Three movers exited the truck's cabin and hit the ground running. They were Central American men with sturdy, squat bodies and lifting belts around their midsections. With military efficiency, they carried sofas, chairs, and boxes into the house.
Soon a late-model car rolled up the street and into the driveway. There was a small Mexican flag decal on the front window. A family of five got out—a rough-looking father, a portly mama, and three boys all under ten years old. The mother gave the Korean woman a grateful hug, the father supervised the unloading, and the three boys scampered underfoot, anxious to be part of the action.
The Korean woman noticed D sitting there, said something to the Mexican mother, and crossed the lawn and the driveway until she was right in front of Big Danny's porch. "Excuse me, my name is Michelle Pak. Are you part of the Hunter family?"
D introduced himself as Big Danny's grandson.
"Oh, please accept my deepest condolences. My family knew your grandfather very well. They owned stores in the same area that he did. My mother and father both spoke very highly of him."
"That's nice," D said. "He was a good man."
"Can I give you my card?"
"Okay," he said as she walked up to the porch. One side of her card said, Pak City Real Estate, with K-Pak Groceries on the other.
"You are busy," D said.
"Family business, you know," she responded, seeming both embarrassed and proud.
Good timing, D thought. And kinda thick. "You're interested in this place?"
"Well," she said, "whenever you're ready, please let me know. Again, my condolences."
D watched her walk off and then shouted, "Hey, Michelle, what are the names of our new neighbors?"
"Pedro and Miriam Fuentes."
"Thanks," he said as she entered the house next door.
The Central American movers were in the homestretch and D watched two of the Fuentes boys struggling to carry an accordion up the walkway.
Walli stuck his head out of the door. "Ma wants you to come inside and say a few words."
D frowned. "That's really not my thing, Walli. She knows that."
"Nothing spiritual or anything, D. She just wants you to get these people to leave. She really wants to get some sleep."
"Kicking people out a place," D said as he stood up, "that I can do."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WESTSIDE CONNECTION TO DOWNTOWN
D, Walli, and Red Dawg sat inside the sneaker shop with bottles of Tecate, sipping and talking. D had stopped by in hopes of rebuilding his relationship with Red Dawg and to see how the hunt for Teo Garcia's head was going. Walli was there, helping to organize the shelves after school, so D didn't get into any of Red Dawg's theories. Instead the conversation shifted onto seemingly neutral ground—hip hop. But no parlay about MCs was ever without drama.
"It's all about flow for me," D said. "People focus on the accent, but the MCs I respect have great flow. I feel like Snoop was the first West Coast MC to really flow. When I found out he was a serious R&B fan it made sense. He was really musical even when he was talking about cappin' a fool. Unfadeable / so please don't try to fade this."
"So Snoop's in your top five?" Walli asked.
"Yeah," D said, "if push came to shove he'd be right there. What's your top five?"
Walli said, "Lil Wayne. Tupac. Kendrick. Rick Ross. Drake, I guess."
"Drake?" D said incredulously. "I hate Drake, though I did like ‘Hotline Bling.'"
Red Dawg said, "I respect Drake. He has some bars. But he's always whining about some bitch he got or some bitch he wants or some bitch he needs. I mean, damn, nigga, get a new topic."
"I don't mind that," D said. "After all, rappers have been getting paid off lyrical murder for years. I mean, they perfected that out here. But what I can't stand is Drake's voice. You can talk about women all day and all night, but his voice just irritates me. And when he puts that Auto-Tune on it—ahhh."
"Everyone does that," Walli said. "I'm used to it."
"But Drake uses it to sing," D said.
"You call that singing?" Red Dawg scoffed.
"It's what passes for R&B these days," D complained. "MCs sing very simple melodies. It's what my man Night is up against. People get used to Drake singing his three Auto-Tune notes. People today don't even know how to act when someone can actually sing. It's like he's from another planet . . . Walli, do you care about Night?"
"I mean, he sounds okay. He doesn't really put out music anymore, does he?"
"Not often enough."
"He's your friend and all," Red Dawg said, "so I know he's paying a bill or two for you, but Night don't mean shit. Not anymore. Not for years. By the way, you didn't ask me my top five."
"You feel left out?"
"Shit, D, my list is more legit than this kid's list."
"How's that?" Walli asked.
"Cause I was up on the rap game before you were born, and I actually rocked a mic or two. You got Drake in your top five. That shows me you haven't listened enough to know the real deal. Plus you're from LA, but the only local MC you got reppin' your city is Lamar. I got Cube number one. Fatlip of the Pharcayde. MC Ren, who is the most underrated dude to come out of LA. The Game, who, to me, is the real Kendrick Lamar, and Mack motherfucking 10."
D nearly fell out of his seat. "Mack 10? C'mon, man. I love that you shouted out Ren. ‘If It Ain't Ruff' is a dope track. But Mack 10? You might as well have said Above the Law."
"They're in my top ten," Red Dawg countered.
"That's crazy. Too much Cali love. Walli, do you even know who Mack 10 is?"
"Not really."
"See, D, that's why his list is so weak. He don't know his LA legacy."
"Mack 10?" D said. "Mack 10 isn't even on Mack 10's list. People who really love Ice Cube try to forget he was even in the Westside Connection. Mack 10 is to Ice Cube as Memphis Bleek is to Jay-Z. In other words—what the fuck!"
"Who is Memphis Bleek?" Walli asked.
"Don't worry," D said to him. "He's an MC Jay-Z tried to make a star. But it didn't happen. Look him up if you like, but don't expect much."
"Walli, you need to get up on the Westside Connection," Red Dawg said. "That's real LA hip hop." His cell then rang out with the beat from the Game's "Hate It or Love It." "Time to roll. Walli and I gotta make a run. D, you wanna come? We could use your back."
"Yeah? What kind of run?"
"Downtown," Red Dawg said. "Way downtown."
Red Dawg's van was tricked out with a multicolored mural of Aztec warriors and African tribesmen shaking hands and looking fierce, which made his ride the definition of not inconspicuous.
As they started off, Red Dawg plugged in some LA hip hop. He pushed a couple of buttons and the sound of the Westside Connection's "Bow Down" filled the car. "It's hittin', right?" Red Dawg said. He began to rhyme along: "Don't fuck with my stack / the gage is racked / about to drop the bomb / I am the motherfucking don."
"Is this really the first time Red Dawg has shared the glories of the Westside Connection with you?" D asked Walli.
"He's played them before, but I think having you here has hyped him up."
"I don't appreciate you two talking like I'm not here. I mean, this is classic shit." And with that, Red Dawg turned the music up higher and began rhyming along again: "The Westside connects with me and South Central / And a drag from the zigzag can't fuck with the Philly's."
* * *
Red Dawg drove east on 3rd Street through the heart of Koreatown and then Pico-Union, where business signs appeared in English, Spanish, and Korean. Next they moved past the Staples Center where fans in red and blue were heading to a late-season Clippers game while a few blocks away a self-consciously hip clientele entered the Ace Hotel. When the new condos and gentrified blocks fell away, the car entered Skid Row, and the grim reality of sunbaked, sad-eyed men.
Red Dawg made a left on San Julian Street and guided the car through an alley, stopping next to a battered green door
. He sent a text, then said, "Hear how good this is," as he replayed "Bow Down" for the fifth time on their trip.
"Please turn it off," Walli said.
Red Dawg just chuckled in response.
Then a frail middle-aged Asian man in a gray shirt stepped through the green door. He observed them while pulling on his cigarette like a blunt. He nodded at Red and then went back inside, leaving the door unlocked.
"Let's go," Red Dawg said.
D followed Walli and Red through the door and into a storeroom lined from floor to ceiling with boxes. Another skinny Asian man stood next to a handcart piled to his shoulder with boxes that read, Nike, Adidas, Converse.
At Red Dawg's request, D pushed the cart out the door while he stayed inside. D and Walli stacked shoe boxes into the trunk and, once that was filled, slid what remained in the backseat.
"How often do you do this?" D asked.
"Depends on how the merchandise is moving," Walli replied, sounding like a veteran retailer.
"Is this one of Big Danny's contacts?"
"I think so. When Red Dawg said he wanted to sell sneakers I know Granddad helped him get it going."
D rolled the cart back into the storeroom and saw Red Dawg and the first Asian man sitting at a table, poring over images of sneakers and talking. Beyond the storeroom he heard a K-pop female vocal group over the speakers. A thirtysomething Asian woman wearing reading glasses surveyed a spreadsheet on her laptop and tapped a foot to the electroboogie beat.
"Let's roll," Red Dawg said, and D followed him out, giving a respectful head nod to the man at the table.
"How's about some Korean barbecue?" Red Dawg asked. "My treat."
"Sounds good," D said.
"But no more Westside Connection," Walli said.
"So what you want to hear?"
"Dâm-Funk."
"Who the hell is that?"
"He's an LA musician," D replied. "He's been playing on the underground scene here for a while. Did an album with Snoop a couple years ago."
"He does a party here called Funkmosphere," Walli added.
"If you can find his music, we'll play that shit," Red Dawg said.
As Walli leaned into the front of the car to manipulate the Internet radio, D said, "So, Red Dawg, this is how you stay in business? Moving counterfeit kicks?"
"I used to buy from the Chinese, but now the Koreans give me a better price, plus they're nicer to deal with."
"My grandpa hook you up?"
"You know Big Danny had serious connects with the Koreans. When I felt like the Chinese were jerking me on price, he hooked me up through some woman he knew."
"Wasn't he killed after leaving a Korean grocery?"
"Yeah," Red Dawg said quickly. "Someone followed him outta that store. I feel that. But believe me, them Koreans loved Big Danny. It was Teo Garcia who did the deed."
Walli located an electrofunk jam from the 7 Days of Funk EP that Dâm-Funk and Snoop Dogg had released, and the spacey sound filled the car. Red Dawg shifted in his seat. D and Walli traded amused looks.
After about thirty seconds, Red Dawg asked, "You wanna know what I think?"
"No," Walli said, then laughed along with D, who savored the small moment of bonding with his young cousin.
They parked in the back of the sneaker store and began unloading Red Dawg's illegal cargo. It was sundown in LA, the sky a pastel painting of blue and purple. When they were finished, D asked for the keys to Big Danny's grocery store.
"What?" Red Dawg said. "You need some milk?"
"When I came by before I just wanted to help clean up. Now I want to take a closer look around."
"What for? I told you who did it."
Walli came over and stood beside Red Dawg, his placement in the room communicating where his loyalties lay.
"Do we have a problem?" D asked. "I can get the keys from my aunt if I have to, though then I'd really start wondering why you don't want me in there alone."
Red Dawg pulled out his key ring, fiddled with it a bit, and removed three large keys. He placed them roughly in the palm of D's hand. "Have a good time, grandson."
"You want me to come inside with you?" It was Walli.
D shook his head. "I remember where the alarm is."
"The code is 424242," Walli said.
* * *
At the grocery store Red Dawg and Walli stood behind D, Red Dawg with his arms folded Run-DMC style, while D unlocked the door. He nodded toward the window where, in black and gray paint, the number 18 had been sprayed over the words Big Danny's. D rubbed the numbers with his fingertip, which caused them to smear. Still fresh.
"Okay," D said to Red Dawg, "what's it mean?"
"The 18th Street Gang. A Central American posse from, I think, El Salvador. They're rivals with the Mexican mafia. I guess they wanna expand."
"Why would they put this on Big Danny's window?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"And that's it? That's all you got?"
"You got a smartphone," Red Dawg said. "Google them. I got some kicks to sell."
Walli looked at his cousin, shrugged, and walked away.
D turned on the lights and walked down the center aisle by himself, past the counter and into the back room, where he switched off the alarm. The air in the back was heavy and full of dust. D sneezed and then sat down behind his grandfather's desk. Before searching around he felt compelled to find out more about the 18th Street Gang. He spent fifteen minutes on Google and YouTube, but none of this new information made him happy. Also known as Calle 18, they were a transnational criminal organization that started in the Rampart area of Los Angeles and had tentacles in every kind of violent and illegal activity under the sun. Extortion was one of their major businesses. Had his grandfather run afoul of them? Had they killed him because he was somehow in their way?
D wanted Big Danny to be a benign Robin Hood. But was his loan-sharking just a cover for meaner deeds and darker alliances? Why else would a seventy-year-old man get gatted like a rap star?
Tacked to a corkboard above Big Danny's desk were fading Polaroids of he and his late wife, a shot of D's father as a little boy in a Dodgers cap, and photo from a Leimert Park barbecue. There was a framed photo of Big Danny with all four of his grandsons taken in front of a Christmas tree in the family's Brooklyn housing project living room. Rah, Jah, Matty, and D (then known to everyone by his given name, Dervin) surrounded Big Danny. Everyone in the photo was now dead—except D.
In the top drawers were the bric-a-brac of precomputer retail: ledger books, vendor brochures for signage and refrigerators, business cards, Bic pens, #2 pencils, W-2 forms, business certificates from LA County, takeout Thai food menus, a pocket calculator, and an LA Lakers calendar from 2009.
In a lower drawer D found a green lockbox. There was no key nearby but D was able to pick it with a credit card. Inside was a Beretta. He popped out the bullet from the chamber and unloaded the clip, finding three more bullets inside. Underneath the gun he found a firearms license and below it the deeds to Big Danny's home, the grocery store, and Heaven's Gate.
At the bottom of the lockbox was another Polaroid. Big Danny sat with one arm around a comely Korean woman and the other hand holding a forkful of kimchi. She had straight black hair, a round face, small full lips, and big, shrewd eyes behind square, businesslike glasses. She smiled demurely at the camera. The woman's face seemed familiar but D couldn't quite conjure a name or a context. The date stamp on the back read, April 28, 1992.
D pocketed the gun and the photo, placing everything else back in the lockbox, which he held under his arm as he walked back toward the front door. Why was that photo under the gun? Who was this woman? Did he really know a damn thing about Big Danny Hunter?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BREAK-IN AT BIG DANNY'S
D heard the sound of feet moving quietly behind Big Danny's house. He was lying on the living room sofa in the dark, almost asleep. His body tensed as he rolled off the sofa and cr
awled quickly into the kitchen. There were whispers outside the back door. In the darkness, he felt around for the drawer where Aunt Sheryl kept the knives. The cabinets had been painted over enough times so that, despite D's care, they didn't open smoothly, rattling silverware as the back door cracked open. Instead of a knife, D found himself with a large spoon in his hand.
Light from the moon illuminated the intruder's face. He was twentyish and Latino with a small tat on his right cheek and a mustache. When he opened the back door D jammed the point of the spoon into the intruder's neck. The man's tongue popped out and his eyes closed. D smelled alcohol on the man's breath when he cracked him with a left hook to his nose.
The guy stumbled backward into a second intruder, and they both dropped onto the grass behind the house. D leaped out the door, landing with both knees onto the chest of the first man. Boozy air escaped his lungs.
The second intruder rolled a few feet away and scrambled to his feet. He was darker than his partner, much slimmer, and had a young man's sneer. D noticed the intruder's NASCAR T-shirt as he reached behind his back. D ran at him, hoping he'd get flustered. But this guy was coolheaded, pulling out his Glock and aiming at D's chest.
D yelled at the top of his lungs to make the man hesitate just long enough so that he could tackle him, knocking the gun and the would-be shooter to the grass. Once he had him down, D pounded his face till his knuckles turned bloody.
"D!" It was his cousin. "Shit!"
"Call the cops!"
"Ma is doing that!"
D used his T-shirt to pick up the Glock and slip it in his underwear band. He found a Beretta, masking tape, and plastic police handcuffs on the first man. He was a few years older than his crime companion, and beefy in all the wrong places. These were not the most fearsome gangbangers D had ever seen. Not even close.
* * *
Twenty minutes later D was talking to an African American patrolman named Crowder. "The Mexican gangs have been pushing black folks out of our neighborhoods for a while now. They try to scare folks into selling cheap. Word is that some members of Calle 18 are buying up property out here. I think those two might be down with them."
To Funk and Die in LA Page 7
