by CW Ullman
Charlie sprinted to the road and ran the length of the street, crossed a residential intersection and kept running. There were still gang members gaining on him. He crossed another intersection and fought the fear they would catch him. The footsteps behind him were getting louder and closer and he could hear their breathing. He surprised himself by making the next intersection and as he passed into the next street, he saw something out of the corner of his eye coming from an angle and closing fast in his direction. He sprinted five more steps when he heard thuds. He turned around and saw gang members sprawled out on the road. Suddenly, running with him was Surgeon, who had just barrel-rolled the legs from under three of the gang members, knocking them over like bowling pins.
“What kept you?” Charlie said, and Surgeon barked.
The other pursuers were about seventy-five yards behind the fallen leaders as Charlie turned a corner and entered a street lined with vacant houses, one street from where Curtis and the boys were hiding. Charlie ran and entered the fourth house. Once inside, he held Surgeon’s face for a moment, then told him to go home. Charlie blew the whistle three times and Surgeon bounded out the front door.
Charlie entered an upstairs room, walked into a closet, and closed the door. He felt confident the gang did not see him enter the house. While they did not see him, they did see the dog running down the street. They hurriedly scanned the houses and settled on the fourth, the one Charlie had entered.
The lead member said, “Who hasn’t capped anybody, yet?”
One fifteen-year-old came forward right away. Asked if he had a gun, the boy shook his head. The leader cocked his gun and gave it to him.
“This thing has a lot of kick. Shoot him in the head. His head is going to blow up like a motherfucker, so stand back,” said the leader.
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Cindy was on the phone, but could not reach 9-1-1. The lines only worked intermittently and when she finally connected, she was told to clear the line unless it was a life-threatening emergency. After what seemed like an interminable interval, an operator listened to her retell what she had just witnessed on television. Cindy could not specifically describe in which house the boys were located. Before the operator hung up, she requested Cindy call back when she could identify the location. Cindy stood looking at the television, holding a phone that loudly hummed a dial tone. She had no idea what to do.
After returning to Hermosa Beach, Chief Biwer joined a command unit operating a closure of the traffic arteries into Hermosa Beach along Pacific Coast Highway, Artesia Boulevard, and 190th Street. He thought how much easier it had been driving along desert roads in Nevada compared to defending an entire city against a possible race riot.
Carlos had been deployed in full riot gear to South Central Los Angeles and wondered where to direct the firefighters when they asked which of the four blazing buildings on one block they should tackle first.
Ronnie listened to Frank’s incessant hallucinations about human wave assaults and pleas that if Frank should die, tell his kids he loved them, tell his dad he fought to the death, and his wife he was sorry. Ronnie just wanted him to shut up.
Colleen with Chris, and Cindy with Molly watched in separate houses the same channel that showed an aerial view of the house temporarily shielding Curtis and the boys. Teenagers shooting into a vacant house turned more horrific when one of them lit a bottle with a rag stuck in the top and threw it through the front door. The gang members waited for the house to be completely consumed in flames, so they could shoot the fleeing occupants. When the occupants did not appear, the gang members danced and flashed their gang signs at the news helicopter, firing upon it as it banked away from the burning house and left the area.
Curtis and the boys were not in the house. They had managed to exit from the rear and were lying on the ground. When the helicopter shined the flood light on the gang members, they were temporarily blinded. The three took that opportunity to slip out a back window and low crawl across an open space between houses. They now stood behind the house next to the one on fire. Their escape was not caught on camera, so the impression left to anyone viewing this on television was that the three of them were being burned alive.
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In the darkness of the closet, Charlie was overcome with a feeling he had never experienced before. He was paralyzed with fear, while his anxiety-riddled mind was screaming for him to leave. He heard someone walking up the stairs to the second story of the house and knew they would eventually find him on his knees in the closet. He had lost a physical advantage by kneeling. He would not be able to lunge at any would-be attacker. He wanted to get to his feet, but felt it would cause too much noise, giving away his position. His mind raced through his few options and their consequences and he could not pick a course of action.
The head injury had to have caused this mental confusion, he thought, because normally Charlie was decisive. In his delirium, he heard voices: his dad, his boys, Rusty, Chief Biwer, Curtis, Darla, and Mahatma Ji. He was not paralyzed; it was more a feeling that he was being held, squeezed, and forced downward. He had constricted almost to a ball.
In the darkness of the closet with the footsteps getting louder, the images of his entire life cascaded through his mind and stopped with Mahatma Ji sitting with the girl from the Enterprise. They were smiling.
The serene Vietnamese girl mouthed the words, “I know.” Mahatma Ji rocked in a chair and asked, “What do you see?” Charlie was enveloped in his own vision. He saw opaque light and smelled the scents of his life. He heard his heart beating and knew he was immersed in the final moments of living. He apologized for leaving.
The footfalls stopped outside of his door and he waited for it to open. He was no longer in fear, having surrendered to the inevitable. His hands relaxed in the Shuni Mudra, where the tip of his middle finger touched the tip of his thumb and he sat up on his haunches. An overwhelming peace embraced him. The closet filled with light and the edges had a shimmer. The door opened slowly and a fifteen-year-old boy stood in front of him. He was backlit with the edges of the room exuding light. The boy raised his arm and a blast of fire from his gun crushed the light.
The boy closed the door, went to the window and yelled out to the gang below, “You’re right, his head blew up like a motherfucker. I’m coming out, so don’t shoot.”
He walked back to the closet and opened it. He hunched down and covered Charlie’s mouth with his hand and said, “Charlie, it’s Jordan Franklin. If you’re okay, nod.” Jordan had fired the gun over Charlie’s head and was now holding his mouth, fearing if Charlie spoke, the gang below would hear him. Charlie nodded and pointed to his ear. He had a ringing from the gun blast and could not hear Jordan as much as read his lips.
Jordan took his hand off Charlie’s mouth and put his index finger to his own mouth, signaling Charlie not to speak. He told Charlie Darla had called him to let him know Charlie was driving down here and to be on the lookout for him. He told Charlie to stay where he was and he would return for him in a couple of hours. Charlie nodded and hugged him hard. Jordan closed the closet door. He walked out of the room, lingered for a moment at the top of the stair landing, and thought of Cecily. He looked forward to seeing her when he could take Charlie home. Just the thought of her at the Christmas tree lot brought a smile to his face. His smile faltered when he remembered Cecily’s words that day, “Jordan save G Pa,”
“That little girl is a freak,” Jordan said, smiling to himself.
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Frank was freaking Ronnie out. He was spinning a theory that the city of Los Angeles was trying to get rid of Asians so they could take their land and give it to Mexicans.
“Seriously, man, think about it. They declare a national emergency; send all of us to camps in Arizona like your parents during World War II. They hold us for three years, let the Mexicans take our houses and businesses, and then ship us back to Korea. Well, you’d probably go back to Japan. Where do you think you’d want to go in Japan?” Frank asked.
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br /> “God Almighty, will you shut the fuck up. You sound like a lunatic-” Ronnie was interrupted when Frank jumped out of his chair, holding his hand up to silence him.
“Do you hear that? Listen…its bombers...no missiles. I heard the Mexican Mafia has ballistic missiles in their air force and they’re working with LAPD. They’re coming for us, Ronnie,” Frank stated.
Ronnie pushed him down in the chair and said, “I got to take a piss. Just stay here until I get back, then we’ll bust out the ray guns and signal Planet Earth.”
As soon as Ronnie closed the bathroom door, Frank got one of the handguns and stood outside the front door of the carpet store.
Curtis, Bryce, and Jordan were across the road from A-1 Carpets. On their side of the road was a depression, allowing them to crouch out of view of anyone on the road.
“I’m going to get up on the shoulder and make sure it’s safe and then we’ll make a break for Ronnie’s store,” Curtis said. He got up furtively and looked for traffic or any gang members. When he saw the coast was clear, he waved the boys up and took off for Ronnie’s store. Standing near the street with the gun leveled at Curtis was Frank.
Ronnie stepped out of the bathroom and looked around for Frank. He walked toward the front of the store and caught a glimpse of Frank and a black guy running from across the street. Then he saw two white faces. Before he could yell at him to stop, Frank got off two shots; one of them just missed Curtis, while the second one hit Bryce in the stomach. Ronnie sprinted at Frank and tackled him from behind, driving him into the pavement. He kicked the gun away from him and ran to Bryce.
Ronnie screamed at Frank, “You stupid fuck, you just shot Bryce Palmer. Bryce, we’re going to get you to a hospital. Hold on, please God.” He turned to Frank, “Get the car. Hurry up.”
Ronnie, Curtis, and Jordan were kneeling next to Bryce. Jordan started crying, “Bryce.... I’m sorry I brought you out here. Bryce, Bryce…”
Ronnie yelled and Bryce opened his eyes. Ronnie said, “Do not close your eyes. Look at me. Keep your eyes open.” He turned and yelled for Frank, “Where is the fucking car?”
Frank started the car with his foot on the accelerator. He did donuts in the parking lot, sideswiping a parked car. He got it under control, drove over the curb, and skidded to a stop just feet from Ronnie.
Ronnie said to Curtis and Jordan, “Help me get him in the back seat.”
They laid Bryce in the back, as Ronnie told Curtis, “Keep pressure on the wound.” He jumped in the front seat, pushing Frank to the passenger side. He slammed the vehicle into drive and sped away.
Ronnie hissed to Frank, “I swear to God, if he dies, so do you.”
Ronnie sped through traffic signals and maneuvered around stopped cars. He ran up on sidewalks and over lawns. Curtis and Jordan were in the back seat with Bryce, Jordan imploring his older brother, “Please don’t die. Okay? Please.”
Because Jordan’s pleas were choking him up, Ronnie could not listen. Instead, he focused on driving eighty miles an hour toward Gardena Memorial Hospital.
Ronnie’s parents had held fundraisers for the hospital and in honor of their efforts, the emergency room was named for them. He skidded into the emergency zone, pulled the brake, and jumped out. Curtis carried Bryce in his arms. He burst through the door and yelled for help.
Ronnie shouted, “I have a child shot in the stomach and I need some help.” Two nurses ran to Curtis with a gurney and he placed Bryce on it. They rolled him into the emergency bay. Ronnie was told he could wait outside, but said his hand was on the wound. Curtis and Jordan stood behind Ronnie, while Frank remained outside in the car not knowing where he was.
The hospital staff hooked Bryce up to an EKG machine, stretched his arm out, and started an I.V. Another nurse took a pair of scissors and cut off Bryce’s shirt, while a different nurse cut off his pants. A doctor approached Ronnie.
The doctor said, “I need to see the wound, at the count of three, pull your hand up. Ready? One, two, three.”
Ronnie pulled his hand up and the blood ran out of the wound, pooled on Bryce’s stomach, and then spilled onto the table. Jordan started to waver from the sight of the hole, but Curtis got him to a chair before he fell on the floor. A buzzer and a bell signified that Bryce had flatlined. Ronnie watched the doctors and the nurses. His rage had been building all night. Listening to Frank Jr.’s insane ramblings was bad enough, but the riots had him scared. Worse, his friend’s child had been shot and he felt the staff was not acting quickly enough. All at once, he exploded, slapping the top of the table with a loud bang.
“Hey!” Ronnie yelled.
The EKG kicked into a rhythmic beat and Bryce’s heart was working again.
“This boy doesn’t die. Hear me? Do you see that?” Ronnie pointed above the door. The name above the door was Ronald and Yoshiko Yamaguchi Emergency Room. “My family; if I bring somebody in here they don’t die.”
The doctors and the nurses were staring at Ronnie, momentarily stunned. “He does not die. If you need blood, we’ll give it right fucking now, but this boy, my friend,” Ronnie choked up, “Bryce Palmer does not fucking die.”
One of the nurses, sensing his fear and concern, came to Ronnie and gently said, “I know you’re scared, we’re going to do our best, but you have to let us work. I am going to put my hand where yours is. Are you ready? Go.”
Ronnie pulled his hand up and she put hers over the wound holding a wad of gauze. “If they’re with you, they need you right now more than Bryce does.”
Ronnie backed slowly away from the table and watched them work on Bryce. He turned around to see a pale Jordan and Curtis, who had a new appreciation for Ronnie. Jordan asked, “Is he going to be all right?”
Ronnie told Jordan what he needed to hear and what Ronnie wanted to believe, “He’s a strong boy and he’ll pull through. I won’t let him die.”
Ronnie sat next to Jordan, fighting back his tears to be strong for the boy. He had to talk about something or he was going to break down. He asked, “Why are you guys down here?”
“Dad came down on the motorcycle to Darla’s place just as the riots broke out. We saw it on television,” Jordan said. “Curtis drove us, but the car broke down when it got set on fire. It’s my fault.”
It was upon Jordan’s urging that they set off on what he now realized was a bad idea. His noble effort to shoulder the responsibility of losing Surgeon, crashing the car, and Bryce’s gunshot wound were too much for a twelve-year-old boy to shoulder. “My brother can’t die,” Jordan said through a flood of tears.
“Where’s your Dad?” Ronnie asked.
“We never found him. We don’t know where he is,” Curtis said. Jordan got up and peeked through the curtain. As a nurse came out, he held her arm.
“Is my brother going to be okay?” Jordan implored.
With the buzzer again sounding the cessation of Bryce’s heart, the nurse shook off Jordan’s hand and ran to grab a defibrillator crash cart. She came back and pushed the cart near Bryce’s bed, unfurling the paddles and cords, and placing the paddles on Bryce’s chest. The doctors stepped back as she yelled, “Clear.” Jordan moved to the foot of his brother’s bed and stood holding his breath. He watched as his brother was shocked with 750 volts of electricity. Bryce’s arms shot straight out and he vibrated on the table as the charge ran through his body.
There was no sinus rhythm coming from his heart. The nurse waited a few seconds, turned the charge higher, placed the paddles on either side of his chest, and shocked Bryce again. Jordan waited a few seconds before he grabbed his brother’s foot and whispered, “Please don’t die.”
Seconds felt like years as Jordan waited for his brother to show signs of life. He waited…and waited…and the beep on the EKG machine finally came to life.
“We need O Positive blood, now,” yelled one of the doctors. A nurse took a needle attached to a bag of blood and pushed it into Bryce’s arm and started the drip. One of the nurses came to Jorda
n and tried to usher him outside, but he would not move. “He’s my big brother.” Instead, she showed him a chair and said he could stay.
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Charlie still did not know where he was. He remembered riding the motorcycle down Normandie, a guy jumping on the back, black males pelting the bike with an assortment of objects, and now he was in a closet. He must be in a black neighborhood. He was glad Jordan had found him…really glad.
For a reason he could not fathom, he was hearing Cecily and Mahatma Ji when he dreamed or tried to meditate. Cecily’s intelligence was preternatural and lately he had been observing it more often. At a year and a half, Cecily was unusually calm, even when others were stressed. She almost seemed calmer when things were hectic. He hated to read too much into these observations, because he had been told this about himself for years. She was definitely tuned into something.
Why had he seen the light and felt the Presence when Jordan Franklin opened the door? He was certain that previous light sightings were perceptions. Now, he wondered if the absolute terror of death engendered a physical reaction, some kind of adrenalin dump. He had so many questions.
Again, he fell asleep waiting in the closet for Jordan. He dreamed he was sitting with Mahatma Ji on the back porch where he told Charlie, “You have to release your fear; it is making you angry.” The closet door opened and Jordan whispered, “Charlie.” Jordan thought his hearing may still be diminished from the gunshot, so he jostled his shoulder. Charlie woke and a peace came over him when he saw Jordan Franklin. Jordan reached into the closet and offered his hand to help him up, as Charlie was stiff after having had been on his knees for at least two hours.
“You’re in the ‘hood, Charlie,” Jordan Franklin said. “I’ve been staying in touch with Darla. When I stepped out tonight, I fell in with those gangsters. It’s been a crazy night. You’re lucky you’re alive.”
“How are we getting back to Manhattan Beach?” Charlie asked.
