I called Sal. He had no news on my shooting.
I cleaned up, dressed in black, and headed out. In fifteen minutes, me and my 1995 Lexus SC400 were motoring down the Harbor Freeway. My coupe was in need of a paint job—had once been bright gold, was pale beige now—and some minor bodywork. When someone asked me why I didn’t get it fixed and painted, I usually replied that I didn’t want my car looking too tempting considering the neighborhoods I toured. A more accurate answer would have been that I couldn’t afford it.
If the police couldn’t find out who shot me, then I would. I couldn’t stand knowing that whoever shot me may be planning to come back. I had done too many stories about gang members wounded and in the hospital when they got a second “visit.” Often that visitor had a knife.
I had a knife and a gun, too. A .380 Beretta Model 84, thirteen shots. Nice gun, for a gun. I almost never wore it on the job for a few reasons. First, it was illegal for me to carry a weapon. Second, if I had it, I might use it and hurt someone. Third, it was much more exciting to go into a dangerous neighborhood unarmed. I did carry it, long before I was a reporter, during the 1992 riots, or “uprising” at it was known on the Southside.
I wasn’t going to take the gun or the knife this time. Last thing I needed was to get pulled over with a gun or even a knife. The knife I had was illegal and, no, it was not a switchblade. I wanted to hurt this guy, but more than that, I wanted to find out why he shot me. The way he came at me was not random.
My first stop would be Jordan Downs, domain of the Grape Street Crips, the color purple. I didn’t think the shooter was a for-real Grape, just had the scarf, but I had to start somewhere and at least I could eliminate them for sure. Sal and Johnny had ruled them out, but they hadn’t ruled anybody in. Maybe someone I knew, and I knew a few, could point me.
My first stop would be the home of a seventy-year-old woman, Betty Day, the godmother of Jordan Downs. Betty lived on Grape Street in a house three blocks from the projects. I’d known Betty for more than a decade and I know she don’t take shit from anyone. She’d call the mayor and the chief of police a motherfucker in a heartbeat if she thought they were bullshitting. I’d seen her do it, twice.
Part of the respect she gets, aside for knowing everyone and having an open-door policy, was that her son, “Honcho,” was once the shot caller for Grape Street. The feds eventually got to him, and he did twelve years at Marion in Illinois, one of the toughest federal joints. He was recently paroled, but trying to stay out of the old life.
“Come on in, you crazy black Armenian. How you feeling, Mike? I knew when I heard about you on the news, you was gonna be fine. But, boy, you had me a tad worried.”
I hugged Betty and entered her neat, small three-bedroom home. Before I could even say a word, she was reaching for a bottle of Beefeater gin. “Betty, none for me. How you do?”
“I’m fine. Come on. Have one to celebrate your health.”
We did. Betty wasn’t a big drinker, but if she could find a reason to toast, she was all there. After some bullshitting, I got down to it.
“You know the shooter, my shooter, he had on a purple rag around his head.”
“Negro, what you tryin’ to say?”
“Betty, I’m just telling you what he was wearing.”
I described him as best I could, which was rather vague, the key point being he was older, like I said, maybe forty-five, fifty. Betty dialed her cell.
“Wayne, where you at? Come over the house.” She took a sip. “You know Sal and Johnny already been here.”
Ten minutes later, Honcho was having a gin on the rocks with us. I had known him before the feds got to him, when he ruled the crack empire in Jordan Downs. The FBI once called him the “Godfather of Watts.” He once had a house in Las Vegas and a Wilshire Boulevard condo, but he lived mainly in the projects. He was forty-nine years old, five foot nine, and solid as Half Dome.
“Man, Lyons, whoever shot you, if he was anywhere between thirty and sixty, he was not from Grape. I can tell you that for a fact.”
“Have you heard anything? Anything at all about my shooting?”
“Not a word of fact. Just guesses.”
“Like what?”
“Eighty-Nine Family.”
“Why Eighty-Nine?”
“I might been locked up, but I kept up, you feel me? I had heard about that, ugh, what you call it, that uh, not a biography, a … a …”
“A what?”
“You know when you write about someone and their life.”
“A profile,” Betty cut in.
“Yeah, yeah, a profile. That profile you did on Big Evil.”
“Evil loved that story,” I said.
Betty Day burst into laughter. “Only you, Mike. Only you could write a story Big Evil would like.” She took a healthy sip. So did I.
“I don’t know, man,” said Honcho. “Then maybe it was someone who didn’t like the story. Maybe one of Eighty-Nine rivals. Got pissed he got all the press. Became a legend.”
A few minutes later I left, having gotten no closer to a suspect than I was before I got here. The only thing I did, besides get a gin buzz, was rule out one of the largest gangs in the city, something LaBarbera and Hart had already done.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the Times’s lobby at 2nd and Spring Streets for the first time since my shooting. No longer was entering though the impressive Globe Lobby on First Street an option for employees or guests. Budget cuts. A sign of the times, of the Times.
I took the stairs to the third floor, the editorial heart of the paper. I didn’t want to chance being stuck in an elevator with editor Harriet Tinder or her kiss-ass bitch boy Ted Doot. As I strolled down the seventy-yard-long corridor that led to the newsroom, the hallway where I would sometimes sprint to catch a breaking story, I was glad no one was in sight. I reached the end of the corridor and took a deep breath as I stood near the entrance to the newsroom. I hate to admit it, but I was nervous, a feeling rare to me. I could confront five stranger Bounty Hunter Bloods in a midnight parking lot so tough it was called the Folsom Lot and be calmer than I was right then. I took a step back and thought it wasn’t too late to back off. No one had seen me.
But damn, the two people in the whole building I least wanted to see were now heading toward me, face-to-face like a game of car chicken in a James Dean movie, like medieval lancers on horseback heading toward each other in slow motion. Tinder and Doot.
There were several doors along the long corridor, two leading to what they call Baja Metro, one to the photo lab, one to the test kitchen. I took the photo lab door more than any other reporter at the paper. Two of my best friends at the paper were photojournalists, Carolyn Cole and Clarence Williams, both Pulitzer Prize winners.
Forty yards away now. But, damn if I was gonna meek out and take the photo door now. And damn if I was gonna speak first when I came upon these two dimwits and say something pleasant like, “How you doing, Harriet, Ted.”
Fuck that.
Thirty yards to go. Our eyes were locked on each other. At twenty yards, Tinder turned to Doot and started some conversation, hopefully meant to avoid contact with me.
At ten, they were back to looking at me. At five yards and closing fast, Doot voiced a robotic, “Hey, there.” And Tinder grunted something barely audible. No idea what the sound was intended to be.
I looked right in their eyes but didn’t say a word and walked right on by. That’s not easy to do for me.
As I neared the entrance to Metro, I got down on one knee to retie my shoe when I heard an, “Oh, my God.”
I looked up to see Carly Engstrom, my pretty Korean/Swedish former pod mate. “Michael!” She hugged me hard. I pulled away in slight pain. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s so good to see you here. I missed you.”
“Damn, Carly, you’re looking fine. Hey, I’m going to the Redwood. Get a crew and meet me there. I wanna get out of here. Can you meet me?”
“You know it, honey.”
>
After seeing Carly, knowing she’d alert the people I wanted to see, I decided I didn’t need to go into Metro. I left the building and walked toward the Redwood, passing the 2nd Street sidewalk where just a few weeks earlier I lay leaking onto the grimy concrete. I looked down on that spot I was pretty sure was it, but didn’t even break stride.
My cell phone rang. It was Morty Goldstein.
“Mike, there’s some kind of break in your case.”
“What kind of break? They found who shot me?”
“I don’t know. They are being super tight-lipped about it. I called everybody, and they are not giving up anything.”
“That’s strange. I wonder why Sal or Johnny haven’t called.”
“All they are saying is the Times and Lyons are going to look like shit.”
“The Times and me are gonna look like shit?”
“That’s what the chief told me, and he added—and this is a quote—‘Your boy Lyons is through.’”
“What? What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what he said. There’s a news conference coming up. I’m heading there now.”
“All right. Thanks, Morty.”
As I entered the warming darkness of the Redwood, I heard the greeting. “Hit ’n’ Run!”
In all the years I’ve been coming to the Redwood, I had never seen Danny come from behind the shelter of his bar unless it was time for him to leave. Never, until today. Danny saw me, yelled out his greeting, and quickly walked around the bar and up to me and firmly shook my hand.
“How the hell are you, Michael? Jesus, you had us worried out of our minds.”
“I’m feeling all right, all things considered,” I said. “But, Danny, I’m still Jack around here, ain’t I?”
“Of course, of course, Jack. Jesus Christ, Jack. I don’t think you know it, but Jack and I, I mean Sharky and I, we heard the shots and we came running out, like damn fools. We were the first to get to you. You don’t remember, but you looked up at us.”
“Nah, I don’t remember much. But, I sure could use a Jack. A big one.”
“You got it, Jack. And this one’s on me.”
The first sip of Tennessee sour mash made me wince as it often does. But, it quickly started to work its magic. By the time I finished the second drink, the mixture of blood and alcohol was getting right. I was feeling pretty good. I wasn’t overly concerned about what Goldstein had said about the chief saying I’d look like shit. He was just talkin’ shit.
The television stations started flooding the late afternoon screen with teasers. Channel 4 came in with “Big break in Times reporter shooting.” Channel 7 Eyewitness News announced, “Breaking News. Is there an arrest? LAPD to hold news conference on the crime against crime reporter.” I laughed and told Danny, “I think breaking news is when something is happening, not to announce that something will be happening.”
As Danny set my third JD before me, the front door creaked again and Carly Engstrom, Nona Yates, and my cousin Greg filed in. They ordered two martinis and a tonic water for Nona. They sat in a booth. I joined them, saddling up between Nona and Carly, whose white skirt glided up her leg as she sat in the booth. As when she was my pod mate, I made a feeble attempt not to look down. I was true to my girl, Francesca, never cheated once, but I looked. A lot.
The local news went “live” to the PAB. By now, the Redwood was packed, twelve people at the bar, another twenty at booths and stand-up tables. Danny turned up the volume. My table grew silent. Other tables followed suit. Soon, the only sound in the old saloon was that of ice cracking.
Chief Miller came to the microphone surrounded by his brass, Kuwahara and Tatreau and Detectives LaBarbera and Hart who looked uncomfortable.
“As you know,” Miller began, “Los Angeles Times reporter Michael Lyons was shot nearly three weeks ago while walking along 2nd Street near Broadway. I’m glad to inform those of you who don’t know, Lyons has been released from the hospital and is said to be doing very well.”
Miller continued. “As I’m sure many of you know, the Times has been relentless in their criticism of the Los Angeles Police Department, the finest police department in the world. They questioned our ability to solve crimes. They brought an element of fear to the downtown area.”
“What’s his point?” said Greg.
I was beginning to squirm. I took a swig of the whiskey and wished I had another full glass. Too bad we weren’t at the bar. I could just nod at Danny then look at my glass.
Miller went on. “During the course of our exhaustive investigation, our detectives have come up with a striking piece of this puzzle. It is a taped conversation between Michael Lyons and a known gang member. We cannot at this time reveal the name of the gang member, but the tape is definitely the voice of Michael Lyons. Three of our lab technicians have verified that.”
“What is this?” I mumbled.
“I have the tape here and will play it. But first, I want to say that to protect the other person on the tape, his voice has been altered. Also, a couple short snippets of the tape have been edited out to protect that same individual. I have to warn the public and the media the tape does contain vulgar language, so bleep away if you want. We will play the tape momentarily.”
Then Miller went off script. “I want to say up front that this tape appears to indicate that Michael Lyons paid for and ordered his own shooting. Play the tape.”
In the bar there was a gasp. My body released a cold sweat. I grimaced in agony like the moment when I was shot. Everyone in the bar shot me a look.
The tape played. Closed captions of the conversation took up the screen with a small insert of a photo of me.
Unidentified altered voice of King Funeral: So, what’s the point? Getting shot is better than getting punked?
Lyons: Getting shot isn’t better than getting punked out if you die in the shooting. But, if you just get wounded, you know, wounded, but not left crippled, that has its benefits.
Funeral: How? You mean you can brag about it? That what you mean?
Lyons: In a way. I know it’s sick, but that’s just the way it is. Even in the Army or Marines in Iraq. Like the guy that gets shot, you know, shot not too badly, but shot, and then he returns to the unit. That guy? That guy gets respect. Instant respect. The other marines are envious of him. Damn, Smith got shot. He’s a man. He took the ultimate test and made it back. You see what I’m saying? Walked right up to death’s door, knocked, and came out all right. People envy that. That’s just the facts.
More of the tape played.
Funeral: Look, if you want, as a favor, I can have one of my boys shoot you.
They both laugh.
Lyons: For how much? Yeah, set it up. Little wounding. Not a graze. Something kind of serious. Like a shot in the side. So it can like, “Where did Mike get shot? Oh, the torso, man. Ah, man. He gonna make it? I don’t know, man. Took two in the torso.”
Funeral: Come back to work, big hero.
Chief Miller came back to the microphones. “That’s all we can release for now. But that’s an incredible tape. Just a reminder. On the tape Lyons is heard to say ‘two in the torso.’ Michael Lyons was shot two times in the torso. I’ll take a few questions.”
The scene exploded with reporters yelling questions. Even Howitzer Hal Hansen was drowned out.
At the Redwood, my table was silent. They all were looking at me. Even among this group, though no one said so, doubt was prying. Then Nona asked, “You were joking with that guy, right?”
“Of course, he was,” said Carly, rubbing my suddenly tight neck and shoulders. “Right?”
I finished off my drink. “I gotta go. This sucks.”
Nona kissed my cheek. Greg touched my arm. “I think maybe you should go back to the office and explain this. They’re gonna want to talk to you. It’s a big story. This is not good. Not good at all.”
“Yeah, Michael, you know Duke and Ted and Harriet are going to want to have a quote fro
m you and want to talk to you,” said Carly.
“I can’t go back there now. Plus, I had some drinks.”
“He’s right, Greg,” said Nona. “They’re going to sniff booze on him and that’s the last thing he needs.” The others agreed.
“Well, go home. Can you drive okay?” asked Greg.
“Want me to drive you home?” asked Carly.
“No. No. I’m okay, I need to go,” I managed. “This is surreal. I just got shot. I don’t have a clue by whom. He might come back and try to do it again for all I know, and now I got this bullshit to deal with. I gotta find that shooter if the cops can’t.”
“Not tonight, please,” Greg said. “Just go straight home or to Francesca’s, and I’ll call you. I’ll tell them I’ll get a quote from you for the story tomorrow. You have to say something.”
I stood up and said, “Good-bye.” I never said good-bye. I hated that word.
CHAPTER 17
Eddie Sims had four, maybe five, more people to shoot. This time he was gonna kill, not wound. Not let them live, as Lyons had. He’d take another shot at Lyons. This time kill him. But next on the to-do list was Terminal.
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