Dopey shook his head. Then, rubbing his belly, he opened the driver’s side door of the car and slid in.
“Did you say hello to Elena?” he asked, looking at Ruben through the rearview mirror.
Ruben smiled and nodded. Elena was a ghost that lived in Dopey’s car. She was Dope’s girlfriend and had been since she had become a ghost not long after her stepfather murdered her a few years back. All the homies knew about Elena, but only some could see her. Ruben couldn’t, but his wife Smiley could. Dead or not, Elena was family, so the cholos took her ghostliness in stride.
As Dopey pulled the car out of the garage and onto the street, he spoke softly to Elena, explaining all Ruben had told him about his ancestor and the grail, with Ruben throwing in occasional additions to the conversation. Turning right onto Daly Street, Ruben put the book over the seat where the ghost sat. He couldn’t see her, but he could see pages turning. No matter how often he saw shit like that, and he had seen some serious shit, it still kinda freaked him out.
They neared Figueroa and Dopey turned on his blinker, before turning onto the main drag in Lincoln Heights.
“Why aren’t we getting tacos near the park or at Manny’s El Loco?” Ruben asked.
“Cuz the vatos *on Pasadena Avenue are from Guanajuato like my *familia and they make some damned good tacos, burritos, and quesadillas. The lengua is the bomb, ese,” Dopey said. “Elena loves the *tacos al pastor *from them.”
“Damn, now I’m getting hungry, pinche Dopester,” Ruben said.
At Figueroa, they turned left onto Pasadena Avenue, to French, where Dopey parked the car. Ruben got out sniffing appreciatively. On the corner, was a large parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence and covered with blue tarp. Chairs were against the back side of the fence and the gente were grubbing on some good-looking tacos. Two long plastic tables were set up. One was covered with plastic buckets of chiles, chopped onion and cilantro, quartered lemons, some wicked looking sliced onion and habanero mixture, and several different kinds of salsa. Napkins, Styrofoam cups, and packages of salt also were laid out, near a huge bucket of icy horchata. The other table was longer and four short, dark-skinned guys were manning it. One was standing over a greasy vat of chorizos, buche, and whole onions, from which arose a heady and delicious smelling cloud of steam. There were slices of carne in there too and Ruben’s mouth watered. Next to him stood another guy who took tortillas from the guy at the grill and filled them with beans, rice, cilantro and onion, from the little metal containers in front of him. At the grill, two men were flipping tortillas, both flour and corn, and quesadillas. They grinned when they saw Dopey.
“Ay compadre, ya era tiempo,” one yelled, flipping four corn tortillas at the same time and sliding them off his spatula at the guy in the middle who quickly filled them with meat and put them on a plate, handing them to the guy manning the horchata, who expertly took the money from the lady while wrapping the plate in foil before handing it to her.
“Yeah,” Dopey said. “It’s been awhile. I want four tacos de lengua, one burro de al pastor, two mulitas, and two quesadillas con chorizo. Ruben, what you want?”
“Shit that sounds good, homie. I’ll take three tacos de buche on top of all that,” Ruben grinned.
“Damn, okay. I can’t let you beat me in the eating department so make that three more de buche.”
The taco guy grinned, showing even, white teeth. His dimples deepened as he joked with Dopey while making the food.
Five minutes later, laden with foil covered plates, a plastic bag full of toppings, napkins, salsas, and the burrito, and a drink tray holding three huge Styrofoam cups of cinnamon scented horchata, Dopey and Ruben headed for the car. Dopey carefully laid down towels he had in the trunk and served Elena first. They stayed parked there, quietly but happily munching the delicious tacos.
“Damn, homie, no joke, these tacos are the shit,” Ruben said.
“Mpmph,” answered Dopey, his mouth full of food.
They quickly cleaned up the car, Ruben getting out of it and going back into the taco stand to put their trash in the garbage can in the corner. He got back into the car, replete with the good food and patted his belly.
“Don’t tell my abuela, but those tacos were better than hers,” he said.
Dopey laughed.
“Your secret is safe with me and Elena, homie.”
Ruben thought he heard a giggle, but then Dopey turned on the car radio, and they pulled out onto Pasadena Avenue and headed towards the 110 freeway, the Chi-lites singing out of Dopey’s good speakers.
They arrived in Hollywood a little after 11:00 p.m., and the streets were full. Street traffic competed with foot traffic as tourists, locals, and the unhoused wandered the streets of the famous boulevard. Parking the car in the expensive Pantages lot, Dopey shrugged at Ruben’s questioning look.
“Fuckers around here will steal a hubcap or damage my paint job. Lot of tweakers in this hood. Here, in this lot with the Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and Porsches, ain’t no one gonna touch my carrucha. Worth it, homes,” he said, patting his car. “Lorca will be safe here.”