Fiction
The Hungry
Detectiveby Duncan Birmingham
I’m at my usual spot at the bar at El Toro, finishing a spicy michelada and my latest review for The LA Beat when I feel eyes on me. A few stools down a brunette, no make-up and hair pulled back painfully tight, side-eyes me over her margarita’s salted rim.
She stands out in the East LA crowd. Me, I’ve had enough practice to blend in; I may as well be another dying fern.
“Are you Mr. Mustard?”
I shut my battered laptop and drain my drink by way of an answer. My latest food column, To Live and Dine in LA, is already a day late but that’s early for me.
“Want to split a plate of molotes?” I ask.
She shrugs. In my line of work, it’s rare to have someone to share with and my waistline is starting to reflect that. I need to start jogging a
