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It was a tense and silent drive into the downtown core, and even the cool art deco buildings around Olvera street didn’t lighten Rohan’s stormy mood.
I met Baskerville in a wide-open plaza featuring a massive twisted tree with exposed gnarled roots situated across the street from this beautiful little church called La Placita, Our Lady Queen of Angels.
Hispanic families dressed in church finery poured out the front doors, headed for the parking lot next door. Chic parents held the hands of little girls in white poufy dresses and young boys in white suits. Even the grandmothers set a gold standard of working it, sporting dresses in bold colors that showed off their every curve.
Baskerville had glamoured his blue skin and snout and as a result, looked more like a bespoke Wallace from
