The Bus Station
We drove down the 405, then went east on I-10 until we got to the bus station. It didn’t take long to get there, and—even at this time of night—it was crowded. Not with the best class of people but crowded nonetheless.
Old newspapers and empty bags from lunch and dinner littered the floors and one of seats was covered in spilled Coke, or at least I hoped it was Coke. To the side, a trio of hippie-looking teenagers huddled in the corner. They looked to be doing more than talking and appeared to be avoiding company as well.
Two black guys with dirty scarves on their heads were eyeing everyone who came in, and my bets were on them mugging someone before the night was through.
I gathered the girls together near the center of the room and asked, “Who’s going where?”
“Portla
