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Tops of that list included many gay men.
    Everyone was welcome at FFF. That was the point.
    It was the kind of place you could see a drag show on one night, sing karaoke the next, with a full-figured fashion show at week’s end so Clem could sell all those unique little outfits she put together after scouring thrift shops, garage sales and clearance racks.
    No matter what size/age/gender/sexual orientation you were, Clem could make you look and feel like a superstar.
    Those days I had to deal with Eli at all were the ones I didn’t even bother going home first. I went straight to the club and rejuvenated myself around the people who really mattered. Not everyone was fake in my world, and I needed that reminder some days more than others.
    As a result, Clem knew exactly why I wore such a sour look as I planted myself at the bar. “So how is Eli?” she asked as she poured me a drink. When I practically growled as I glared back, she doubled the alcohol. “Let me guess. Girl problems?”
    “Not anymore,” I mumbled as I took the drink.
    Clem chortled. “Who didn’t see that coming?”
    I grinned at her. “Julie.” I slid the two twenties across the bar.
    “And you got a meltdown too,” she said as she picked up both bills. “Sweet.”
    The unmistakable beat of Eli’s hit, “ More Than a Mouthful ,” punctuated her comment. My jaw dropped as I stared at her. “Really?”
    She shrugged. “It’s got a good beat. And they love it,” she said, referring to the crowd that flooded the dance floor.
    My scowl deepened. “If they only knew.”
    Clem shrugged as she cut up some lemons. “Who cares if he means it or not? As long as we do, that’s all that counts.”
    She poured me another double and headed down the bar to the next patron.
    I didn’t linger after I finished my drinks. I knew I had quite the week ahead of me, so I wanted to go home, change into my comfy jammies and enjoy a little downtime before the chaos ensued.
    I walked the few blocks from the club to my apartment. It wasn’t the best part of Hollywood by a mile. My place wasn’t up in the hills, sparkling like stars in the sky. Instead it was a little one-room studio that smelled constantly of Chinese food, courtesy of the bustling restaurant downstairs.
    That was where I stopped for my usual, the #2 with vegetable egg roll and brown rice, which they practically had ready for me as I walked through the door. “Hey, Ling,” I greeted as the owner finished putting the white cardboard containers in the bag.
    “You’re late tonight,” Ling Cheung commented with paternal concern. He was short, slight and balding, but had the spirit of a dragon. I knew he would always have my back, which had been reassuring for an L.A. orphan like me.
    He had virtually adopted me from the day I came looking to rent the space above his restaurant, seeing something in me that resonated, I guess, since he was once a stranger in a strange land himself.
    Ling emigrated from China as a young boy way back in the sixties. In pursuit of the American dream, he took a job as a dishwasher when he was eighteen years old, juggling college on the side. Within twenty years, he owned his own restaurant, opening this current location in 1984. Since then he had seen and done a lot of things, which were all documented on his Wall of Fame.
    The Lucky Dragon may have looked like a hole in the wall from the outside, but heads of state had dined there. Despite it all, Ling had remained humble, one of the sweetest men I ever knew. He was like an honorary grandfather, so he could keep tabs on my comings and goings and I’d never take offense.
    In fact, I found it rather comforting.
    “Long day,” I offered with a shrug.
    He nodded as he handed me the bag. “Leave a day open this weekend,” he requested. “I’m meeting with all the tenants.”
    My stomach dropped. “That sounds ominous. Is something wrong?” My heart sunk even further. “Are you okay?”
    He brushed it away.