Southside (9781608090563) (8 page)

“Madagascar. Damn. Madagascar. Madagascar.”

Mayhem smiled. “Saying it over and over ain't gonna help you, my detective. First round knockout. Give it up, Smarty Jones.”

Hart was getting a bit red. His foot was getting even heavier as the Vasquez Rocks slipped by on the left. The Ford hit 105. “Slow it down, A.J.,” Sal said. “Funeral ain't goin' nowhere.”

“All right. I don't know. What is it?”

“Capital of Madagascar is Antananarivo. Pay up.”

“First of all, even if that is right, this isn't a sudden-death game. It's just one strike.”

“You didn't say that.”

“I'm saying it now. No game ends with one strike. We are doing three strikes, then you're out.”

“Figured you like that three strikes rule. I got a homie in Pelican Bay on three strikes doing life because he swiped some lasagna. Believe that shit? Your whole life for some lasagna. Three strikes sucks.”

“Well,” said Hart, “Here's your first strike. Liberia.”

Mayhem crossed his thin, but hard arms, sat down lower in the seat, and smugly said, “Monrovia. Named after President James Monroe. Just happens to be the only non-American capital city named after a U.S. President. How's that for a dummy from the Southside? And for you, my cop, I wonder if you know the cap of Pakistan.”

Hart, after some serious brain searching, got Islamabad, but he stumbled soon after losing on Mongolia—Ulan Bator—and North Korea—Pyongyang—while Mayhem scored with correct answers to Finland—Helsinki—and Uruguay—Montevideo.

“Fuck,” said Hart.

Li'l Mayhem silently stuck his hand toward Sal who handed him his fifty back. Hart handed over fifty. “Don't say a word, scum. I'll pull this car off this lonely desert road here. Got me a shovel in the trunk. You'll never be found.”

Mayhem didn't say a word, probably figuring that was not out of the question. They sped in silence out of the craggy hills and into the suburban desert pot marked with cookie-cutter homes. This was once considered the promised land for middle- and lower-middle-class whites and blacks, a place where you could get away from
crime and smog. But some of Utopia had turned into a desert nightmare. Sections of it were a lightweight version of Los Angeles, complete with gangs and drugs and bored teenagers whose virginity was long gone by fourteen.

“Take that next off ramp. Freeman Street,” Mayhem said. “Then go left like two miles and turn right on Daisy Hill Lane. That's where he lives. I forgot the number, but I know the house.”

“Daisy Hill Lane?” said Hart, breaking his silence. “What a fuckin' pussy name for a street. Why don't they just call it Pussy Street? His wife must be in charge. I always knew he was a punk. How else would a man live on Daisy Mae Lane?”

“Daisy Hill Lane.”

“Daisy Hill. Daisy Mae. Same thing. You think this asshole who used to shout ‘I'm from Hoover Street, this is Hoover here.' You think he's bragging, claiming ‘I'm from Daisy Mae Lane.'”

Mayhem knew better than to correct. A minute later they turned into King Funeral's driveway.

Detective Sal LaBarbera, the purported inventor of the “One Knock” policy, rapped his punched-through-many-a-wall knuckles on the black metal security door, rattling it like a gigantic tuning fork. Five seconds later, King Funeral, all 220 rock-hard pounds of him, opened the door and shook his shaved head. “I'd know that knock anywhere.”

“Damn, Fune, I figured you'd have a butler opening and slamming doors for you by now.”

“Cut the shit, Sal. You know I can't trust no one. No one but the police and my rivals. One to lock me up, one to shoot me. Least I know where they coming from. Everyone else, you gotta be leery.”

“Thomas, we ain't coming to lock you up,” said Hart. “Been there often, often done that.”

“Don't remind me. C'mon, c'mon in. I don't want my neighbors to see me associating with riffraff.”

Funeral was dressed casual nice, loose-fitting black slacks, a green-and-orange silk short sleeve and orange Nike Air Jordan 3 Joker sneaks. “Nice wheels, boss,” said Li'l Mayhem. “The Jokers are sweet.”

Funeral ignored him and led the cops into his living room, offering them a seat on a cushy seven-foot orange leather couch. A rust-colored carpet was strewn with big pillows and a chrome coffee table displayed two big books—one about Rome, one on Muhammad Ali. Li'l Mayhem pointed to the Rome tome and said to Hart, “Capital of Italy.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Hey, King,” said Mayhem, “did you know that Muhammad Ali won his Olympic Gold medal in Rome, or is that why you put them books out together?”

Funeral shook his head and looked at Hart and LaBarbera. “Almost nothing more annoying than a young brother who thinks he can educate a man. Maybe, I should tell you to wait outside with my rotty-shep or go wash my Escalade or clean my gutters, but just go in the den there and get us something to drink. You know what a den is, right? It's a nice room.”

“I know what a den is, boss,” said Mayhem. “I even know what it stands for. D.E.N. Decorated extra nice. Maybe you didn't even know that.”

“Your boy is one annoying piece of a shit,” said Hart to Funeral. “What I don't understand is how you haven't had him shot yet.”

“It is a mystery,” said Funeral. “Now, boy, spare us your bullshit and get me a drink before I decorate your face extra ugly. Get one for yourself, too. Then shut the fuck up. Detectives, how about some con yak? Relax for a minute with an old enemy.”

Hart glanced over at Sal who just shook his head once.

“Get the Rémy, youngin'. The fancy bottle.”

“Not a bad place,” said Sal.

“Compared to what? My old dump my momma raised us on 74th? Yeah, it's a long way from there. But I ain't forgot my peeps.”

“We know.”

Li'l Mayhem returned with Rémy XO and two snifters that he set on the coffee table and poured two deep drinks.

Funeral lifted his glass. “To all the guys, mine and yours, who didn't make it through their tours.” The detectives nodded. Funeral poured a smidgen on the glass-topped chrome coffee table. It pooled up like balsamic on extra virgin, settling into a small glowing amber pool.

Hart surveyed the room. Sony eighty-inch HD TV. Bose sound system. Some framed photos, including one of King Funeral in an orange tux next to a gold Lamborghini Aventador J roadster. “Gangster
life has been good to you,” said Hart. “Anyway, you know why we're here. Get the tape. Let's hear it.”

Funeral took his nose out of the snifter. “This some sweet stuff. I remember when you was at the Seventy-Seventh, Sal. I always had my forty of Olde English whenever you came by. ‘Member that one time I talked you into taking a swig?”

“Stuff was nasty,” said LaBarbera. That was ten years ago, and the stale taste of the warm malt liquor still registered on his taste buds' memory.

“But, I gotta tell you, you showed my Hoovas that a cop could be a human,” said Funeral. “I'm serious. For a lot my niggas, that was the first time they saw a cop be kinda cool. They used to them uniformed motherfuckin' robots. Anyway, I always kinda appreciated that in a strange way.”

“Great,” said Sal. “Get the tape.”

“Hold on, Sal,” said Funeral. “I'm gonna get it in a minute. I even made a copy for you, but I'd like to know what kind of goodwill is comin' my way offa this. I know this is big-time important for y'all. I've been reading the
Times
stories. I see the TV news. I know y'all under a whole lotta pressure. I need serious credit here. Look, I know where we stand. I know I done a lot of wrong in my life, but I been trying to go legit. But I still have some boys to consider like Tiny Trouble. He's my sister's boy. So I'm just going to ask you two, you gonna forget how you got this tape?”

“No,” said Sal. “You been up front with me and I appreciate it.”

Hart shot the senior detective a look.

Funeral continued, “On the other hand, I can't have it out there that I gave up this tape. Can't have the streets know where you got it from. Just say police have discovered in a search or something, but you cannot say I gave it to you. Even if it is just to nab a journalist. Any cooperation at all with the police and well, ya know, the boys, young-and-old school, don't approve of that. A man could get shot offa this. Even me. I'm only doing this, and I want you to understand this, I'm only doing this to score some points for my sister's kid and
maybe get a little grace in the future. Plus, I really don't give a fuck about Lyons. He been making a career writing about our misery and he try to come off like a brother, like he down with us. Now he trying to be a hero, when he ain't nothing but a fuckup. If this tape was some Sixty confessing he kilt Jesus Christ, I would not give it up. You feel me? But the reporter, shit.”

“Jesus. Play the fuckin' tape, Thomas.” said Hart. Funeral shot him a look but pushed the remote's play button. Silence in the house. The tape rolled.

The voice of King Funeral: So why you want to do a story on the Hoovers? We been cool lately. It's them Sixties niggas and them Grape Streets, they be the ones starting shit. The fuckin' Mexicans, too. F-Thirteen. Florencia. Do something about them, fool.

Mike Lyons: I had a big story on the Rollin Sixties already. About Wild Cat. You know him?

Funeral: I know him. We cool. We was at the SHU in Corcoran together.

Mike: I didn't know that.

Funeral: You don't know a lot of shit. You just think you do. You just think because you know ten percent and all them other reporters at the
Times
only know one percent that you the gang man, the expert, but you don't know what the fuck is going on.

Mike: Educate me, then.

Funeral: I'm not your teacher.

Mike: Look, first of all, you don't know anything about me and my past.

Funeral: I don't need to.

Mike: I lived in South Bronx slums and East St. Louis. Where I lived makes the worst blocks on Hoover Street look like Disneyland.

Funeral: Fuck you. New York is old, motherfucker. Them's the old days. John Corleone times. This is today. We got sets all over the country. Even the Bloods are setting up, taking over in New York. Even in the Bronx. L.A. gangs is the takeover crews. You feel me? Invaders. Marauders. Just because we got some flowers on some
blocks don't mean shit. We also have the firepower. So don't try and impress me with your badness. Please.

Mike: All I'm saying is, you know what, forget it. You probably ain't never been out of California and you know everything.

Funeral: Oh, so you gonna come down to my crib and disrespect me.

Mike: I ain't disrespecting you. I wouldn't do that. I'm just tryin' to get the true story. We going to do a story on you guys, you're a famous set, you know that.

Funeral: We ain't no damn set. We a straight-out cartel.

Mike: Okay, but the other reporters and the editors they're fine with just talking to the cops and shit and writing and publishing the story about the Hoovers that way. I'm the only one reaching out and trying to get the story from you guys.

Funeral: Reason no reporters come down here is they liable to get their ass shot.

Mike: Worse things can happen.

Funeral: Like what? What, you don't care? Is that right? You that much a badass reporter you don't care if you get shot? Nigga, please. I oughta shoot you myself. And I might just do that, but I know you put out a safety net, prob'ly told everyone at the paper where you were going. Probly bragging to everyone, too. “I got me an interview with King Funeral.” Am I right? Tell me.

Mike: Yeah, I ain't gonna lie. I did tell my editor I was gonna interview you, but only because I needed an excuse to get out the office early and go to my bar.

Funeral: I can smell it. You wanna drink? Hoovers got hospitality. Give you a drink, then shoot your ass.

Mike: Well, I'd hate to get shot sober.

Pause. Some liquid noise
.

Mike: To the boys who couldn't be here.

Funeral: That's cool. I don't know. I don't trust reporters. Maybe you ah'ight for a reporter. Compared to what, though?

Mike: Eddie Harris, Les McCain.

Funeral: Got that right. I do gotta say I ain't never seen a reporter anywhere 'round the 'hood 'cept when there's a shootin' and all the police is here. All the TV crews. But that don't even happen that much anymore. Guess shooting on Hoover ain't news anymore. But no one, not a one, ever comes here when nothin's going on. ‘Specially at night.

Mike: I'm here and nothin's going on. And it's night.

Funeral: Yeah, I guess you are. Now let me ask you a question. What you just said. You just talking tough or trying to impress me? 'Cause if you are, you wasting your time and mine. But, what you said, “There's worse things than getting shot.” What you mean?

Mike: I'm just sayin' there's worse things than getting shot.

Funeral: Like what?

Mike: Getting tortured. For one. Like being punked out and having to live with it.

Funeral: You been punked out?

Mike: No. I ain't never been punked out, you know, jail-style, that's what you mean. No. Fuck no. But, I've done some things. Or not done some things that kinda were, I don't know, like backing down and regretting it. You know what I mean?

Funeral: I ain't never backed down.

Mike: Well, it's like, like there was this time way back in the, I think it was the tenth grade. Over at Gardena High.

Funeral: Gardena High? You went there?

Mike: Yeah, for a year.

Funeral: Nigga, I thought you from East St. Louis or the South Bronx. Come to find out, you a lyin' motherfucker.

Mike: I ain't lyin'. I was born here, went to school here, then moved to New York. To the South Bronx. Chicago. East St. Louis, Illinois. Baltimore, too.