Hollywood Tough

Chapter 9

The Impala low-rider with a yellow-and-green glitter paint job made one slow pass down Abbott Kinney Boulevard without stopping. It was a show car, a lowered '63. It finally came around again, then stopped half a block away. Two vatos got out dressed in baggy jeans and barrio coats buttoned at the top gang-style; a fashion that allowed easy access to belt-holstered weapons. They walked toward Shane, moving deliberately. As they drew closer, he could see they were both in their middle teens. One was dark-skinned, almost black; the other had Inca-Indio features, common to Central Mexico.

"Hola," Shane said as they approached.

"Chupame, motherfucker," the darker one replied. "Not unless I get a ring first," Shane quipped.

The Indio pushed Shane toward the building. "Turn around. Hands on the wall."

Shane did as instructed. They quickly found the ankle holster and stripped it off.

"No cuetes, asshole."

"I'm a cop. We're required to pack," Shane said, cursing the decision because he had just lost a four-hundred-dollar Beretta Mini with a custom grip and laser sight.

They waved at the Impala, which made a U-turn, then came back. There were two more Mexicans in the low-rider, both heavily sleeved with interlocking M and 13 gang tatts. Amac was not in the car. Shane was pushed into the back and a black pillowcase was put over his head, then he was shoved down onto the floor between the seats.

The next half hour was an uncomfortable ride across town. Then they were leaving the freeway, moving slower as they headed down bumpy-surface streets. He heard the distant wail of a siren and laughter from a passing bar. Then the car finally slowed and came to a stop.

"Manolo, to ranfla adentro," a new voice said through the window, instructing the driver to move the car inside. A ran, la was a cherried-out low-rider.

The Impala started again, drove about twenty feet before the engine was shut off. Shane heard metal hinges squeaking and a heavy wooden gate close. Then he was yanked into a sitting position; the pillowcase was snapped off his head, and he was being pulled out of the low-rider, pushed up against the passenger door.

"Stand there, gabacho," one of the vatos ordered.

He was in a Spanish-style courtyard reminiscent of a fortress that looked as if it took up the better part of a city block. There was an old three-tiered stone fountain dripping water in the center of a tiled patio. The building that surrounded the courtyard on all four sides was three stories high and constructed of tan California adobe. Tile roofs sloped down toward the patio. Shane could see several Ernes lying prone up there, armed, their muzzles pointing down into the street outside. Shane guessed by the architecture that he was in the heart of L. A., probably somewhere down by Alvarado Street, one of the few places where these two-hundred-year-old Mexican buildings still existed. He saw a brass plaque on the wall identifying this landmark as Plaza ParaIso-Paradise Square.

A large wooden door opened behind Shane, and Amac stood on the threshold, flanked on two sides by Eme guards. He wore baggy jeans and a gang-tank jacket with "18th Street Suretios" on the back. As he walked across the tiled courtyard, his booted footsteps echoed against the adobe walls. Shane pushed away from the fancy low-rider and crossed to meet him at the fountain. Finally, they were face-to-face.

"Que pasa, hombre?" Shane said softly.

Amac shrugged. "Asi es, asi sera." This is how it is and how it's gonna be.

"You got that right," Shane answered.

"Like I said on the phone, ese, I got my hands full right now. We're down with this shit, so you got something to tell me? Let's hear it."

"I need some insight, Amac."

" 'At's why they got churches, Scully."

"Somebody killed Kevin Cordell; lured Stone into an avocado orchard and assassinated him. Now O. G.'s from both the Crip and Blood sets are starting to get shot. At first we thought Stone's death had created a power vacuum between those two sets, but yesterday somebody witnessed a drive-by. Two Crips went down. They said the shooters were La Eme. Alexa thinks this might be turning into some kinda intercity drug free-for-all. That's not gonna be good, man. Innocent people start dying and the governor could call out the Guard. There could be some serious shit to pay. I want to stop it before that happens. To do that, we need to know what's going on and why."

Amac looked at him for a long moment. "Que jodido!" he blurted. "So you come down, pull on my coat." "Yeah, that was my plan."

"Maybe while I'm at it, I should grab the vatos who did that piece a work, turn them over to you?"

"I got some useful stuff to trade."

"You got shit. You're so far behind the curve, you ain't approved to do business."

"Who shot Kevin Cordell? At least gimme the spill on that."

"Kevin Cordell…" He spit the name out like a fruit seed. "That transforming piece a shit sure deserved to die, but now I'm beginning to think we was all better off when he was alive. At least he kept them dedos locos a his from goin' off the reservation. Now we got a fucking street war with mayates rollin' around in work cars, shootin' anything that moves."

Shane stood still and waited.

"Okay, Scully, you wanna know who dropped Cordell? It was his own people-his own 'big boy.' Least ways that's the way we hear it."

"His big boy his right-hand man?" Shane asked.

"Yeah. An O. G. from the Front Street Crips. His name's Russell Hayes they call him Hardcore way we heard it, him and his cousin, some crazy coffee-colored maldito with a trenza braid halfway down his back did the hit."

"Why would they kill Stone?"

"They're mayates, man. Fuckin' jungle bunnies." "You're smarter than that. Help me, Amac."

American seemed to consider this, then nodded. "Stone was the one who kept the war between the Crips and Bloods hot. That was his thing. The way he kept control… and it was good for us, too, y' know? With them always fighting, we took over half the city. His people finally wised up, but Stone had too many enemies. In order to unite the Crips and Bloods, he had to go." Then Amac stopped. "I'm doin' all the talking here, ese. You said you had something for me?"

"You know about this new White Dragon?" Shane asked softly. "It's Chinese heroin and it's hitting the streets soon. Supposed to be a big supply coming up from Mexico."

"So what? Drugs is always comin' up. Tell me some-thin' I can use."

"This stuff looks like it's heading to Arizona. It's a new distribution system that's gonna be warehoused out there and then, most likely, moved from Arizona back to L. A."

Amac shrugged and glanced at his watch.

"We're pretty sure somebody's setting up to make a big score," Shane continued, trying to shine this one meager fact up so it would seem worth trading. "It looks now like the black gangs are the ones moving it. At first we thought Crips, but now with what you said, it could be both sets. This much I can tell you: It'll have big value… lotta money on the street. It's high quality; it's gonna blow the market out."

Amac pulled a quarter out of his pocket and held it up for Shane to see. "You know what it says on this U S of A coin?" Shane waited. "It says 'Liberty' right there under George Washington's double chin. 'Cording to this U S of A quarter, money supposta buy us liberty. But you know something strange, Scully? Liberty ain't freedom. Not even close. The dictionary says freedom is liberation from the power of another. I don't have that. Yet. Money can't never buy us freedom. We don't have control over the way Anglos deal with us. In this country I can have liberty, which is the power to enjoy various social and economic rights. I can move around and buy stuff, but my nature and my heritage and my Indio skin prohibit my freedom, comprende?"

Shane held his gaze but didn't respond.

"This country won't accommodate us, so they criminalize us instead."

"Come on, the laws prosecute criminals, not ethnic groups," Shane argued.

"In school, they tell me, Hey, Amac, stop bitchin'. It's about the USA, it's not about U, ese. But that was all bullshit, man. When I was a boy, only ten or eleven, I once tried to sell lemonade on the street corner. The police saw me and la chota arrest me for selling without a peddler's lict,nse. I wasn't breakin' no law. White kids do that in Beverly Hills with no hassle every day. But they was fuckin' with me 'cause I was a Mexican, and they don't want me to have no freedom. People in this country can't consume unless they can sell, ese. If they can't start a legal business, then they'll run an illegal one. Sell dope, stolen cars, radios-anything to feed their families. Some chavalas even sell their bodies. If a Chicano tries to challenge the power structure in America, he'll get beaten or jailed for his trouble."

Finally Amac tossed the quarter into the fountain. "So I make a wish. My wish isn't on that coin. I want freedom-freedom from poverty, from my own ignorance and self-hatred, from Anglo prejudice. There is more at stake here than who gets rich or who dies. There is a small but dangerous fire burning, hombre… and nobody is even watching."

Shane looked down at the quarter wavering in the pool of water. "Amac. don't start a race war."

Amac looked toward the car where his vatos stood. The young one with the black complexion had never stopped glaring at Shane.

"You see that dark one?" Amac asked. "El prieto?" Shane nodded.

"His street name is Midnight. He's mostly black, maybe all black. Nobody knows. He don't even know 'cause he never met his parents. He was homeless. When he was five, I found this little flaquillo eating outta trash cans. I gave him a place to stay, gave him food. Now he's not a mayate no more. Now he's a vato-my carnal. So don't talk to me about race wars. This ain't about race, it's about respect."

Amac walked away from the fountain, but then, halfway to the door, he turned and looked back. "Listen, Scully, you always treated me like a man. You gave me respect. You also got ganas. You came to the park two years ago, not knowing what would happen to you; you came here alone tonight. I respect that."

Shane waited.

"But I ain't in the same place no more. I got my people lookin' to me. So we can't be doin' this. Next time you see me, figure I'll be tryin' to take you out."

"If we have respect for one another, we can work together… help each other."

"You got freedom, ese. I only got liberty."

Forty-five minutes later, Shane was standing back on Abbott Kinney Boulevard with his empty ankle holster in his hand. He walked the four blocks to his house. When he entered, he found Alexa sitting in the club chair in the living room, waiting.

"Thank God." She let her breath out and stood. "What'd he tell you?"

"The Bloods and the Crips have united and are at war against the Emes."

"I was afraid of that. Does he know who killed Stone?" "He thinks it was Russ Hayes and some cousin of his with light skin and a braid."

"Russell Hardcore' Hayes?" Alexa said. "It's hard to believe… He and Stone grew up together. According to the gang book, they were like brothers."

"This isn't about brotherhood, it's about cash. They had to clear him out to pull the drug gangs together. You can pick up Hardcore and his cousin for Stone's murder, but without witnesses willing to testify, it's just street rumor, and your bust won't stick."

She nodded.

"Amac thinks Stone died so the Crips and Bloods could unite, but I think something else is going on, something bigger."

"What?" Alexa was studying him closely in the darkened living room.

"I don't know, but when I told him about the China White and the Arizona connection, it didn't seem to surprise him. I think he already knew. I also think there are some other big players in this, Mexicans or Colombians, and Amac knows who they are. Somebody's setting up the supply for Russ Hayes. Somebody big is pulling the strings."

Alexa started frowning, then shook her head. "We're working closely with the feds. They're all over the Mexican and Colombian suppliers. If it was a regular source, DEA or Customs would have picked up on it."

"It was just a hunch. I felt like I didn't tell him anything he didn't already know."

Alexa was still deep in thought.

"One other thing…" Shane added. "Amac may be an Eme drug dealer, fighting the black gangs for his share of the market, but he's also turned into something else." "What's that?" Alexa asked.

"A revolutionary."