It was a short ride deep into the heart of Mexican Los Angeles, never far from the long shadow of Chalino Sánchez. With that we followed our new friends along wide, dark boulevards across Florence Avenue, up South Broadway to South Main Street, through a low-rise industrial terrain of concrete and stucco, past empty strip malls and auto shops, our route stitched by the glow of light poles, which far outnumbered royal palms this far south of downtown. After politely cautious small talk no, I wasn’t with Immigration they suggested we go together. No bands were playing tonight, the men said, but we could try the El Dorado Night Club, a couple of miles away, in South-Central Los Angeles. We had a short Spanglish discussion about the situation. After a while I went out for air, and started talking with two men smoking by the back door. The only performers there were hostesses, lined up at the bar waiting to trade close attention for expensive drinks. It was enjoyable a toe-tapping beat at bone-shaking volume but we wanted live musicians. The jukebox was playing banda, Mexican brass music in the Sinaloa style, an oom-pah band wailing away in waltz time. ![]() ![]() Pablo, Omar and I got Tecates and a table. The place was mostly empty couples here and there shared private islands in the gloom. We walked under its arching neon sign, past the steel-bar door into pulsing darkness.
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