Southside (9781608090563) (16 page)

The other Hoover, who went into the oleander bush to retrieve something, was about twenty-one, give or take. Kinda hard to tell at that age. He came to his partner's side. “Don't be talking to my homie like that, motherfucker. Don't your fool ass know you in Hoover 'hood?”

“Fuck you, idiot, I been to Beirut 'hood. This ain't shit to me.” I don't know what it was that made me feel so strong, so determined, so crazed, so I don't give a fuck. For a second or three, I wished I had indeed brought that Beretta with me. “Now I'm going to knock on Funeral's door, and we'll see if he's man enough to answer the door.”

Just then Twenty-One, who was less then four feet from me, said, “Oh, no you're not,” and reached into the waistband of his orange-and-black Nike basketball shorts. I may have never moved so quick, taking one step and hitting him with maybe the best left hook I'd ever launched. I put everything into it—my thigh, my torso, my shoulder, my forearm, my fist, and my fury—and it landed flush on his jaw. Rocky Marciano on Jersey Joe. He went down and out on the Southside of Los Angeles. As out as some fool trying to stretch a double into a triple off the right arm of Roberto Clemente. As he hit the weedy lawn, a .357 Magnum jerked loose from the hand in his waistband. I grabbed the gun. The sixteen-year-old froze. Didn't run, didn't charge me. Just froze, like he was in shock.

“I'm not here to hurt you. But, you ain't gonna go gather up your homies, you feel me? Walk the stairs with me, or you gonna be hurtin' immensely. You know what immensely means?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you don't wanna find out. Now get up these stairs.”

Fortunately, he believed me. He could've run off, and I wouldn't have done a thing. What could I have done, anyway? Chase him through Hoover Criminal 'hood? I'm not sure who was more nervous, him or me. But it was a strong nervous. My blood was surging. I never felt so alert, so focused.

We took the stairs. I really didn't want to knock on Funeral's door with a gun in my hand—might send the wrong impression—so I opened the chamber and jiggled out all the shells, put them in my pocket, and laid the gun on one of the steps. I went to apartment number 7, where I'd been taped, and pounded on the door like a madman. I pounded on that door for twenty seconds, I bet. Felt like two minutes. I guess he really wasn't there. I didn't think Funeral would hide from me. Part of me was glad he didn't answer the door. I went downstairs, picked up the gun. The sixteen-year-old came down with me. The twenty-one-year-old was still where I left him, groggy, but awake.

“You ever come by here again and you're a dead white mother-fuckin' bitch.”

“Here's your gun,” I said. I grabbed it by the barrel and swung it like a hammer, the butt hitting him in the nose. Not super hard, but hard enough to drop him again. I figured he could get another gun very easily enough, so I tossed the gun from where it came, the oleander bush. I kept the bullets.

I turned to Sixteen and said, “I know it's easy for me to say, but you ought to get out of the gang life before it's too late. It's just not worth it.” And then I said as loud as I could without screaming, “Tell Funeral Michael Lyons came by looking for him.” Then I left.

I stepped to my car parked down the street about a football field away. I felt Hoover Criminal sights on my back, imagined a laser target on my nape. It tingled. Still, I walked, though I wanted to run, wanted to sprint like Jerry Rice in his beautiful prime, racing down the sidelines.

Just then, an LAPD patrol glided down Hoover. The white cops inside noticed the white man outside, a rare sight in these parts. Hoover Street wasn't even a drugstore for the white man. Those who did brave South Central for their crack preferred the quick and easy freeway on- and off-ramps near Figueroa Street, a half mile east.

The cops continued a block down, then made a quick U.

I had driven up Hoover heading for Florence, where I made a quick right on the red, but without coming to a totally complete stop. What they call a California Stop. I thought, as I made that right on red, that California had Girls, Cuisine, Dreamin', Redwoods, Condors, Rolls, and even Stops. Bet no other state has all that.

Then, as I approached Figueroa, just a half block from the freeway, almost home free, I noticed the cherry top lights flashing in my rearview.

“Shit.” Maybe it's not for me. I pulled into the Standard Station at the corner of Flower Street and Figueroa. The cops pulled in behind.

“License and registration, sir.”

“What I do?” Damned if I'd call these guys ‘sir.'

“License and registration, sir. I would prefer not to ask again.”

I nodded and slowly reached into my pocket for my wallet, removing the California driver's license. “Reg is in the glove box. Okay?”

“Get it slow.”

I handed it to the officer. The second cop, short and stocky, was at the passenger-side window looking in. The first cop went back to his car. The other motioned for me to roll down the passenger window. I did and asked sarcastically, “Okay if I get some gas while I'm here?”

“Stay in the car,” the stocky cop ordered. “Can I ask what you were doing on Hoover Street?”

“Is that illegal?”

“I'm just curious,” said stocky.

“I understand. I'm just curious, too. Curious as to why, in the
LAPD division with the most killings, robberies, and rapes, at least tied with 108th Street, why you're wasting your time on me?”

The first cop came back. “You been drinking?”

“No”

“Then why do you have a Big Red wrapper on the floor?”

“Big Red's illegal. Being on Hoover Street is illegal. I guess, though, in the Seventy-Seventh, drive-bys and robberies are okay. That it?”

“Looks like we got us a smart-ass here,” stocky said. “Why don't you get out of the vehicle?”

“Is that a question?” I asked, living up to his expectations. Just then, I realized I still had that damn SAS knife down my leg. Dumb ass. How stupid can one man be? Even in the cool night air, sweat seeped out onto my forehead.

“Get out.” I did, as carefully as I could to make sure my pants didn't rise above my ankles.

By then, a small group of blacks at the mini-mart were watching. One of them couldn't resist. “Get your video phone, homie. This is history. LAPD stopping a white man.” Several people laughed. Some gave and got loud side fives.

Another in the crowd yelled out, “Arrest that gang member, officer. Protect and serve us. Yeah, he a Blood. Denver Lane. Take him away before he robs and shoots us po' black folk,” said another black man, laughing his ass off.

The two cops looked at each other. Now they regretted pulling me over. They decided they needed to at least make a show of it. “Look, man,” the first cop said to me. “Here's the deal. We pulled you over because you made a California stop.”

“Please. You gotta be kidding. You were profiling me. DWW. Driving while white in the neighborhood. That's some bullshit.”

There were more taunts from the crowd of ten, twelve people.

“Well, that's not the point now with your fan club over there all riled up. I gotta make a show of it and get you on your way. So spread 'em. I gotta frisk you,” said the first cop.

“Ah, Officer, can't I just get on my way? I was coming to Hoover to see an old friend. That's it. He wasn't home. Plus I got friends at the Seventy-Seventh. You know Detective Mo Batts? He's a friend of mine.” Mo wasn't really a friend, but I was getting desperate. “Sal LaBarbera in Southeast is my main.”

“No worries, but, for that mob's sake, I have to frisk you and then you can go. What's the problem? Now spread 'em. Assume the position.”

Yes, worries. Oh, shit, I put my hands on the hood of his car, spread my legs. The officer patted me down. Then he came to the bottom of my left pants leg.

The crowd was cheering as I was cuffed. A muscular, forty-something man with a Southwest College sweatshirt, working at the gas station, came out of his bulletproof glass-enclosed workspace.

“You gonna have to move that car. It's blocking my business.”

“I'm cuffed, man. Can you guys move it?”

The cops said no. Said I was lucky they didn't impound it, but since I knew Mo, they gave me a break.

“Then I'm gonna have it towed,” the attendant said.

“Shit. Hey, my keys are in my front pocket. Can I give it to him?”

“It's your car. Do what you want. You want to fill out a stolen car report now or later?” The cops and even the gas station man started to laugh. At that point, I wasn't even concerned about the car. I was just glad the police hadn't looked in the trunk and found the gun.

I managed to get my keys out and hand them to the worker. “When I come back, I want to see a full tank. What's your name?”

“Rasheed. But, man,” said the worker, “you're going to Seventy-Seventh Street. You better hope you
do
come back.”

The holding cell at the LAPD's Seventy-Seventh Street Division had nine Latinos from God knows where, five African Americans, and one Armenian man. But, I knew here in jail, I was simply a white boy.

The Latinos used to be called Mexicans, but now with all the Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Hondurans, and whatnot, they all got lumped into being Latinos when it came to jail.

In the county jail system of Los Angeles—Men's Central, Twin Towers, Wayside—it wasn't about Crips and Bloods, or Criminals vs. Crips or even various Crips against other Crips. When it all came down, it was about Latinos versus blacks. I hoped my complexion, light for an Armenian, didn't possess the unifying power to bring the blacks and Latinos together to stomp me into red pilaf.

I considered trying to start a conversation with the black guys, but, lately, the jailed population had become such a bizarre, intertwined group of shifting alliances that it was far too risky to say your friends with guys from one set or another. The latest was that the Hoover Criminals had teamed up, incredibly, with their once deadly enemy, the Eight Trey Gangster Crips. Shit, but who knows? By next week, that could all change.

Rather than try to forge a relationship with either the blacks or the Latinos, I considered turning to a combination of Jesus, Muhammad, Abraham, Buddha, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, hell, even Reverend Ike, and whoever else was rumored to have any sway at all regarding these matters. Hell, I shouldn't even mention the word “sway.” That's the very derogatory term for the Swans, one of the oldest Blood gangs.

I wished Blinky, the Samoan from my old neighborhood, would walk in. Instead, I got the next best thing.

“Lyons, get your ass over here.” I looked up to see Detective Mo Batts towering over the stocky uniformed cop outside the cell. Batts had overheard the two cops talking about a white guy they had arrested for carrying a concealed weapon. Batts had overheard my name mentioned and stopped the paperwork.

“Sal, you not gonna believe who we got—well, who we
had
in the holding tank here,” Batts said into phone at his desk, while his thumb and forefinger very gingerly glided up the double-edged SAS killing knife. I, without cuffs, was sitting across the desk. “Your boy
Lyons himself. No bullshit. Concealed weapon. No, a knife. Nice one. And not the kind you'd use to cut a T-bone.”

“For self-defense, Detective Batts,” I said.

“Shuddup.” Batts talked for a while, then hung up. “For some unknown reason, I guess Detective LaBarbera thinks you're on the up-and-up. Says he owes you one. So, we gonna cut you loose. I'll keep your pretty blade, though. You do know taxicabs won't come here. It's not worth the gamble.

“And Lyons, I know you're crazy, but it's on tonight 'round here. We've had seven drive-bys already this shift. Three dead. That's why I'm still here. So, don't be walking. You best make your phone call for a pickup. Sal may think you're all right, but I'm not convinced. You get that one call, so make it good.”

“Tell me this is a bad joke,” Francesca said. I was lucky she had picked up the phone.

“I wish. Can you come get me?” I pleaded. Mo Batts had his gigantic fist in front of his mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter.

“Oh, Michael. I can't right now. We are too busy. I'm in the weeds.” I heard in the background some orders come into her. “I gotta go.”

“Wait. Wait. Can't you have one of workers, one of the cooks or bussers come get me? It's only like fifteen minutes away.”

“I don't want my cooks knowing the man I live with is in jail for God knows what. Is this gonna be on the news? In the papers?”

“No, no. It's nothing. When can you get here? An hour? All right.”

“Wait, Michael. Damnit. You know I'm gonna need some real good directions to get to your damn Southside.”

Two hours later, I walked out with a pissed-off Francesca. “Where's your car?” I asked.

“My car? You think I'm going to drive a hundred and sixty thousand dollar Porsche down here at night? I wouldn't even bring it in the day. Christmas morning I wouldn't drive it here.”

“Okay, okay.”

“I got Luis's car. I don't even know what it is.” Luis, the barback at Pizzeria Zola, had lent her his Ford Escort without questions.

Driving up Broadway to Florence, just a few blocks north, Francesca said, “Hospitals, gunshot wounds, breaking news, jails. Where are you gonna pop up next? The UN? Okay, let's hear it.”

I told her quite a bit of my night. She said not a word but shook her head like a bobblehead Kirk Gibson speeding down Stadium Way. We pulled into the brightly lit Standard gas station. I got out and started filling Luis's car with the good stuff. The ninety-one octane.

“Big shot with the expensive gas. Probably doesn't even have a car now. Where is it?”

The Lexus wasn't in sight. I went inside the mini-mart. There was Rasheed. “Where's my car?”