"I didn't think you were, Mr. Hunter." Gonzales shifted in his seat and then clasped his hands together in the center of the wooden table. D leaned back; he could feel a punch coming but didn't know which way to duck. "I'm gonna be frank with you because your family apparently hasn't been. Your grandfather was a loan shark."
"C'mon," D said. "I mean, even if that was true, it would've had to have been some kind of mom-and-pop-type thing. Something for friends in the neighborhood."
"It was a small operation," Gonzales conceded. "Maybe it started as a little hobby, but he was known in the area for helping people with loans. Payday loans. Sometimes with gambling debts. If a wife needed money for rent because the father was high or drunk, I hear your granddad was helpful. Rodrigo Brown at the sneaker store was his collector and, if need be, enforcer."
"Wow, I have to think about this." D almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "This makes the case a lot more complicated," he said, trying to regain his footing.
"Well, maybe not," the detective responded coolly. "Loan sharks tend to get killed by people who owe them money or friends of people who owe them money, especially since this was a very neighborhood thing. I mean, a desperate man would as soon kill you for two hundred dollars as twenty thousand. If he was picking up cash that day and someone knew he'd have it on him, then it becomes a hit. But they didn't get the cash. Maybe they missed their moment. I know your background is in security and that you've aided the NYPD in the past. If you want to help solve your granddad's murder, finding a list of his debtors would be a start."
"So I assume that Red Dawg wasn't helpful?"
"No, Mr. Brown hasn't helped us at all. In fact, I'm worried that he's going to take matters into his own hands. He's an ex-gangbanger and one violation away from going back in. Your grandfather gave him a break that he wouldn't have gotten otherwise. Him hurting someone on a hunch is not gonna bring your grandfather's killer to justice. If you can get Mr. Brown to cooperate, then maybe we have a chance at finding out who did it. Otherwise, this could become just another cold case. I know you don't want that, Mr. Hunter."
Gonzales's phone played a snippet of "O Tu, O Ninguna," a ballad by Luis Miguel, a.k.a. El Sol de Mexico, and the policeman quickly answered it. He spoke in Spanish with a coy smile on his face. "Listen, Mr. Hunter, I have to take this call. You have my number. If you speak to your grandfather's friend and get some info, please reach out."
With that, Gonzales returned to his call, still grinning as he exited the Starbucks, while D sat alone and his eyes fixed on a series of lights intended to resemble an atom. But he didn't see them. Not at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RED DAWG HAS A THEORY
Big Danny's Electra 225 sat in the garage and D approached it cautiously, like a feisty animal he wished to pet. He'd been around death a lot as a child, dealing with the murders of his three older brothers. Each had been a profound tragedy. If his granddad had simply died from natural causes it would have been sad and understandable. But that man was not supposed to get shot. D noticed a bullet hole in the passenger-side door, reminding him yet again that his grandfather had been cheated of the peaceful passing he deserved. D thirsted for vengeance. He didn't want to feel or think that or, in the back of his mind, plan it. But it was what it was.
"We had it cleaned up," Walli said over D's shoulder. Glancing inside the vehicle, you'd never even know a murder had occurred. "It's spooky, right?"
D rolled back the canvas top, opened the driver's door, and slid behind the wheel. "Is there gas in the tank?"
"I think so," Walli said. "You're not planning on driving it, are you?"
"Yes, I am. Get in."
"Really? You sure?" Walli stood a few feet away, unsure what to do. "My car is out front . . . we haven't driven the Electra since we brought it home."
"I'm gonna go see Red Dawg," D said. "You can stay here, you can drive in your car, or you can get in here with me." He turned the key in the vintage car's ignition. "You coming, or what?"
"Fuck it," Walli said, sliding reluctantly into the passenger seat.
D couldn't sleep in Big Danny's bed, but he felt okay riding in his beautiful car. He didn't own a car and rarely drove in New York. He really didn't even like driving. But he was going to drive Big Danny's 225 until the wheels fell off or his heart broke, whichever came first.
"So," D asked once they pulled out, "school's good?"
"It's okay, I guess."
"Okay? I hear them eses been beating up black kids at schools out here. I hear that between Dr. King's birthday and Caesar Chavez's birthday, it's on between the black and Chicanos out here. Is any of that right or is it just some Internet drama?"
"It depends or where you are and who you know."
This answer did not sit well with D. "Hey Walli, I'm your cousin. Don't talk to me like I'm LAPD."
"I'm sorry, D, but I don't like to focus on that shit," Walli began, his voice soft but insistent. "I want to go to college out of state, hopefully to University of Washington or someplace else up north. I do my work. I stay with my friends. I'm going to get out of LA. I felt that way even before what happened to Granddad. Now I really don't want to be here. If you want to talk about Mexicans and all that, go talk with Red."
That satisfied D. Not that he particularly liked Walli's reply or his tone, but it was a real answer and felt like the start of them communicating again, which was all D desired.
The green Electra 225 rolled into the strip mall on Washington Avenue, where D's eyes focused on the gated grocery and liquor store, Big Danny's Place, which looked forlorn like a down-home blues. In front of the adjoining store, Red Dawg's Athletic Assets, was an LAPD cruiser.
"What's he into now?" D mumbled to himself, but Walli answered.
"Nothing, D. The police always coming around to mess with him."
Patrolmen Hernandez and Diaz were talking casually with Red Dawg when D and Walli entered. Whatever tension had been in the air had already dissipated. There were some legal papers on the cash register by Red Dawg's hand. The cops were solidly built men with square heads and solid jaws who viewed everybody as a potential felon.
Red Dawg was burly with red hair on top and on his chin, and thick, tatted-up arms exposed by his black tank top. He wore a silver chain around his neck that held a small red skull and an old-school African medallion. There was a medley of shiny rings on his fingers. A fading bruise hung above his left eye and he had a reddish tan that made him look angry even when he was chill. Red Dawg was the kind of man you quickly noticed and then turned away from.
"I can't root for no damn Angels," Red Dawg said. "C'mon, Hernandez."
"The Angels are owned by one of us, you know," the cop replied.
"That man looks real white to me," Red Dawg said before spying D. "Oh shit, it's my dawg."
"How you doing?" D said in response.
Red Dawg emerged from behind the counter and gave D a deep hug. The patrolmen watched casually and acknowledged Walli with a nod.
"I'm okay, my man," Red Dawg said. "Makes me happy seeing you." Then he introduced the officers to D by name. After sharing obligatory handshakes, he explained the family connection.
Diaz said, "Your granddad was Big Danny? He was a nice guy. My condolences."
Hernandez added, "Yeah, a real solid citizen. Sorry for your loss." Then he turned back toward Red Dawg. "Okay, Red, we'll head out. Sorry about that. I think it's for your own good."
Red Dawg shrugged. "Maybe."
As the two patrolmen exited, Red Dawg followed them with his eyes.
"What was that about?" D asked.
"They wanted to talk baseball."
D gestured to the papers on the countertop. "So what's that—a box score?"
"You don't miss shit, do you?" Red Dawg picked up the papers and handed them to D. They were a court order that restricted Red Dawg from several areas, including a local park where the neighborhood branch of the Bloods traditionally congregated. Red Dawg
would be in violation of his parole if he was seen at any of these locations.
"Told you they wanted to talk baseball," Red Dawg said, ignoring the paper's ominous warning. "Who am I supposed to talk baseball with? Niggas don't care about baseball, do they, Walli?"
"Nawn," Walli said.
"D, I tried to get your little cousin to play catch with me a few times, but this boy throws like a girl."
"Fuck you."
Red Dawg gently grabbed Walli around the neck and pretended to twist it, a sign of intimacy notably different from the vibe between the teenager and D.
"Shit, fool, you better be glad your tough New York cousin is here, or I'd squeeze your big head into one of these sneaker boxes."
Walli pushed his way out of Red Dawg's grip and tried to tackle him, but Red Dawg deftly deflected the attack. It was like a young pup trying to prove himself to a much bigger dog—in this case a red dog.
"Don't they have any black cops around here?" D asked.
"Why you need black cops in a Latino neighborhood?" Red Dawg said as he grabbed Walli's arms and pinned the teenager. "Unless you want to move out here to serve and protect."
D smiled at that. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'm gonna enroll in the academy and join a crash unit."
At the mention of the LAPD's antigang unit, Red Dawg turned serious and let Walli go. "Walli, why don't you take over the counter for a minute? D and I need to go in the back and have a sit-down."
"You had enough, huh, Red?" Walli said, way out of breath and a little sore.
"Yeah, I give up."
In the back room there were racks lined with boxes of sneakers, posters of athletes on the wall, and sports jerseys on hooks. There was a minifridge, from which Red Dawg pulled two Tecates, and a small safe half visible under a Kobe Bryant purple-and-gold home jersey. A cluttered old wooden desk sat in a corner. Red Dawg balanced on a gray ball behind the desk, while D squatted into an unsteady white plastic chair. Red Dawg didn't waste any time.
"I know who killed Big Danny," he said, then swigged a deep gulp of beer.
"I take it you didn't share this with the police?"
Red Dawg snorted and took another drag from his beer. "There's not a lot of support for Black Lives Matter in these parts."
"But you care enough to do something about it."
Dead serious, Red Dawg looked D in the eye. "I care enough about Big Danny to kill a whole gang of niggas. But I don't have to do that. I know who did it."
"You know, or you think you know?" D wasn't buying Red Dawg's gangsta attitude. He'd heard a lot of shit-talking over the years and wasn't convinced this rose above chest-pounding.
"I shoulda killed that motherfucker years ago. You know him. Teo Garcia."
D sat back in the plastic chair. "Oh," he said, surprised.
"Yeah, oh. That nigga. You don't feel so bad about it now, do you? He's been threatening Big Danny for years."
"So why now?" D asked.
"Big Danny was retiring."
"So why was Big Danny collecting debts? I thought that was your job."
Now it was Red Dawg who was surprised. "That detective told you Big Danny had a side business, huh? Well, some people Big Danny handled, some people I handled."
"Yeah. Wish I'd known before."
"At least that fat Chicano fuck could deduce that," Red Dawg said. "Otherwise he don't know shit."
"So you planning to murk a man on a hunch?" D asked pointedly. He knew Red Dawg wasn't a punk, but all this Sicario talk seemed out of character.
Teo Garcia. That bitch-ass. When D spent a summer in LA as a teenager, the sound of gangsta rap dominated the radio, but things were evolving. Tupac was dead. Snoop was working in New Orleans with Master P. Dre was in the lab working on Aftermath. The thuggish specter of Suge Knight hovered over the hip hop biz.
For the novice MCs of Los Angeles, gangsta rap was a music of opportunity and Red Dawg had the bug. When he wasn't delivering groceries to gang-fearing shut-ins for Big Danny, Red Dawg had formed a rap trio dubbed Trey Blaxicans, which featured himself MCing, a DJ named Ramon J, and MC Tee O, another half-black/half-Mexican kid. Red and Teo first met in grade school, where they bonded over their love of West Coast rap (from "We Want Eazy" on) and dual outsider status. The DJ was a light-skinned black kid, real name Romel Johnson, who went by a Spanish first name for promotional purposes.
Before Red Dawg turned it into a sneaker store, the space next to Big Danny's grocery had been used for storage. Trey Blaxicans moved some boxes around, then hooked up turntables, a sampler, a mixer, and a Mac to create a modest recording studio/rehearsal space. Teo was smooth on the mic with a flow similar to West Coast legend DJ Quik, and was capable of a slick rhyme. Though Red Dawg was okay (he could sound like NWA's MC Ren when inspired), Trey Blaxicans molded the group around Teo.
Red Dawg's problem with Teo was that for all his talent, he was impatient. The whole do-showcases, make-a-demo, and shop-it-to-labels dance didn't appeal to him. A few years later Trey Blaxicans could have uploaded tracks to YouTube, and maybe Teo would have become the rap star he already thought he was. But the band was just a bit too early to exploit that business model. So Teo's solution was to rob some gas stations to fund real studio sessions and to press a twelve-inch single.
His two bandmates, who'd gotten into music to avoid doing crime, turned down invitations to get involved in his capers. When confronted about it, Teo pointed out that Big Danny was a loan shark ("He should just give us money anyway") and that Red Dawg worked for him, so what was the big deal? But Big Danny knew just enough about hip hop not to want to be involved. His estimation of it as music and business was simple: "Too many guns. Not enough brains."
This dispute curtailed Trey Blaxicans' activities and angered Teo. So, one summer night he walked into Big Danny's at closing time, "hiding" behind a red bandanna and sporting a Mossberg 550 Tactical shotgun. Whether he meant to just rob, or to actually hurt Big Danny, would never be known. The official LAPD report said that the store owner had wounded the perpetrator with bullets in both legs. Big Danny got away with only a flesh wound in his left shoulder.
D, who visited the emergency room and saw how shook his granddad was, always suspected that Red Dawg had played a role in stopping the robbery. Red Dawg was at the hospital that night and D remembered seeing a proud, wary, amped look on his face—a look that D recognized from too many acts of violence back in Brooklyn.
Teo told the police that Red Dawg had shot him. Big Danny said he did the deed himself in self-defense. LAPD believed the wounded shopkeeper. At the hearings, Teo threatened retribution and violence as soon as he got out of jail. Unfortunately for Teo, his earlier revenue-
generating robberies came back to haunt him and he went away for many years. So many that he'd gradually become an insignificant bad memory to D. But not so to Red Dawg. Was Big Danny really the victim of a wannabe MC?
"You gotta have more than that to go on. I mean, is Teo even out of jail?"
Red Dawg pulled out his iPhone, clicked on a file, and slid the device in front of D. "He's been out quite awhile, D. Has a whole new life. He's big in narcocorridos."
"What's that?"
Red Dawg laughed. "I thought you knew something about music. Guess you only know East Coast shit. Narcocorridos. It's gangsta rap with accordions and tuba."
"What the fuck?"
"It's a Mexican thing. You wouldn't really understand, negro. Bottom line: it's songs about drug kingpins and what they did and who they did it to. Just listen to this."
The music emanating from the iPhone had a jaunty polka beat with a tuba providing the bottom and an accordion carrying the melody. A Spanish voice emoted on the track, which Red Dawg translated as he sang: "Old shop owner tried to control me / I blasted out, he fell down / He no longer own me / I ride away with vengeance / My nine by my side / My spirit abides / Blessed by a dead man's blood."
"When was this recorded?"
"A year ago," Red Dawg said, then clicked o
ff the music. "I'd call that evidence."
"Red, all it proves is that Teo wrote a song about revenge. How do you know it's aimed at Big Danny? If it's about my grandfather, I don't like it. At all. But it doesn't mean he did it. You got any more proof."
Red Dawg wasn't bothered by D's reluctance to believe in his thesis. "I already went looking for him. That nigga's underground right now. Off the motherfuckin' grid. His phone is dead. Must be using a burner. He's got some bullshit production company with people making records for him but he's not around. So yeah, I think he shot Big Danny. I think he's holed up somewhere getting high or with some ho. I'll bury his ass right behind Chavez Ravine."
"So that's your plan? Bury the motherfucker at Dodger Stadium? A guy with his own business, who's making and producing music, just decides to murk a man for an old grudge? Wouldn't he hire someone to do it?"
Red Dawg did not want to hear any of D's logic—his mind was made up. "Look, don't you worry, you undertaker-dressing motherfucker. I got this. I was closer to Big Danny than you or your fucking father. I understand if you ain't got the heart for this, but I do."
Though Red Dawg spoke with certainty, D could tell he wanted his help or support, and was willing to insult D to get it.
He continued on: "That man was better to me than my own father. The only reason I'm telling you is that if I get got, you'll know why and you'll be prepared to deal with Sheryl and the kid. One thing I know about your ass is that you can keep a secret."
D didn't really like beer but he took a swig anyway, as he considered Red Dawg's words. Finally he asked, "You love my aunt?"
"Yeah."
"You love my little cousin?"
"What's your point?"
"You need to think this through," D said passionately. "You're the glue holding this family together right now. Going after Teo will end badly—it just will. It always fuckin' does. Believe me, I got some shit on my conscience that I thought was righteous at the time. I left a man in a room with another man. Only one of those men is still around. Now, that other man was a piece of shit. But I'm no better. Sometimes I wake up at night thinkin' about it. It wasn't right and it didn't make his wrongs right. I don't expect you to change your mind. But this ain't no macho shit. This is life and death. I will support you. I would love revenge too. But revenge ain't the end of anything and it won't change anything . . . Well, it will change something. It'll change you."
To Funk and Die in LA Page 3
