Kind of Blue (38 page)

“Right or left arm?” I asked.

He patted his right arm.

“Did you see anything else interesting while you were there or while you were walking back?”

“Naw. I was movin’ fast. That all I know. Now can you come up with some kind of
re
-ward for me?”

“For what?”

He scratched the side of his head with a palm. “I hear about people who tell po-lice about crime activities get some
re
-ward.”

“If what you tell us leads to an arrest, we might be able to come up with something for you.”

We leaned against my car and Pinson said, “You think he’s holding out on us?”

“I think he’s too stupid to hold out on us.”

“What do you make of his story?”

I stretched, my back sore from sitting on the plastic milk crate. “What he said surprised the hell out of me. That’s a Crip ’hood.”

“Surprised me, too. There’s a dozen Crip sets crisscrossing these streets.”

“That’s why, when I first caught the case, I was chasing Crips.”

“I would’ve, too.”

“It’s been years since I worked the South End. What Blood set would be poaching in this ‘hood?”

“Let’s see,” Pinson said, stroking his chin. “A couple miles north are where the Back Hood Bloods hang. That would be my guess. They’re
the closest Blood set to this ’hood. And they’ve been known to put in some work around here.”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“What’s up?

“Fuqua was a Back Hood Blood.”

“So?”

“That’s pretty fucking strange.”

“What’s strange about it?”

“My last two cases, I been running into a lot of Back Hoods.”

“That’s not so strange. Every year, there’re a few dozen Back Hood hits down here. So if you’re catching cases, you’re going to run into Back Hood suspects.”

As I drove back to the Southeast station, I said, “So now that we know it was a Blood—and probably a Back Hood—any ideas who it is?”

Pinson laughed. “That’s a popular fucking tat. Might take me a few days to track the clown down.” He checked his watch. “Gotta be at Jordan Downs in an hour. We’re working a task force at the projects. It’s going to go late and into tomorrow. My weekend’s shot. But I might be able to put in some time Monday or Tuesday, before my shift starts.”

The case had been stalled for a year. I finally felt like I had gained some traction. I didn’t want to wait.

I grabbed a Styrofoam cup in the watch commander’s office, poured a cup of coffee, and found an empty desk in the corner of the Southeast squad room. I was still stunned by the discovery that the shooter What A Nose IDed was probably in the same gang as Fuqua. But I couldn’t get a handle on why that was significant. Wegland had set up Fuqua, who was a Back Hood. And Latisha had probably been killed by a Back Hood. But what did that mean? I had no idea.

I sat up and logged on to the computer. Maybe Pinson was right. If you dig into homicides with South Central connections, there’s a decent chance Back Hood Bloods will be involved.

I set my cup on the desk, and signed onto Cal-Gangs. When I worked South Bureau Homicide, I discovered that the best source of information often was the members’ girlfriends. Detectives had the most leverage over them because they had the most to lose—their children. So I searched for associates of the Back Hoods. I jotted down the addresses of a half dozen girlfriends—they could be ex-girlfriends by now—and pulled out of the station in the early afternoon. I headed north on Broadway, east on Slauson, hung a few quick lefts, drove down a scruffy street pocked with potholes, and pulled up in front of a dingy gray clapboard house. Iron bars covered the windows, and instead of a front lawn there was an oily patch of dirt with an old Chevy truck in the center, its front wheels missing. I walked around the property, but could see no toys, tricycles, balls, or any other evidence of children.

I returned to my car and drove east to Watts, where the streets grew narrower, the houses more decrepit, the apartments more rundown, the commercial thoroughfares more depressed. I passed a few low-slung crumbling housing projects, and cut down a bleak, barren street—without a single lawn, tree, or bush—lined with two-story, rickety apartment buildings. I stopped in front of one with a large canvas
We Take Section
8
banner tacked just below the buckled roof. Fortunately, the iron security doors were open, and I walked into the chipped asphalt courtyard. In front of apartment B there was a miniature rubber football and an empty Pampers box.

I pounded on the door with the heel of my hand. Pausing, I heard rustling inside. I pounded a few more times, until I heard a faint voice: “Who is it?”

“LAPD! Open up! Now!”

A chubby black woman wearing a stained Lakers T-shirt and panties slowly opened the door. Her large brass hoop earrings were turning green along the edges. I badged her and pushed my way inside. The room was spare with just a few metal folding chairs, a splintered wooden breakfast room table, and a half dozen broken toys. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink and pizza boxes littered the counter.

She stared at me sullenly. “What you want?”

I pointed to a chair and said, “Sit down.”

I looked inside the single bedroom. Two young children were sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor next to another mattress covered with a tangle of mismatched blankets. I walked around the living room, opened the drawers to a metal cabinet, and riffled through the papers and boxes. In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator and the freezer. Beside the stove, caked with food stains, I crouched, opened a cabinet, pulled out a metal pot, and opened the top. I removed a crushed Dr. Pepper can with holes poked in the charred top that was dusted with a film of ashes.

I set the can on the kitchen counter. “This could be a real problem for you.”

“That ain’t mine,” she said, shaking her head and waving her hand. “I never seen it before.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“One of my silly ass girlfriends probably came in here while I was sleepin’ and fired up.”

I stared at her skeptically.

“I’m not lyin,” she said, defiant now.

I dragged one of the metal chairs across the stained carpeting and sat across from the woman. I crossed my legs and jiggled my foot.

The woman sighed. “All right now. What you want?”

“I don’t have time to screw around, so I’m going to get right to it.” I pointed to the makeshift pipe. “If that tests positive for cocaine, you know that I can call Child Protective Services and they’ll take your kids.”

Her shoulders sagged and her chin dropped to her chest. “I can’t believe this shit.”

“Believe it.”

“Why you mess wit me?”

“Because I need information.”

“Why you think I got information.”

“You may not have it, but you’re going to get it.”

“How can I get something I don’t know about when—”

I raised a forefinger and the woman stopped in mid-sentence. “Listen to me. I need you to find out something for me. And I need it by tonight.”

“But—”

I raised my finger again, silencing the woman. “Just listen. There’s a Back Hood Blood who’s got a tattoo on his right arm with a
C
and a
K
with the
C
crossed out. I need you to identify him for me.”

“Might be a few with that kind of tat.”

“I’ve got one other way for you to pick him out. He held up a Korean grocer last year and killed him.”

“Hold on now.” She raised her hands above her head and shook them, like she was in the grip of divine inspiration. “This getting too heavy for me.”

“Smoking crack with your kids in the house is too heavy for
me
. Now this is what I want you to do. Get on the phone this afternoon, or visit some friends, or do whatever you need to do. But by seven, I’m coming back here and I expect you to have the information for me. If you do and if your information’s solid, I’ll give you two hundred bucks. If you don’t have anything for me, or if your information doesn’t pan out, or if you’re bullshitting me, I’ll call a social worker I know and he’ll toss your kids in a county shelter.”

“Why you think I know anything about those Bloods?”

“Because a Back Hood Blood by the name of Curtis Pemberton listed your address several times on his arrest reports.”

“I ain’t seen that fool in a year.”

“I want that information.” I checked my watch. “You’ve got plenty of time to get it. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Why only two hundred?”

“Because that’s the maximum I can get from the ATM machine. Any other questions?”

She started to sniffle. Her lower lip trembled and her eyes welled up with tears. “Why you do me like this? Say you gonna take my kids. That ain’t right. Why you so cold?”

I walked across the room, said, “Seven o’clock,” and slammed the door.

My stomach was rumbling and I had a few hours to kill, so I blasted north on the Harbor Freeway, exited at downtown, and parked in front of a Chinese market on North Broadway. I walked up a staircase to Pho 79, my favorite Vietnamese noodle shop. The décor was modest and utilitarian—Formica tables, gray carpeting, and paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling—but the food was excellent. I squeezed through the packed restaurant and found a table in the back. I ordered a large bowl of pho—aromatic meat broth with strips of charred beef, laced with onions and thick with rice noodles—which was served with a plate piled high with bean sprouts, stalks of Vietnamese basil, and slices of hot chilies, which I dumped into the bowl. Slurping the noodles and sipping the broth, I thought about that woman from Watts, and how I’d threatened to take her children. Then I thought about Latisha, her arms around my waist, whispering, “You’re my protector.” Fuck that woman from Watts. If I had to jam up and threaten every female associate of the Back Hood Bloods to get what I wanted, I would.

I left the restaurant, spent a few hours back at my desk, and returned to Watts at dusk. At seven fifteen, I knocked on the woman’s front door. But there was no answer. I pounded. Still, no answer. Finally, I pressed my ear against the door. Silence. I walked around the side of the apartment and squinted through the window. The woman and her kids were gone.

“Damn that bitch!” I muttered to myself.

I decided to return to the squad room, run her, and see if I could find any other addresses from her arrest reports. I walked back to my car, climbed inside, and smacked my thigh in frustration. She’ll probably put the word out that I was looking for the shooter. What if the shooter
is in the wind now, too? I realized that I just lost the element of surprise. What kind of leverage would I have now? How would I force any of the gangsters to talk?

My reverie of self-recrimination was interrupted by a banging on the passenger door. I saw the woman’s face, pressed to the window.

Relieved, I followed her into the house. She sat in one of the metal chairs; I remained standing.

“If I give you what you want, how you gonna p’otect me?” she asked.

“I’ll put the word out that I got the information from a jailhouse snitch.”

She looked up at me, eyes hooded, smiling ruefully. “What’s the biggest problem a black woman have?”

“I don’t know,” I said impatiently.

“A black
man
,” she said, tapping her improbably long pink fingernails on the metal chair. “If I hadn’t got wit P-Rock, I wouldn’t be in this predic-o-ment. You feel me?”

“Who’s P-Rock?”

“Curtis Pemberton. When I saw that he hard with them Back Hood fools, I shoulda run. Instead I got wit him. Got one of his babies too. Somehow, you know I be with him. I guess you got yo record keepin’. So you know where I stay. You come after me to get what you can get.”

“Something like that,” I said. “So what do you have for me?”

“Okay now. It like this. They a nigga, name of Rip. He a youngster. He been puttin’ a lot of work in to get his respect. I never met the dude, but my girlfriend say he either got that tat you describin’ or he know who has. He a very active Back Hood. He know both the youngsters and the O.G.s.”

“I asked you to identify the guy with the tattoo. I didn’t ask you to identify someone who
may
have the tattoo or may
know
the guy with the tattoo.”

“You gimme short notice. That the best I got.”

“What do you know about Rip?”

She pursed her lips. “My girlfriend say he a bonehead. All balls, no brains.”

“What does he do?”

“My friend say he bang, sometime he slang.”

“What does he sell?”

“A little rock, a little weed.”

“What’s Rip’s real name?”

“Don’ know.”

“What’s his address?”

“Don’ know.”

“What’s he look like?”

“My friend say he a little dude. Kind of on the frail side.”

As I walked toward the door, the woman called out. “Ain’ you gonna make it right?”

“What do you mean?”

She rubbed her index and middle finger against her thumb.

“If Rip is the guy with the tat, then you’ll get your money.”

From my car, I called a clerk at PAB, and she traced Rip’s name through Cal-Gangs: Orlando Houston, age nineteen. I called an after-hours number for state parole in Sacramento and jotted down some background on Houston and his latest address. For the past six months, since he was released from a prison near the Oregon border for assault with a deadly weapon, Orlando had stayed with his mother, who, fortunately, lived in South Central, only a few miles away. I cruised by the house, on a street of modest, but well-kept clapboard bungalows with small front lawns and wooden porches.

To avoid spooking Orlando, I parked down the street and walked up the sidewalk. When I passed a preschooler peddling a tricycle, the kid announced in a taunting, singsong voice: “Here come the
po
-lice, here come the
po
-lice.”

I quickly hustled down the sidewalk and bounded up the front steps to Orlando’s mother’s house. Standing on the front porch, I could hear rap blaring from the radio. I rang the bell.