Southside (9781608090563) (19 page)

She agreed to give me the story. I think her friendship with Francesca helped me. The pay would be fifty cents a word, twelve hundred words. I could sure use six hundred dollars.

She gave me the number and e-mail of Doris De Soto, the hard-charging news editor at the
Weekly
. De Soto loved the idea. Anytime she could criticize the mayor and the chief in one story, she was all aboard.

It was Friday afternoon. The
Weekly
came out on Thursdays, so Doris told me to get it to her Monday evening or Tuesday morning at the latest, and they'd run it next week. Cool. Or, as Big Evil would say, “bool.”

The
Weekly
was a free paper loaded with advertising for tit enlargement, butt reductions, butt additions, even anus tightening. Nevertheless, the paper was well regarded. They often beat the
Times
on political and street stories and their television, movie, and restaurant critics were respected.

For the next four days, I felt a live wire coursing through my veins for the first time since Francesca told me to go home. I was hitting the streets with the vigor of the Michael of old. I had a routine. I would spot my potential interviewees, drive a bit past them, get out the car, notebook in hand, a minimum of two ink pens handy, and, as nonchalantly as possible, step to them. Could be one guy, could be seven. “Excuse me, fellas, my name is Michael Lyons. I'm a reporter. I'm working on a story about that stupid list the LAPD came out with about the worst street gangs in the city. You guys see that list?” I quickly wanted to establish that I was against the LAPD's list.

It is uncommon to get a hit on your first foray into the streets. Usually, you strike out several times before you get something worth
writing down or even get someone to talk. I spotted a possible gang member on foot turning from 53rd Street onto Hoover. At first, as is so often the case, I figured it wouldn't be worth it and I'd drive on. But, like a good reporter, I decided what the hell, don't be lazy, so what if I strike out. I've struck out a lot. So did Babe Ruth.

I drove past. Parked along Hoover near 54th Street. I confronted the kid, and this time I hit a home run. He was a for-real Hoover Criminal. The Hoover, nicknamed Set Trip, gave me a good interview, some good quotes. “Why weren't the Hoovers on the list? We the most hated gang in L.A. We even hate each other.”

“Is that what happened to King Funeral?

“I don't know nothin' 'bout that,” Set Trip said, glancing around as he spoke. Chances are the young thug knew who had killed King Funeral—most likely another Hoover. Like all the super gangs in L.A., they had plenty of in-house killings. Maybe it had been Funeral's cooperation with the police over the tape of me that did him in. The detectives wouldn't find out until someone was arrested for a felony and, utterly fearful of prison time, gave up the shooter of Funeral as a deal to get cut loose. That guy would have to leave town.

I knew it was a long shot, but I played it anyway. “Say, you heard about that reporter who was shot downtown, right?”

“Yeah, I heard. We ain't as stupid as everyone thinks. I read the paper. I even heard about a couple wars we was into. They should just send the Hoovers over there to Iraq and Afghanistan, Syria too. We clean that shit up in a week.”

“Yeah. But the reporter. You hear anything on the street about who shot him?”

“All I know is who didn't shoot him,” Set Trip said.

“Who didn't shoot him?”

“Hoovers didn't shoot him. He'd be dead if we shot him. Same with Grape Street. I don't know but if I had to guess, I'd say it was a loner.”

“A loner? What's a loner?”

“A loner, you know, a loner, some guy not in a gang, not in a set. Just some guy that reporter pissed off.”

I don't know why, but I couldn't resist. “Say, Set Trip, that reporter who got shot, that was me.”

“No shit? Well, I be goddamn. I be getting interviewed by somebody famous and shit. Good for you. Welcome to the club.” He lifted his shirt and showed off a serious stomach scar. Then he wound up and gave me a hard side five.

I was really just joking with King Funeral when I said getting shot has its benefits, but, truth be told, in certain neighborhoods getting shot does get you some quick respect. Ask Set Trip.

Back at home, I was strong enough to get back to exercising vigorously. I was doing a set of push-ups, sit-ups, and the all-important pull-ups when the phone rang.

“We lost Term.” I recognized Detective Sal LaBarbera's voice.

“Term? Terminal?” I asked incredulously. “Big Evil's brother?”

“Lyons, how many Terminals are there?”

“What happened, Sal?”

“Someone called in a body by that Alan Engle, what is it, that ugh, recycling center. Not recycling, but—”

“Scrap metal place. The big one near Jordan Downs, right?”

“Right. So patrol goes over there. It's a homicide. They call over here and Waxman goes over and it's Bobby Desmond. They barely recognized him, but he didn't have a shirt on and they saw all the tats. Waxman said he got two in the chest, but a major-ass beating, too. Face smashed in like with a baseball bat or pipe, plus tire treads on his body. Broken leg. Was run over. This was very personal. Term's not getting an open casket.”

“Holy smokes. Must be the trend. Like King Funeral. Jack 'em up so bad the family can't even say good-bye at the funeral. You tell his parents yet?”

“I went over there, but no one was home. They're working folks. We're trying to keep it quiet until they know. I'm telling you, but I am counting on you to be quiet, too. Oh, wait a minute. You can't
do a daily for the
Times
, can you? Sorry, I forgot you got your ass got fired.”

“Screw you, Sal. What about Big Evil? He know?”

“He probably knows by now. I wanted to tell him myself, but he was in the hole. He'd jacked somebody.”

“Typical Evil.”

“Anyway, he's getting or got out today. Apparently there's a guard up there, some white guy, who is on good terms with him, and he said he'd tell him.”

“Anyway, Sal, what do you think? In-house?”

“Most likely. Terminal had a lot of enemies. Eighty-Nines and the Swans. Not to mention all the Crip sets around them. It was definitely not a random thing. The level of violence was, like I said, very personal. Whoever killed Terminal had someone they loved killed by him.”

“Or his brother. Well, that narrows it down to what, thirty, forty people. Look, this could be a great story. An Evil follow-up. Can I tag along? Be the fly on the wall?”

“The other day we questioned you in a gang murder, and now you want to tag along with us? What makes you think you aren't still a suspect in the Funeral killing?”

“There you go flattering me again. Come on with the tagalong. I'll make you famous again.”

“Last thing I need is for you to make me famous. I'll pass. But maybe I'll run that by the bigwigs. Who are you working for?”

“I could freelance Terminal's death to a lotta places. Maybe the
Weekly
. Maybe a magazine piece. I got that worst gang piece coming out Thursday in the
Weekly
. I'm back on it.”

“Call me tonight, Mike, but, you for sure can't go to the Desmond household tonight when we notify.”

“Why not?”

“You know why. First of all, it's not right. Second, she still hates your guts. From that magazine story on Evil. I saw Mrs. Desmond a few weeks ago when we were doing a 'cide on Eighty-Seventh Street
and Wadsworth. She drove by and stopped when she saw me. Said it was too bad you didn't die when you got shot.”

“Lovely woman. She raises the two biggest killers in the city, and I'm the bad guy. You know what, Sal? That's okay. I know she tried to raise them, worked hard and all that. Sal, to change the subject, my shooting, anything new?”

“Still working it, but nothing yet. We'll get the guy.”

“What about King Funeral? Who killed him?”

“It's looking in-house. There haven't been any paybacks on the Sixties or Eight Treys or Main Street or anybody else. Of course, no witnesses have stepped up. Probably have to wait till some Hoover gets busted, starts to panic about being locked up, and gives up some Funeral info as his get outta jail card. Same ol', same ol'. Word might have leaked that Funeral gave us the tape, and, you know, any cooperation with the police, even if it was to bring you down, even to get someone out of a jam, is a serious violation of the gang code.”

“Say, wait a minute, Sal. What about me?”

“What about you?”

“Funeral gets killed. Terminal gets killed. I get shot. Don't you see a pattern?”

“No. Not unless you're a shot caller.”

“It just seems like a coincidence, and I don't believe in coincidence.”

“Michael, that's my line.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gonna find out before whoever shot me comes back.”

“I'd tell you to be careful and don't do anything crazy, but I'd be wasting my time.”

The day before the Desmonds were to receive that hard visit from detectives, their son Cleamon got an intriguing visit from a stranger. To visit an inmate in California prison, the inmate must send you a visiting form, which is completed and returned to the California Department of Corrections, the CDC, in Sacramento.

But, there is a way around the visiting form. If the prison is more than two hundred miles away from the address on the potential visitor's California driver's license, they can visit an inmate unannounced as long as the inmate approves the last-minute in-house request. Abnormal is the case when an inmate, lonely for contact with the outside world, will deny a visit even if he has no idea who the person is.

Eddie Sims presented the top-of-the-line fake ID he had purchased near McArthur Park a week ago for eighty-five dollars. He used the name Barry Sanders, the great Detroit Lions running back, another favorite of his son, Payton.

Cleamon “Big Evil” Desmond was brought into the visiting area by four guards, one of whom held a shotgun. Desmond was denied his “super trustee” privileges after he knocked out a guard during a basketball game. Now he was cuffed, his hands locked to a chain around his waist, his feet shackled. Six foot three, about two-thirty. Graceful in chains. No unneeded fat. Fast as a jaguar. His muscles bulging, but not muscle-bound, his skin shiny, his eyes bright.

A guard released his right hand so he could use the phone to talk through the thick wire-meshed glass. Cleamon was curious who was here to visit. Sure wasn't the real Barry Sanders. A minute later,
Sims came in, sat down, and picked up the phone. It took thirty seconds to come on.

“Who are you?” Evil asked as the phone went on.

“A friend of Bobby's.”

“Bullshit, motherfucker. If you a friend of my brother's you wouldn't be calling him Bobby.”

“A friend of Terminal. I didn't want to be rude.”

“Rude? To me? That's impossible.”

“I doubt that. I mean, don't you think if someone did something wrong to you, or bumped into you without saying excuse me, wouldn't that be rude?”

“That would be stupid. There's a difference. Now, who the fuck are you?”

“I'm a friend of your family,” said Sims, starting to feel the security of the thick glass between him and the man who had killed his son. “In fact, I met your mother the other day. Nice lady. Lovely lady. Nice-looking older woman.”

“Now you starting to get stupid.”

“No, I meant that as a compliment. I'm sorry, I meant no disrespect. But, Bobby, I mean Terminal, your mother kept calling him Bobby, I guess that's why I keep calling him that. Anyway, I used to work on Terminal's car. He was a good rapper. Could get down. He used to freestyle at the shop where I worked.”

“Where was that?”

“Frank's over on Central and Ninety-Second.”

“Yeah, know that place. So why you here?”

“Well, I was in the area, visiting a cousin in Eureka and figured I would come by and pass on my respects and condolences to you about Terminal. Like I said, he was a friend. He even showed me the video of you kicking Funeral's ass.”

“Shit, I forgot about that. I wonder how he got it.”

“I don't know. But, anyway, I been locked up myself and I know it's nice to get any visit, even from a stranger. Break up the day, you know?”

“I know.”

“It must've been hard to hear the news about Terminal while you up in here. Were you two close?”

Big Evil thought back to another lifetime when he and his little brother used to play on the streets and sidewalks of 89th Street and 88th Place. That's as far as they were allowed to roam. Their parents made life for the brothers in their volatile neighborhood as good as they could. Cleamon and Bobby rode new Schwinns when the other kids on the block had rusted hand-me-down Huffys. The Desmond parents opened a new world for their sons with trips to Yosemite and Mount Shasta and Pismo Beach while the other kids on the block never ventured west of the Harbor Freeway, the Westside. Cleamon smiled when he thought about those trips. He laughed when he thought about how he taught his little brother how to fight, especially the time he broke Bobby's nose and told the crying eight-year-old that one day he would thank him for that punch.

When he'd heard the news of Terminal's violent death, he'd felt only rage. But now, thinking back on those days, he got a rare visit from sadness, felt the unfamiliarity of moisture in his eyes.

“Man, whoever you are, he was my little brother. Things didn't work out how my parents planned it. But, he was my little brother. I loved him like only a brother can. I wish I could have been with him that night. I wish.”

“That's sad, man,” Eddie said, as serious as can be. Then he went for the kill shot. “You know, Big Evil, I had a wish just this morning, too.”