Dahl settled at the rear, allowing himself a view of the Filipino cashier. Of deep red carpet between the duct-taped orange booths was stained beyond redemption. Nolan Dahl locked the black-and-white and entered the restaurant, sauntering the way only 220 pounds of young, muscular cop laden with baton, belt, radio, flashlight, and holstered nine-millimeter could saunter. What the boy had observed after a month, no one in L.A. The boy lacked documentation but the sight of the policeman didn't alter his rhythm cops could care less about inmigracion. The coffee shop sat on the north side of Hollywood Boulevard, east of Vine, between a tattoo parlor and a thrash-metal bar.Īt 3:00 A.M., a Mexican boy was sweeping the sidewalk when Nolan Dahl pulled his cruiser into the front loading zone. ![]() Open twenty-four hours a day, Go-Ji's welcomed them all. ![]() Brass stars with celebrities' names were inlaid in the sidewalk but the stars of the night were toxin merchants, strong-arm specialists, and fifteen-year-olds running from family values turned vicous.
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