listen to Big Willie and me. The others were a rapt audience. So, you notice when someone’s not laughing at your jokes.  

“So, you ain’t that sure.” Willie prodded. 

“I’m sure.” I looked him in the eye. 

They were dark ponds that held primordial gossip from the dawn of time. You could see all the way back to the Big Bang if you stared long enough. But that way lay madness. So, I looked away. 

“Anybody else see her?” 

“How would I know that?” 

Big Willie blinked like a giant feline. It was unnerving and I had to look away again. The Armenian dude cut his eyes away again.  “You didn’t see nobody else walking around?” He asked.  

There probably was. There’re always people on the sidewalks, taking strolls. But no one pays attention like that. Shrugging and shaking my head was working. The big man was intent on not taking the wrap. Me too.  

“I guarantee they don’t like us for this.” I told him. 

Another dark look from the man told me he was thinking that maybe I was passing and drinking the white man’s Kool-Aid would get you killed. “Maybe not you.” He confirmed it.  

The Armenian smirked but still didn’t look my way.  “Did you?” 

“Did I what?” Willie’s voice plucked out your heart all on its own.  

“Give em’ a reason to like you for it?” I was beating around a large flaming bush.  

Being coy was stupid thing to choose with this man. He was not some flame-out living on the streets. He wasn’t some wet-brain looking to jaw your ear off about chem-trails and cattle mutilations. He was a serious dude with all his faculties.  

“I’m a black dude standing in a doorway.” Was all he said.  

I nodded. “Fair enough.” 

“You ain’t even asked anything.”  

It was so silent after he said that. It was strange that no one else had anything to talk about. They were hanging on our every word. It was really boring in county lock-up. But you hear so many exciting things go on in these places.  

“Somebody slit her throat.” 

Feet shuffled and musty, armpit hair wafted and shifted around the cell. That underwater, swamp smell deepened and threatened to drown us all.  

Big Willie Winsboro’s head bowed in a knowing nod. “One of them dicks tell you?” 

Shook my head. “When those Laurel and Hardy paramedics were going down the stairs with her.”  

Ear to ear, they say. A deep burgundy smile. The white sheet they had covering her body had flipped up over her head as those two dopes jostled down the stairs. Jackie’s head had lolled to the left, and for brief instance she was looking at me. No one ever shuts the eyes of the dead. She didn’t look surprised at all at being dead. Or, at having a second smile. She looked bored, like she always did. Even in death there was no surprise. Then the sheet slid back over her face, and she was nothing but a ghost.  

“There wasn’t a knife lying around, was there?” 

Willie shook his head.  

One guy, sitting on a metal bench along the back wall, leaned in with the mention of cutlery. He had a mange of curly, black hair on his head and face. Must be a cut-man from way back. Some folks like using knives. Keep an eye on him.  

“They don’t have anything on you, man.” I told Willie. He had a look on his face that said he didn’t believe me.  

“We put the call in, remember.” People don’t like to be reminded of things. “Guilty people usually don’t dime themselves.”  

“They don’t need that to do anything.” Will was right. “They don’t need any kind of evidence to put what they want, where they want.”  

There seemed to be a collective, groan of agreement that rolled through the cell. But still no one said anything. The Armenian dude looked at his Rolex like he had tee-time to get to. Yeah, people still wear em’. 

“They need something else, other than two concerned friends without a murder weapon.” I told him.  

“They can put you anywhere too.” The mangey dude on the back wall said.  

Everyone looked at him.  

He shrugged and looked at me with reefer-weighted eyelids. There was a chalkiness around the corners of his mouth. But then you notice it was just the aridness of his skin. The man had the deep gray of the streets on him.  

“I don’t think you’re wondering, cause you don’t look the type, but they already have.” I looked at him as hard as I could.  

He smirked and bugged his eyes out but didn’t say anything else, keeping his elbows on his thighs, still leaning in for the chatter. But the jibber-jabber stopped when one of the guards came over and called a name out. The Armenian dude didn’t hesitate. He walked over and the guard let him out. Dude’s name was Agassi. Like the tennis player. Not a look over his shoulder as the bull led him away.  

No one said anything for a while. Not that anyone else had anything to say, besides Ashy Larry. But Big Willie was working on something. So was I.  

Like who killed Jackie Meaux. 

She was a friend of mine. My only friend, maybe. In this city, you can find yourself marooned out here all alone. Los Angeles is a great weigh-station in the sky. Lots of trucks and trains going in and out and the only thing that sticks are the weirdos. And weirdos like to be alone. But sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they meet each other and work out a code of friendship to live by. Some kind of language they can see only in their shared brain waves. Words spoken out loud are just noise. What’s behind all that is what matters. That’s the vernacular you find and roll with. That’s what me and Jackie had, some kind of thing you didn’t have to talk through. Just a knowing. But hindsight being a cliché, maybe we should’ve rethought our arrangement. Maybe we should’ve talked more. Or maybe I should’ve been more curious.  

That wasn’t really how it worked. She had the controls and let you know when you needed to know. A great working relationship for a guy. But I wondered about some things. One wonders about people whether they care for them or not. Not that I didn’t care for Jackie, but maybe I’m more wrapped up in myself than I thought. Everyone’s a narcissist to some extent.  

Next time someone asks you what your friend does for a living, try not to look at them with an open stare that spells out your inadequacies as a friend.  

“She worked for security company.” Big Willie said.  

We were walking down Alameda. I was still trying to figure out why they’d taken us downtown and not to some Westside holding tank. Trying not to take things personally, but with cops it’s always that.  

“Yeah, I know.”  

The big man stopped. We were in front of Union Station. Trucks and trains, remember. All in the white light of Spanish stucco and tile. “You know what security firm?”  

My turn to stop and look upward and pretend that I wasn’t the worst friend in the world. “Who did it, is what I wanna know?” 

“You don’t even know who she worked for, man.” Big Willie shook his head and started walking again.  

“She worked for the dude that owns that building, right?” I followed him. “The building she lived in.”  

“Died in.”  

We walked down a broken and strewn sidewalk and let two words soak in our stomachs until we were queasy with rage and surprise. We went all the way down to 1st and took a right and walked through Little Tokyo. Big Willie eyed a bar with name Far in it.  

“You need a drink?” I asked him.  

The big man stopped and squinted at the neon sign above the door. He shook his head. “I quit that a long time ago.” 

I looked around as if that bar wasn’t the only place I wanted to go right then. “Well…” The awkwardness of men trying to tell each other their wants and needs was an anvil between us. “I need a beer.”  

“They ain’t gon let me in there.” Willie stopped me.  

“Why not?” It was a dumb question. The man had no shoes on, and his charcoal sweatpants had tears and holes in them everywhere. His white hoodie was the same. Both pieces of clothing were dirty with alley scrum.

“Fuck them.” I told him.  

It was a creaky, little dive that used to be some sort of Japanese restaurant at some point. Now it was a hipster dive that served cocktails that took the bartender ten years to make. The dude behind the bar looked up at the tome the door made when it was opened. He looked up; looked down and then back up at us. He was shaking his head and smiling. Willie froze and I kept coming, sitting at the bar, at the very end where it gave into a right angle.  

“My man can’t be in here.” The bartender said, taking a couple of steps toward the end of the bar.  

“Your man, huh.”  

He looked at me with a face that said maybe his family had owned the place since before World War II. He’d finally inherited the family business and was making it his own. Craft cocktails and craft beer and food with the word fusion on the backside. It was the future. He could see it. You could see it in his starched, short-sleeved shirt and bolo-tie. Or maybe I was in the past and wasn’t recognizing the gaze backward. 

“I’m sorry, man. We can’t have homeless in here.” The bartender looked around.  

No one else was in there. The dude was trying not to look awkward about it.  

“How you know he’s homeless?” I asked.  

“He’s got no shoes on, dog.” He pointed at Willie’s feet, who was still standing by the door. “I mean, come on. No shoes, no service. You know the drill. We all know it.” He shook his head again and was still smiling. “Come on, man.” 

I didn’t like him, now. Maybe I hadn’t like him before. Even the dog and man hadn’t bothered me. It was that fucking smile. He didn’t mean any of that shit his teeth were shining our way. A façade of neat dental work and starch.  If was stiff to the touch. Just like one would think. On second thought, he probably didn’t get it dry-cleaned. He probably had his mom lean over an ironing board for him. Probably had a closet full of those crispy American Eagles.  

“You ever been down to Skid-Row?” 

He shook his head like I could never understand his point of view.  

I asked him again if he’d ever been to Skid-Row. “Yeah man, I ride my bike through there every day.” He looked at me, like, take that. 

“You roll through their hood and it’s all good. But when they come through yours it’s rules and regulations.”  

The bartender squinted and blinked like my logic wasn’t there. The door tone went off. Big Willie had had enough and was leaving. Oh well, I tried to think I was doing this for him, but I wasn’t. But two guys in black suits walked up to the bar. They both had sunglasses on. Johnson and Johnson. Big Willie was still standing by the door.  

“Buy you a beer.” The taller Johnson asked, and nodded his head toward Willie. “Him too.” He took his glasses off and looked at the bartender.  

The kid nodded like he knew the Johnson. I let go of his shirt and looked over my shoulder. Willie was wary. The taller Johnson motioned for Willie to join them at the bar. “I’m buying.” The Fed said.  

I looked at Willie and shrugged. He shuffled over, grudgingly and sat down next to me. The bartender didn’t say a word. White privilege wins again. Johnson and Johnson sat down. The shorter one kept his sunglasses on. The bartender placed golden, crystal beers in front of each of us and nodded at the taller Johnson.  

“Eddie’s family has owned this place for sixty-years.” Tall Johnson lifted his glass in a cheers to Eddie. “His grandparents made it through the internment serving miso soup and sticky to Japs who were on our side.” Eddie crawled down to the other end of the bar and gave the Johnson a sheepish look. Japs on our side didn’t seem like his bag.  

Big Willie and me took long gulps on our beers but said nothing. It hadn’t taken much for him to break his sobriety.  

“They let you guys go, huh.” Tall Johnson said. 

“Did they?” I looked the man in his slippery grey eyes.  

“Well, you’re out amongst the living, enjoying a beer.”  

“On your dime.” I took a sip of beer. “I guess there’s different shades of freedom.”  

The man smirked. His partner hadn’t touched his beer. He sat with his back straight and had his hands folded in his lap. They both had haircuts from Great Clips and shaved every day and wore black, leather shoes from DSW.  

“We’re all in some sort of prison, answering to some warden with a hard-on for the brown.” Tall Johnson was having some fun. A few sips of beer and he was ready for take-off. 

“It’s a tradition, the government bending people over.”  

Tall Johnson leered at me and smiled like a humpback whale, showing a silver cap on his incisor. The Fed’s dental plan looked outdated.  

“Nobody can argue that outlook. Specially you guys.” He raised his glass at us.  

We didn’t return the offering of good wishes. We just drank for the alcohol and prayed for the buzz to take the edges off.  

“Us guys.” Big Willie boomed.  

The sound of his voice moved the bartender down at the other end. He’d had head down, lost in his phone. He looked up like fireworks had gone off outside. He scanned the scene for a paper dragon, trying to avoid eye contact with the Komodo in the room.  

Tall Johnson didn’t have a problem looking Willie in the eye. “Listen, everyone knows the knee has always been on your neck.” He put a hand up. “So, to speak. But we’re not here to put any more pressure on you.”  

“Let’s call a spade a spade then, nigga.” Big Willie had taken one sip of his beer but was feeling something. Some chaotic energy moving through the bar. He and small Johnson glared at each other through his sunglasses.  

“That’s not our intent.” Tall Johnson put his hand down and sighed. “We’re here to help you.” He looked at his partner and put his elbows on the bar.  

Short Johnson took his sunglasses off. It’s like they had this all planned out. They’d practiced it in some windowless room in that Fed building in Westwood. A routine that finished with this guy taking his glasses off in a bar and brandishing shit-colored eyes.  

“What’d you know about the girl that lives in the apartment next to Jackie Meaux?” The short one asked, looking at Big Willie and not me.  

Willie and I looked at each other. Somebody should go first. I figured he knew more, living in the alley and all. But I was eager to blurt out my confirmed reality.  

“She was on the stairs, right?”  

Johnson and Johnson shared a side-eye. “So, you said.” The tall one said.  

“What about her?” Big Willie boomed. 

The glass in the front windows might’ve shaken. The bartender creeped back into his little corner at the end of the bar. No one else dared step foot in the place; passing by outside, smelling the waste of money ill-spent.  

“Her and her boyfriend are an interesting couple.” Tall Johnson smirked again. 

The glare on his silver cap didn’t bother the short one. “The girl’s name is Beatrice Bonilla. They call her Beebe.”  

“They?” I asked.  

Another shared side-eye between the agents. “Her dad is a heavy MS-13 O.G.” Short Johnson was all information. “Came to L.A. in the eighties.”  

“And her boyfriend?” Me again.  

“Erik Agassi.” Tall Johnson said.  

Agassi. Shit. The Armenian dude in stir with us. Coincidence is benign. Nothing but atoms colliding. But there was a malignant synchronicity pitching in my ear.  

“What about him?” Big Willie asked. 

“What I wanna know is, are you guys a team?” Tall Johnson switched gears on us. “Spenser and Hawk. Gonna figure this shit out on your own. Along the rim of the law.”  

The beer had gone to the man’s head. Half a glass and the man was looped out around Mars.  

“We look like we got licenses for shit like that?” I asked him. “That why you came in here? To tell us to chill out, you and the LAPD got this.”  

“Meanwhile you two crackers are pushing us for info on some fucking neighbors, when you got all you need.” Big Willie coming in clean.  

“What the fuck do you want?”  

Johnson and Johnson looked at me and then each other. “LAPD doesn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.” Tall Johnson gripped his beer white-knuckle-tight. 

“Back to that.” I looked at Willie. 

I pulled a long gulp off my beer. Willie took another shallow sip of his. We both had satisfying smirks on our mouths. But we should’ve checked ourselves with these two. Their dicks are big and blue and plunging. They come for you guts, those Fed dicks.  

“This guy Erik Agassi.” Short Johnson with and even tone. “His uncle’s a big-time player in the Armenian Power.”  

“MS-13 and the Armenians.” Tall Johnson backed his partner up. “I don’t guess that interests either of you.” He stared at himself in the mirror behind the bar.  

Gangs. Only cops care about gangs. Because they wanna stay the biggest and baddest one in town. “What’s it got to do with Jackie?” I asked. “You telling us they the ones that killed her?” 

“Slit her throat like that?” Big Willie added.  

“You said you saw her on the steps, right.” Tall Johnson raised his eyebrows and gave me a teacherly gaze.  

Everybody was giving me that ogle now. Even Eddie the bartender was cutting his eyes my way. Yeah, I had seen her on those cement steps leading up to the apartment building. About half-way up. She looked all wonky. Like she’d been up all night on that chalk her boy always had her on. Her head in her hands and her elbows slipping off her knees. She didn’t even notice me climb up past her. I’d seen her like that before. Seen more than that over the years. Jackie lived in that spot for fifteen years, but for most, apartment dwelling in L.A. is like hopscotch. They don’t stay in place for long. Grass is always greener in this white light. People are moths. Flittering about for the next bright one. Occasionally though, you come across a black hole. A place that gathers you in with rent control and a good walking score. You can check out but you can never leave. That’s the catch.  

There are other ways of leaving. 

Just ask Jackie.  

Beebe and Erik had been living in the building for at least a year. The cops had been out a handful of times. Domestic rows. Always idled towards tweaking. With sand and grit in the back of their throats they wouldn’t answer the door when the patrolmen knocked. They would go dark and silent and sneak out back windows into the alley and live to fight another day. Sometimes hang out on steps and count the ways they hated each other.  

“Yeah, I did.” Finally.  

“She say anything to you?” Tall Johnson asked.  

I shook my head, wondering if Beebe or Erik were murderers. Using a knife on her. Putting it to her throat and pulling the string. Stone cold butchers.  

“You say anything to her?” The short one asked.  

“I didn’t say anything. She didn’t look like she wanted anything said to her.”  

The Johnsons shared a look. “What’d you mean?” One of them asked.  

“She looked like she’d been up all night on whatever dust her boy finds in the corner of the closets.”  

“You see Agassi around?” Tall Johnson finished his beer and motioned to Eddie for another one.  

Another shake of the head. “Why would they wanna kill Jackie?” 

Eddie the bartender put Tall Johnson’s beer down in front of him and it sounded like someone dropped a bowling ball on the bar. Nobody said anything for a minute. Just trying not to look at each other.  

“That’s what I wanna know.” Big Willie stated.  

The two Feds comported themselves with furtiveness. Secrets tucked into every pocket and limb crevice. They knew things and couldn’t tell them until the right time. The right place. It was no fun playing a fixed game.  

“You see Beebe on those stairs?” Tall Johnson asked Willie.  

The big man tilted his head and grimaced. “Naw.”  

“What about Erik? You see him?” Short Johnson this time.  

Big Willie thought about it. Everyone was on the edge of their seats. He shook his head. “I might’ve saw something when I went past, they apartment, but I ain’t sure. Like, maybe he was in there peeking through the blinds.”  

Johnson and Johnson both put their hands on the bar. “You think he might’ve been in the apartment?” Short one asked.  

Massive shoulder shrug. “He’s always in there peeking through blinds. So maybe, I can’t be sure.”  

For some reason, Eddie hadn’t gone back to his corner. He also had his hands on the bar and was leaning into the conversation. Willie looked at him. “Can I get some soda water, man?” 

The question snapped him back and he picked up a gun and sprayed fizzy water into a glass. “Can I get some ice, man?” Willie asked. Eddie grabbed a scoop and threw some ice into the glass. But he stayed in his spot down by us.  

Everyone looked at him until he caught on and went to the other end of the bar.  

“You like this Erik motherfucker for Jackie’s murder?” I asked the agents.  

Johnson and Johnson looked at each other. The tall one had his lips pursed and crooked like a worm in thought. The short one’s face was a calm pond. This was something else rehearsed. Like fly-fishing, setting the bait is an art in itself. 

What Now for Whatever

Elam Mangham’s best friend has just been murdered, and he and Big Willie Winsboro don’t give a damn about the cops and FBI agents and the Armenians and the Salvadoreans standing in their way. They’re gonna find out who murdered Jackie Meaux if it kills them.

Chapter One: “Cops are fun!”

“She dead, man.”  

Big Willie Winsboro stood in the doorway of a friend. He lived in the alley behind the apartment building. Had a tent set up where he shouldn’t. Or, where most young, white folks had to walk by and pretend it didn’t exist. That’s where he lived. In white postures of inexistence.  

The words to answer him were bound in confusion.  

Big Willie was in the doorway of a friend.  

She was dead.  

The police and the paramedics came. All of them. Every last one of them on the westside careened in at an angle. A caravan rallying against the indigenous; blocking off Barrington and sending all the signals to Brentwood to stay indoors.  

They didn’t know any better.  

You never know until you show up.  

Those policeman and paramedics looked a little surprised when they wheeled Jackie Meaux out on a stretcher and into an ambulance down on Barrington. The paramedics cursed themselves for not parking in the alley, as they stepped awkwardly down the concrete steps that led up to the building. The police looked bored until two dudes in black suits showed up and starting asking questions.  


Big Willie saw it too. He burped and blew it in their general direction. It smelled like a four-day-old 7-Eleven hot dog.  A patrolman with a tag that read Martinez had us sitting on the curb. He didn’t know what to make of any of it. He kept his mouth tight and straight, but his eyes told another story. They kept flittering to a patrolwoman with a tag that read Matos. She stepped over toward Martinez like a vaquero stepping up to a saloon bar. Her thumbs hooked on her belt and twisting on the balls of her feet like some bow-legged ballerina.  

“Some black girl bit it.” Big Willie and I could both hear her over the din of municipal whistles and horns.  She didn’t know we could hear her, and we didn’t tell her otherwise.  

“For real?” He said it fast, Martinez, acting nonchalant, like he didn’t care.  

“You believe that shit.” Not really a question.  

“In this neighborhood.” The man flicked his eyebrows up and down like a switch. 

He was all Red-Bull and twitch fibers. Put that on your application for the academy, make sure your index finger works, and you’re on your way to being a cop in any Ol’ American police department.  

“Fucking West LA.” Matos said it like it was the only known quantity in a nebula. 

“What the fuck.” Her partner agreed.  

Matos finally looked down at Willie and me. We both returned the eyeballing with a bit of eavesdropping-knowledge. She blinked. Oh well, who cares. We weren’t that sensitive. We knew Jackie Meaux was dead.  

Cops are fun.  

Johnson and Johnson didn’t talk to us. They didn’t even look our way. That’s when you know they already know who you are and everything about you. Down to the last toe-nail clipping.  But Big Willie could’ve been off their radar. He hadn’t filed his taxes or clipped his toenails in years. Instead, two LAPD detectives came over to the curb with some well-rehearsed back and forth they perfected a long time ago on some first-year stakeout. Names were Merchant and Larsen. They’d graduated from wearing them on tags. Now they wore ties with ketchup stains and sportscoats with shoulder pads.  The one named Merchant was just a shade lighter than Willie, but his nose was turned up at the big man’s smell. He looked down at his feet that were bare and cringed as Willie scrapped them against asphalt. I thought I saw some sparks fly up but was distracted by Larsen’s deep, troubling cough. It was wet and phlegmy and reminded me of a case of cancer I saw go down once.  

“How do you know the victim?” Merchant was fighting the notion to gag.  

Big Willie smelled like a man who’d been burnt and then buried and then dug up again and thrown in a dumpster. It was something you grew used to, if you were lucky.  

“She’s a friend of mine.” I told the detective. 

Merchant nodded like that’s what he’d expected. There were these questions he’d asked a million times and the answers were all the same. It was nothing but a job now. He looked to Willie. The detective’s nostrils were inflamed, taking things personally. “How do you know the victim?”  

“Friend of mine.” Willie said.  

Larsen coughed again. Some mucus appeared on his bottom lip. He wiped it away with a paisley handkerchief. “You guys friends, I presume.” He pointed at both of us to let everyone know where the delinquents were.  

Big Willie and I looked at each other. I shrugged and he shook his head. We knew the same woman, once.  

“How’d you both come to this place, then?” Larsen asked, swallowing his cough into a wheeze.  

“How’d we what?” Big Willie asked.  

“He lives in the alley.” I hooked a thumb at the big man. “He walked over here.”  

Merchant blinked for a pause. Larsen swallowed again and almost gagged keeping the cough down. “And you what, live in the building. Just checking on your neighbor?” Merchant knew I didn’t live there.  

I told the man that he had my I.D. He just smirked and nodded his head. He looked at his partner and patted him on the back. Larsen coughed all over us. Right in mine and Big Willie’s face. The big man just wiped his face with his catcher’s mitt and sucked his teeth. Not me. I cussed the man into an early grave. Larsen didn’t even apologize. Merchant had walked off, laughing.  

Every other cop in uniform was ready to put me in a back seat.  

Merchant had walked over to talk to those Feds. Johnson and Johnson, we called them. They both had names their fathers gave them, but Big Willie said that all government employees had to change their names to Johnson at some point, to get the pension. He was out of his mind but I went with him on this one. Johnson and Johnson, it was.  

Larsen hung back, wiping his mouth again with that paisley rag. Still not apologizing for giving us both Typhoid. He had more questions to ask before being locked up in an iron lung.  

“Where exactly are you coming from, Mangham?”  

“Where exactly?” I squinted up at him, thinking about another man’s mucus on my face. “Like in time and space, or on a map? Cause the former could be tricky.” 

That got a smile from Big Willie. You could feel it stretching the molecules around us like a taut rubber band.  

“On a map you live in Pico-Union.” Larsen hadn’t the time for physics. “Weird neighborhood, huh.” 

Guy was a goader. “What about it?” 

The detective shook his head and frowned like a frog. “Just a strange spot for a guy like you.”  

There was no argument to be had. He was just making a general observation. Maybe he wasn’t goading. But the man was a cop. He had an angle. A guy like me. A guy like me was a snoop and wanted to see where this was going.  

“Right.” Agreeance is forbearance. “Straight up Mexican hood.” 

“More like Salvadorean.”  

This was true. The man working some MS-13 angle, no doubt. Thinking skin color tells some of the story. Maybe I’m in that neighborhood because of it. Truth is, sometimes the rent is just cheap. I just nodded at the man. Let him know that I was somewhat impressed at his acumen of neighborhood demographics. But also, thinking his assessment of skin tone was what a white man’s would be.  

“You funny, man.” Big Willie bellowed.  

Larsen looked at him and didn’t seem bothered by anything other than the fact that the big man spoke to him. “Why?”  

Willie smiled. Teeth white as Moby Dick. “You thinking he’s Salvi cause he lives in Pico Union.” 

“Not seeing the humor?” Larsen coughed. This time he turned his head at least.  

“It’s funny cause nobody’s saying you a Jew for living in Boyle Heights.”  

I cringed. Larsen blinked and his bottom lip detached from his mouth like a wayward shuttle craft. He lived in Boyle Heights and all those that were in earshot were wondering how Big Willie Winsboro knew that. The cringing was overpowered by laughter. The man was right. It was funny.  

By the time Willie was chuckling, Larsen had walked away, waving a hand like he had a thankless job. “Cops are fun.” Big man, said.  

He lived in a tent in the alley.  

I lived in Pico Union.  

Larsen lived in Boyle Heights.  

Merchant probably lived in Culver City somewhere. 

Those Feds lived in a high-rise on Wilshire and Westwood. 

Jackie Meaux lived in an apartment on Barrington Avenue. 

Or she did. 

Merchant and Larsen were jobbers. They did their jobs, but not before they had a pow-wow with Johnson and Johnson. Those two G-men had slit for eyes and never looked at anything longer than two seconds. Once they’d downloaded from the detectives they walked down to their Crown Vic and busted back to Westwood.  

Big Willie snorted. “Fuck them Feds doing out here?” He looked at me dead-on, like he needed the answer right away.  

I shrugged and said I don’t know. A response I had down so pat that it made a mild annoyance in my gut.  

“You don’t know what she was into?” Big man asked.  

“What she was into?” I didn’t bother to look at him, watching Merchant and Larsen come back our way.  

“You think the FBI just comes out for every black woman killed in L.A.?” Willie wasn’t letting it go.  

“Maybe.” I left him hanging. 

“Some kind of quota for hate crimes, you think?” 

I looked at him finally. His face was something time wanted to forget. But matter don’t play that way. “You think it was hate?” 

Big Willie squinted at me but didn’t say anything. Merchant and Larsen were back by that time, asking more questions. Like why Willie was in Jackie’s apartment in the first place. He explained to them that they were homies. But they couldn’t get their skeptical-cop minds around the dynamic of citizens and homeless folks being friends.  

“So, what, you got a key to her place?” Merchant asked the big guy. 

“She leaves it open when she’s home.” Willie told him. 

“You got a key?” Larsen asked me.  

I nodded.  

“She leaves her door open.” Merchant was leaning with his back against a giant fig tree that was mauling the sidewalk into a volcanic eruption.  

The tree’s leavings were everywhere. Tiny purple dots dusting the sidewalk and cars parked all along Barrington Ave. Those things lined almost every street in the city. Some city-planners sick joke.  

“Anybody could’ve just walked in.” Larsen mused, looking at his partner. 

“Anybody.” Merchant agreed. 

But he was doing a bad job of being coy. His eyes kept cutting mine and Big Willie’s way. As if to say he liked us for it. Cop parlance is fun.  

“What about the girl on the steps?” I spoke up. 

Merchant and Ivory looked at each other. “What girl?” Larsen asked. 

There was a girl on the steps. Those cement steps right behind us, leading up to the apartment building. Yeah, I’d seen her, plain as day. Walked right past her. She lived in the apartment next to Jackie’s. Her and her man. What were their names? Beebe and Something? 

I told them all this. But it didn’t matter. They arrested us anyway.  



We’re back, after a bit of a break, to talk about how women have impacted our lives. 

In the past we’ve talked about our mother and father and even ourselves. But here, we take some time to explore how we’ve been encouraged and changed by the women in our lives.

Along the way we talk about gender, and bodies that have choices, and this difficult world men have built for women. 

Pandemic Blues w/special guest Craig Scott

Just when we thought we were out, it pulls us back in. 

Most of us just want it to be over. It’s been a long and arduous road and navigating Covid-19 hasn’t been easy. Face-masks and social distancing has taken it’s toll on the collective masses.

We welcome another voice into our mix, and discuss the Delta variant and the woes that have come with it physically and politically, and hope that we’re near the end. 



More Babel w/special guest Kathy Wick

We continue our discussion on the Tower of Babel with special guest, Kathy Wick. There are just too many layers to sift through in this tale of an ancient skyscraper to the heavens.

Too many questions to be answered. Like whether God’s dispersal of language led to more diversity or just the stamping out of individualism. And how does that reflect in our art.

Join us as we add another voice into our cacophony for the first time. 


Ten Again

May 11 – July 12 

Couples in Crisis. Bend but don’t break, they say. But lots of relationships break, leaving people with only loneliness. The ones that bend are special. Malleable things to aspire to. To hold onto one another even in the harshest moments. 

That’s what half of these films are about. These ten that it’s taken me forever to watch. About couples who withstand the fire and come out, not better, but changed. Because all we can do is withstand the change of life.  

But the other half are about the one’s that break. Those sad cases we all have wish to do over. The thing that you learn watching these films, though; you need those failures to learn how to bend.

Save Yourselves (2020) – There is a groaning idea that all of us have of wanting to be less attached to our phones. Life was a lot simpler before the smart-phone. Information wasn’t at the tip of our fingers and no one had a trouble in the world. With all this info, comes angst and dread and weight of the world. If we could just unplug for a few long moments, maybe the cobweb of facts and figures and statistics would clear and the sheer load of data would be lifted and we could finally breath. So, we think of the best place to do this. To unplug, to unspool the extension cord of details. It always comes back to one place. The woods. A nice, little home you Airbnb, near a lake. The perfect place not to have an Alexis. That’s the idea, right. But maybe we’re just looking at technology the wrong way. Maybe it’s just part of our evolution as humans to incorporate ones and zeroes into our futures. How else will we know when there’s an alien invasion? We need to be ready for this. Fight technology with technology when the Tribbles come for our ethanol. Maybe spending less time with our phones is the wrong idea.  

The One I Love (2014) – Does therapy bring out our best self? Or is it all just an exercise in futility? A ruse to temporarily change a train of thought. This movie would suggest that therapy could be some evil plot to let the id out, and let it run amuck. Ted Danson’s therapist sends a couple to Ojai for an oasis-like couple’s retreat. The place is beautiful and comforting and the couple seem happy for the first time in a long time. But there’s a guest house that stands in for the inner-self. And inside the house are two con-artists. Con-artists of the subconscious. Two people, who look like the couple and present the most amiable sides of the couple, but really have their own motivations. Which is to escape that quest house of the mind and be free. Again, the id taking over the ego. Or, is it the other way around? Either way, the endgame of therapy is to find a balance between the two. And maybe that’s just what happens for the couple. An id and ego together forever.  

The Lovers (2016) – It’s a movie filled with images of people so wary of each other. Everyone treats each other like wild dogs. Eyes crowded with foreboding. Medium shots held for awkward seconds as characters measure and study motivations. Just what does this person want from me, their eyes say. But, all it takes is the right look. The one that says, hey, maybe, just maybe. Then the rollercoaster shifts into reverse and you’re remembering what it was like to be love with this person. To be so attracted to someone you can’t even stand it. Marriage is rarely a circle. It’s usually a straight line toward contentment or ruin. Rarely do you get a chance to loop back with one another and rediscover one another. See the person as new, but familiar. See that person as the adult they are. Because I believe we rut ourselves in the image of first meeting. We find ourselves wondering what happened to that person that made you feel that certain way in the first three months. Ask ourselves what changed? But it’s you who has changed. And your partner. We just don’t adapt. And the loop back is rare but it can happen with the right look.  

Bound (1996) – They’re sisters now. Sometimes the first film you make as a filmmaker is the most important. The one you put all your heart and soul into. The most intimate and personal you’ll get, is in that first one. You can imagine, now, the Wachowski’s as Corky and Violet. Two women hemmed up in a Neo-Noir of oversized, gangster burlesque. Two male filmmakers (at the time) trapped in genre. Two brothers trying to untie themselves from existing yolks twofold. It’s meta, they say these days. It’s a popular adjective to describe self-awareness. To describe something cleverly aware. Most of the time in your art, you’re just trying to work things out. Art is a good space to let go and let the sub-conscious roam out in the daylight. Only later does the journaling become meta. So, it is later. Twenty-five years later, and this film may very well be the Wachowski’s, not at their inception, but at their end. Not at their end as filmmakers but as men. At the end of being hemmed in as genre filmmakers as well. It only took one film for them to get to the Matrix. A film that took a handful of genres and pulverized them into modern mythology. But the Matrix wouldn’t be able to break free if it wasn’t Bound first. 

Someone Behind the Door (1971) – Charles Bronson is so bad in this that it makes you wonder how terrible the director felt about his ability to work with actors. You just can’t get past the utter drowning of Bronson in this. He’s playing an insane amnesiac and he’s rudderless. He has no idea which direction he’s supposed face or go. And maybe Gessner thought a hands-off approach would lead to an interesting motif. Because Perkins plays his evil, heartbroken neurosurgeon with the same matador approach. Just stay out of the way of the pitbullish Bronson. Perkins is light on his feet here, and pushes and cajoles Bronson into the perfect murder of his cheating wife. It just takes forever and once you get there, even the actors are tired and don’t quite buy the back and forth, which Gessner turns into an unending loop of man and woman forever trapped in their own discord.  

Vivarium (2019) – Finnacan wants to dig holes and never get there. Never get to China. Or Australia or anywhere that a gopher could stick its head out and see the endgame. It’s all in the mood he creates. He gets lost in it, and never sees the forest. It’s a sick game he’s created, in a Burtonesque burg, but without any of the charm or humor. It’s like focusing on the bassline and nothing else. What are we to think of this take on parenting? The nuclear family is exactly nuclear. A bomb ready to go off if you’re not prepared. You want the house and the lawn and whatever comes next. But are you truly ready for it? Not so sure that’s what the filmmaker is saying. No one is sure what is being said. Are there aliens in the world conducting experiments? Why the bulge in the neck, kid? We’re given some sort of answer when the mom finally resorts to violence. A literal pulling up of the rug to see what’s underneath. Irony. The father digging that hole for nothing other than for his and her grave. But what did the mother see underneath the rug? Just more visual gibberish. Nothing that understands the mystery of the story. It’s the curse of the cinema of Lynch.  

Miracle Mile (1988) – It ends in the white-hot heat of nuclear annihilation. Sorry for the spoiler. But not really. It’s a new couple in crisis. A newly minted couple. They’ve just met and the ending is just a coda for how some relationships burn. Burn like matches. You’ve experienced them before. Brief and fiery. That’s how some go. And that’s how this one goes. It’s a beautiful metaphor for its time. The Cold-War and its paranoia creeped all through the eighties. When would that senile Reagan finally fall asleep on the launch button? That’s the mania of the time and this movie captures it so well. It begins at the LaBrea tarpits. Woolly Mammoths being swallowed by the muck of fossil fuels once legend. In 1988 they’re being looked on by minds with less than random intent of destruction. It’s a willful evolution toward the manipulation of atoms. But in the minutia of all this is the slipshod nature of human beings and what they call love. Two people who feel the rolling time. Every second of it and choose to care for one another, even though this place they live in is nothing but chaos ending in white light.  

Eyes Wide Shut (1999) – The blueprint to the male mind in marriage. Or any other form of loving relationship. Everything seems to be going fine. You’re a doctor in New York City. You seem to be doing well for yourself. Nice home, wife and a daughter. Then one night you smoke a little pot (Kubrick wafting us into a waking dream) and your wife tells you about a time she had a fantasy about another man. Some guy in uniform that she saw for half-a-second. She didn’t even talk to the man, much less sleep with him. But it burrows its way into your male mind and turns into an erotic thriller you play back over and over. It drives you to walk the streets at night looking to get revenge. Revenge on your wife’s worthless dreams. All the way down a rabbit hole to a secret society. Kubrick has given us the pattern for maleness and why the world is the way it is. The male ego is at the same time narrow and obtuse. It only seeks to control what it can’t understand. Subject to massive over-reactions and pettiness. A man done wrong will seek to protect himself from the world. Even form clandestine communities so they can wear masks to hide their shame.  

Detective Story (1951) – Early on you get vaporized by Wyler’s visual acumen. These seamless shots and cuts and masterful compositions set you in this baleful mood. Something bad is gonna happen real soon. You can see a string connecting it to Lumet’s Twelve Angry Men eight years later. Not just the visuals but the examination of morality in confined places. The putting under the microscope of the fragile American male ego boxed in by civilizations and it’s ceaseless upward and onward movement. And in doing so, Wyler puts front and center misogyny women face in the systems men create. It goes right to the core of the control men seek over women. To control every aspect. Even their ability to create human life and every decision surrounding it. One system blaming the other. A cop blaming a doctor for all societies woes. An abortion doctor is verboten. A sure criminal. But when it hits down in his own backyard, the male ego crumbles. Black and white bleeds together into gray and the mind can’t take the uncertainty. Thank God for criminals with guns. You can always count on them. 

Presumed Innocent (1990) – The overly, ambitious, career woman and the deferring, talented housewife are anathema to each other in this, but they are rolled up in the same ball in the end. Man-eaters all of them. But this movie has a bit more subtlety than that. The legal system is the ultimate metaphor for man’s grasp on controlling chaos. What is law but an idea thrown against the maelstrom of nothingness? A chance to draw a line and say something matters. That’s what the law is. And that’s how the actors act. Holier than thou. Because they are the pinnacle of society. Without the law, where would be? Anarchy. But there’s a better question being asked by Pakula here. Where do women fit into all of this? Do they benefit from the system that men design? No, not really, is the answer. By juxtaposing these two women against one another, on the surface, we find them in the end, nothing but fatales. But if you take a step back and look at it as a whole, we find that it’s just the system that they’re wrapped up in. Where they find themselves, clawing and fighting to gain some sort of attention from their fathers.   

Tower of Babel

Communication is key. It’s a subject that seems to keep rearing its head. So much so, it almost feels as though we’re harping on it with questions not easily answered. 

Questions like, how can we truly understand each other if we’re not speaking the same language? Will we truly ever know what’s in someone else’s heart and mind?

The story of the Tower of Babel may hold the keys to all these questions. Maybe, just maybe, we can look back and decipher the clues to communication. 



Brothers Part 2

We seem at the edge of ease here. Not so much wrestling with ourselves or our pasts but in a place of cool contemplation. In a place where we can discuss the nature of communication and change. 

Because our lives are mostly these two things. Two things that we haven’t quite mastered and haven’t quite understood fully. 

But we’re both thankful to have this tool to dig away at the things that vex us in this chaotic world. 


We finally arrive at ourselves. After talking about our parents, we thought it only fair to turn the lens (or microphone) on one another, to see just how we got here.

It proves harder than you would imagine to go inward into one’s self. To really scratch the walls the ego builds for coping with the world. 

To get a view of one’s self as other’s do can be a jarring thing. But that’s what we’re here as brothers to do. Peel back the layers.