Southside (9781608090563) (7 page)

Two hours later, Tiny Trouble of Seven-Four Hoover was in an interview room at the notorious 77th Street Division police station drinking a Dr Pepper in the shadow of the intimidating Detective Mo Batts, six foot five, 275, and Sandra Core, a very attractive dirty blond deputy district attorney from the Hard-Core Gang unit.

Batts pulled his chair close to Trouble. “Let's get down to business. Brynhurst. You know Brynhurst?”

“Never met the man.”

Batts slapped the top of Trouble's head. Deputy D.A. Core shot him a look that said, “Don't overdo it.”

Batts resumed. “Are you familiar with a street in the Hyde Park area of Los Angeles called Brynhurst?”

“Yeah, that's the street where the Rollin sissies hang out. Or so I heard. Towards myself, I ain't never even been there. Too many faggots there for me. Me, I likes me some pussy. Some white sugar.” He leered at Sandra Core. She rolled her eyes.

“Who you rollin' your eyes at, bitch?”

This time, Batts smacked Tiny Trouble upside the head. Hard. For Los Angeles gang members, rolling your eyes at them is a disrespect of the lowest order, a step from putting down your mother even if your mother was sprung and just a few steps away from putting down your saintly grandmother.

“Look, here's the situation,” said Batts. “We got several witnesses who saw you driving a Bronco on Brynhurst the night Debra Sady Griffen, the bus driver lady, was shot. They can point you out and
identify the car as being the shooting vehicle. Do you think we just came up on you out of the blue?”

“Fuck blue. This is Hoova. Hoova is orange.”

“Enough with the colors bullshit,” said Core. “Didn't that go out in the eighties? Wake up, boy.”

“Who you callin' boy, slut?”

Batts slammed his fist into the wall. “Motherfucker. One thing I hate is for a lady to be disrespected in front of me. You know why, bitch? Because it's disrespectful to me. Miss Core, can you let me alone with him for a few minutes? Wanna teach him some manners.”

Core hesitated, but left. The hulking Mo Batts moved in close.

“Get away from me,” Trouble said. “This ain't
Zero Dark Thirty
. No torture. Back the fuck off.”

“Too late for that. You dissed me. And now you're going to be my punching bag.” He started throwing jabs that came close to Trouble. Trouble started to get up, but Batts, with one mighty paw, put a vise grip on his neck and ground him back down into the seat.

“I'm gonna start yelling, you don't back up.”

“Go ahead. Yell. Scream like a bitch. Like the bitch you really are. You know what? I just came up with a better plan for you. Why bruise my hands? We need to give you a full-body cavity search.”

At that, Batts pulled out his big nightstick. “Maybe I'll get that pretty district attorney in here to watch to make sure I do this by the book.”

“No! No!” It was like a sweat spigot opened over Trouble's whole body. Then his bowels started to loosen. He was about to smear his shorts.
Damn
, he thought,
why'd I go to Popeye's
? He tried to squeeze his insides together. That seemed to work. A foul smell emitted, but the brown tide scare receded. He took a deep breath. More sweat came off of him in rivulets. But nothing else. “Okay. Okay, I was there. I was on Brynhurst. I didn't do no shooting. Leave me alone. I din't even know there was a gun in the sled.”

Batts stepped back, put his nightstick away, opened the door, and Sandra Core came back in and closed the door. She sniffed the polluted air. Batts said, “Our tough Hoover here just had a close encounter of the turd kind.” He laughed heartily. Core reopened the door and, with exaggerated, frantic hand movement, attempted to scoop fresh air into the room. She looked at Batts and started laughing too.

Never had Trouble felt lower. He thought his life had bottomed out three years ago when he'd seen his mother sucking off one of his homies for a rock behind the Bethel A.M.E. Church on Fig, but, this bottomed that. Does life even have a bottom? How low does the basement go? How many floors down? Sad thing is for fellas to be in the basement, say on like negative level four and they be happy as shit 'cause they ain't on basement level negative eleven. Ain't even on the ground floor and they cool with the view. Damn, but to almost shit myself. And I know these exaggerating motherfuckers gonna tell everyone I did. Fuck, I'm gonna play my wild card today. Get me to the lobby and get out this building. A touch of his bravado came back. He'd play his ace.

“Look,” said Trouble, “you wanna make me a deal? We can deal.”

“Deal?” said Core. “You were in the car with people that shot an innocent lady. A saint, from what I hear. How the hell you going to deal?”

“I know the Brynhurst shooting is big to y'all. But, the real big case is that reporter from the
Times
who got hit downtown. Am I right or am I right?”

“What about it?” Batts said, trying to hide his interest. “You shoot him, too?”

“Nah. But, I heard some very interesting information about that. That case been on like CNN and HBO and shit. Channel seven.”

“Go on.”

“I need to get a deal before I be sayin' any goddamn thing.”

“Say something interesting and maybe we can talk,” said Core.
“But, you are not walking anywhere. You can give me the new pope from Argentina as the reporter's shooter and you still gonna do something for the lady on Brynhurst. Maybe we can work something out, though. What do you have, Mr. Trouble?”

“I like that. You calling me Mr. Trouble,” he said, eyes darting cautiously toward Batts. “Look, I ain't actually heard it myself, but one of my g's told me 'bout a tape floatin' around that talks about the reporter's shooting.”

“A tape?” Core said. “Like a videotape of the shooting?”

“Nah, nah. Not a video, a tape, you know just a sound tape.”

“An audiotape?” said Core.

“There you go. An audiotape.”

“What's on this tape?”

“That reporter Lyons. He on the tape. Talking.”

“So what's so important on the tape?” asked Batts.

“The reporter is on the tape planning his own shooting.”

An hour later, LaBarbera and Hart walked into the 77th Street squad room and spent a minute bullshitting with detectives before getting serious with Batts. “Kuwahara told us what this guy said,” said LaBarbera. “It's hard to believe. I've known Lyons for over ten years. I can't see it.”

“Well, let's go talk to our boy here,” said Batts. “After he said that, we didn't go too hard, though I gave him a good scare.”

“You'd scare just about anybody, including me,” said Hart.

“No. A stinky scare,” said Batts who fanned his hand in front of his nose.

“No shit?” said Hart.

“Yes, shit. A trouser tragedy.”

“You are one sick fuck, Mo,” said Hart. “But, I'm glad you're on our team.”

In the interview room with Sandra Core, LaBarbera sat near Tiny Trouble. Hart pinched his own nose and looked at Mo Batts who nodded proudly.

“I'm Detective LaBarbera. This is Detective Hart. We hear you have information regarding the shooting of Michael Lyons. What's the story with this audiotape?”

“See, I ain't like actually heard the actual tape. My dawg Mayhem from Seven-Fo' heard it. He say the reporter is saying like ‘shoot me 'cause then I can be a hero.' Some shit like that. Serious. He sounds serious.”

“I thought you just said you didn't hear the tape. So how can you say he sounds serious?” said Hart. “You better not be wasting
our time. I'll put your ass in the Rollin Sixties module at Men's Central. Now, did you hear it or what?”

“Nah, man, nah. I didn't hear it. I'm just relaying what my boy told me. You want me to start every fuckin' sentence with, ‘this is what my boy told me'? Or you want it more real? My boy said that reporter sounded like he meant it.”

“How'd did your boy get the reporter's tape?” asked Core. “And why would Lyons tape himself saying that? Doesn't make sense.”

“It wasn't the reporter's tape. It's my uncle's tape. My boy said my uncle was taping the reporter for like, backup. To play it safe, you feel me? Ya know, like if he makes up something we didn't say, we got proof we didn't say it. What they call being misquoted.”

“Where's your boy Mayhem with the tape? Call him,” Hart said.

“He don't have the tape. I told you. It ain't his. He just heard it. My uncle, his shot caller, got the tape.”

“The shot caller for Seven-Four Hoover?” asked Hart. “He's your uncle?”

“Yeah. You know who he is?”

At the same time, Hart, LaBarbera, and Batts said, “King Funeral.”

One hour later, LaBarbera, Hart, and Trevon “Li'l Mayhem” Browning, eighteen, from Seven-Four Hoover, were driving to the home of Thomas Barrow, aka King Funeral, a menacing, muscular five-foot-nine thug, reputed, with his crazy young homies, to be responsible for keeping at least two Southside mortuaries in business.

King Funeral's only sister, Bonnie, four years his elder, had once saved his life when she stepped in front of Eight Trey Gangster Crips who were about to shotgun her brother in an alley off 83rd and Denker. Bonnie had dated an Eight Trey shot caller and they honored her request to spare her brother. After, she asked Funeral one thing. Like a black female Don Corleone, she told him, “One day I'm ask you for a favor.” This favor would be to help her son Lyles “Tiny Trouble” Davis, stay out of prison. Bonnie had already lost her oldest son to Corcoran. At the precinct, Lyles had called his mom and she had called her brother to cash in that long-ago earned favor. King Funeral had no choice but to help the sister that saved his life.

Funeral kept the two-room dump right on 74th and Hoover where he came of age, but lived in a four-bedroom home in Palm-dale, fifty miles from the city. Hart was at the wheel, LaBarbera shotgun, and Li'l Mayhem in the back, uncuffed after a vigorous frisking. The road peeled away in fast-forward mode, and Hart was relentless on the gas pedal. Just fifteen minutes into the hour drive, Browning started complaining.

“I'm hungry.” The cops agreed, and five minutes later they were
at the drive-in window of the In-N-Out Burger in Sylmar. Li'l Mayhem leaned up to Hart and said, “Gimme two double-doubles.”

Hart turned and looked at the criminal.

“Oh, yeah. Please,” added Mayhem.

Hart placed the order, four double-doubles, three fries, three large sodas, two Dad's root beers, one orange Crush. “How do you know about double-doubles? Not an In-N-Out Burger anywhere near the Southside.”

“Man, don't you know where the juvenile hall is? In Sylmar. Every time I got out, my boys used to take me here for a celebration. You feel me? I even know the burgers not on the menu. Animal style, protein style, four by fours. Just 'cause I'm from Hoova, don't mean I ain't worldly. I know plenty about the world. Geography and shit. You cops just think we stupid. We just temporarily trapped is all. I'm getting out and seeing the world. Seeing all the capitals. I bet I know more world capitals than you, cop Hart. That used to be my specialty in geography class.”

“It's Detective Hart. But, all right, my Hoova,” mocked Hart. “What's the capital of California?”

“Come on. Do I even have to answer that? Shit, Sacramento. Okay, wise man. How 'bout Libya?”

“Libya? Libya. Man, Libya's capital is Tripoli. Okay, let's go to Columbia.”

“Bogotá.”

“Well, I guess you should know that one since you're doing business with those dudes,” said Hart. Once their food arrived, they drove away and Hart continued, “Okay. Now, where were we? How about Russia?”

“Man, it ain't even my turn,” said Mayhem as he wiped cheeseburger juice off his mouth with his hand and smeared it on the rear seat. “But, if that's the best you can come up with, then Moscow.”

Hart smirked. “You know, Sal. It's kinda sad the kid here thinks he knows capitals because he knows three or four. Like, he knows
Moscow and that makes him kinda smart for just knowing Moscow is the capital of Russia. You know what I mean? The sad thing is, he's right. He is smart compared to his partners. At Fremont or Manual Arts or Gardena? Knowing that Moscow is the capital of Russia gets you put in the advanced class.”

Hart continued, talking like it was just the two of them in the car. “It ain't their fault. It's the parents. It's the teachers who don't care. It's the decrepit classrooms with seventy kids in them.” Hart looked in the rearview mirror at Li'l Mayhem. “Don't get me wrong. I think it's good you know places like Bogotá and Tripoli and Moscow. Seriously.”

“Gee, thanks. I'm so glad I got your approval of my brain. But, maybe we oughta play for a few ducats. A Benjamin or something. You're so smart. Putting everyone down in my 'hood. Let's play the capital contest for some cash.”

“I don't want your money. Plus, you probably don't have but two dollars in quarters and dimes on you anyway.”

Mayhem reached into his pockets, and LaBarbera suddenly turned around, his right hand on his Glock 40, his left hand over the seat about to grab the Hoover's throat, even though they had thoroughly patted him down earlier. “I'm cool, I'm cool. You already done frisked me.”

Mayhem slowly pulled out a tattered wallet and some cash. He had fifty-four dollars. “Let's go for fifty. I even let your boss hold the green.” He handed LaBarbera fifty dollars.

Hart looked pissed off. Sal laughed. “Johnny, he's calling you out.” Hart reached into his sport coat chest pocket and checked his cash. He had sixty-five dollars.

“Lebanon.” Hart said.

“Beirut. Madagascar?”