All Involved

by Ryan Gattis

  Someone asks him what kind of kid.

  “Korean kid. Glasses. Wearing a prep school blazer.”

  This creates a thoughtful pause in our crowd because it’s unexpected. It’s not the image any of us had in our heads when someone brings up a gun-toting teenager.

  I say, “What’d you end up doing?”

  “What could I do? I aimed right at him, sped up, and prayed he’d get out of the damn way.”

  “No other option there,” I say.

  “Did he?” Suzuki wants to know. “Get out of the way?”

  “Sure did,” the guy says and smiles.

  Right after that, another guy from 58s says they’ve had reports of a Mexican gangbanger committing various acts of arson all over the city and claiming each one by shouting out the number and then his name like he was keeping score and he wanted everybody to know.

  “Number twenty-one,” the guy says in an exaggerated Hispanic accent, “Puppet did it! Number twenty-six! Puppet did it!”

  The name on his uniform is Rodriguez, so he’s allowed to.

  After a few sighs of disbelief, Suzuki says, “Man, every single cholo gang has at least two Puppets! Don’t you just wish his name was easier to track down? Like, what if it were Spaghetti? How many gangbangers on earth could possibly be named Spaghetti?”

  Most everybody laughs because we know it’s true.

  After that, the mood gets somber because this engineer from 94s asks us if we heard about Miller. 94s, by the way, couldn’t even get out of their station because they took heavy fire from the surrounding neighborhood, and they might have stayed there all night if SWAT hadn’t come and shot the street up.

  “I heard Miller got hit, but I don’t know much more,” McPherson says.

  Even now, the details are sketchy but we get what’s currently known. On Wednesday night, Miller was driving a truck and he got shot in the neck and had a stroke. The shooter drove up alongside and popped him for no reason other than he was wearing a uniform and sitting in a truck, I guess. Miller’s been through surgery and he’s stable, but that’s all we know.

  I’ve met Miller a couple times and like him. He’s not like your typical AO, all bluster and swagger—basically the same as an LAPD motorcycle cop, except they ride ladders instead. Not Miller though, he’s mild-mannered. The worst part of it is, he just left 58s a couple months before for something on the Westside, something less wild, and then this happens.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Suzuki says.

  It’s unanimous. Every one of us is sorry to hear it, but we’re quiet about it. We don’t say we all hope he pulls through, but it’s obvious we do. It just goes unspoken. As I finish my oatmeal, conversation turns to bullets falling out of the sky.

  This is Suzuki’s cue to pass his bullet around, so I let it skip me and get up. I drop my bowl and spoon off in the mess tray set aside for dirty dishes, hit the pisser to wash the blood off my neck something thorough, and when I’m done, I wander over to the LAPD field command post on the other side of the depot, the back of my collar sitting wet and flush on my skin.

  8

  Over at the command post, I ask if I can borrow their cellular phone and a young police officer hands it to me. It’s got an extendable black antenna, a little readout screen, a gray body, white number buttons with a little green light on underneath that lights them, a few other buttons that I’m only partially sure of, and a square mouthpiece that would cover all the buttons if it wasn’t flipped down on a hinge. It’s a remarkable thing, completely cordless. I key in the number to the station house and press the green button that says “SND,” which I guess means send, and it must be, because it’s ringing.

  When Rogowski answers, I say, “You heard anything about Gutierrez?”

  “Surgery,” he says. “Just got out. His spine and neck are fine, but his jaw’s wired shut and they put a plate in it. Turns out it was dislocated and busted in two places.”

  “But he’ll be okay?” I catch a breath and hold it.

  “Yeah,” Rogowski says. “He’ll be eating through a straw for however many months, but he’ll be okay. You did good, I hear. Didn’t take any shit. The story goes you tore out of there so fast that the STL had no choice but to order everyone to follow you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, but when I exhale, something shifts inside me, because just now gravity is a little less heavy. I wonder where Rogowski got that information until it occurs to me the captain must’ve already called in first, probably while I was cleaning.

  “So, listen, his family has been told and they’re en route.” Rogowski is just trying to reassure me now. “It’s not fine, but it’s as fine as it’s going to get under the circumstances. You did good.”

  I don’t know that I need to hear anything else after that, but Rogowski laughs and changes the subject to something I’ve been secretly dreading. My mother has called every hour on the hour to see if I’m okay. I thank Rogowski, hang up, and call her. She picks up on one ring like she’s been waiting by the phone. She probably has been.

  She says, “Vhat are you doing, dušo?”

  Where anyone else would have w’s in English, my mother has v’s instead. She can’t help it. It’s the only way her tongue works. Dušo is just an expression of affection, like how someone might tack “sweetheart” on the end of something said to a loved one. By the way, this is the first question she asks me, anytime, for anything. Always, it’s this. To her, it means lots of things all at the same time, like where are you, how are you, and have you eaten?

  “I’m fine, Mama. I’m at a dispatch center in Chinatown. I just ate.”

  “Vhat did you eat?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “This is not a meal,” she says.

  To my mother, only something with two courses, one of them pasta, is a meal. In her world, if I have not eaten pasta, I have not eaten enough. It is not a battle worth fighting, so I change the subject. I ask her how she’s doing.

  “I stay in house. I do laundry.”

  My mother lies about many things—how much kruškovac she’s snuck, how many knives are hidden in her house, or how much she doesn’t hate her very dear friends—but she never lies about housework. She is doing the things she says she is, but she’s watching television while she does them, which means she’s watching news coverage, which means she’s worrying about me, and when she worries about me, she calls the station to check on me.

  Just to be clear, I say, “Which house?”

  I live three houses up the block from my mother and the house I grew up in, on West Twenty-First, between Cabrillo and Alma—the north side of the street, where you can see down into the port. Even so, my mother feels we are too far away from each other. My father passed this winter, heart attack. It was sudden. So any distance for my mother right now is too much distance.

  She says, “Yours. Is nicer.”

  She doesn’t mean that. She doesn’t think mine is nicer. I frequently regret giving my mother a key. She knows I don’t like her there alone when I’m away—reading my mail, poking through medicine cabinets, opening drawers, all of which she does—but it can’t be helped now. I’ll just have to yell at her later. I think she does it because it helps her feel closer to me, and it helps her be out of the house she shared with my father for thirty-seven-odd years. Once again, this is a battle not yet worth fighting. There is, however, one thing that still needs to be said.

  “Mama,” I say, “don’t call the station anymore.”

  “If I think of you, I call.”

  “Mama,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm even though she drives me completely crazy, “during an emergency situation, we need those lines open so people with actual emergencies can call.”

  “Vhen I don’t know vhere you are,” she says, “is emergency for me.”

  “Good-bye, Mama,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Dušo. Go eat. Eat real food this time. For me. Please. And also—”

 
I press the red End button on the phone and hand it back to the officer. He doesn’t say anything but he’s got a look on his face like, mothers—can’t live with them, can’t kill them. Najarian, his name is, which I think is probably Armenian, and if that’s the case, I figure he might understand. He’s wearing his blues the way LAPD do, with a triangle of their silly white undershirts visible between the collar ears. He’s young, early twenties maybe, and eager with his slicked black hair. I wonder what kind of work he does over there to draw this kind of detail during the riots.

  I notice a barrel of shotguns beside Najarian, butts up, like a flower display made only of stems, no blooms. There must be thirty in there. I think about all the bullets again, and I guess it’s just morbid curiosity, but I ask him how many people have been killed during the riots, if he has any idea.

  “Oh,” he says, “you got to see this. Come on.”

  I follow him away from the building, to a big tractor-trailer away from the line of ambulances, away from anything, really. It’s sitting on its own without a rig, which I guess in a bus depot isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but I notice this one’s a refrigerated trailer, and there’s something odd about it. It’s humming.

  “Open it up,” Najarian says.

  I’m starting to get the feeling like I’m walking into something I don’t want to be walking into.

  “That’s okay,” I say.

  “No, seriously,” Najarian says with a smile on his face, “open it up.”

  Najarian points to the metal ladder with three grated steps, indicating that it’s the best way to get up and pull the doors.

  It’s getting to be dawn behind the peaked roof of the depot—well, dawnish. Faint orange light filters through the black mass of smoke and clouds above us, gleaming off the side of the trailer.

  “You just have to pull that first,” Najarian says, and his pointing finger indicates a metal pole I need to tug out of its catch so I can pull the doors open.

  I step up and pull the catch and when I do, the right door opens with a puff of fog, and a blast of cold air hits me. It’s not until I jump back down and stare in that I realize I’m looking at a portable morgue. There’s nine—no, ten—bodies arranged on stainless steel shelves built into the walls of the trailer like bunk beds, each one sheeted in white.

  Najarian climbs up and in. He pushes open the left door.

  “Check this out,” he says and moves to the nearest body.

  A thought occurs to me. The cops are just greasing people. And if they are, I don’t blame them one bit, not with what I’ve seen tonight. For a second I wish the gangbanger who got Gutes was in there too. But only for a second.

  “This one,” Najarian says as he pulls the sheet back on the corpse, “was a body dump yesterday afternoon, right there on Spring, right over there.” He points at the fence between the street and us. “It was suspicious too, because it wasn’t there before shift-change, but it was there after, so they must’ve done it during or real close to it, which means somehow they knew about it or got lucky. Either way, it was slick.”

  He’s pulled the sheet all the way back now, but I don’t see what I’m expecting to see. Instead of a face, there’s a flannel there, black and white striped.

  Najarian nods at it. “Eerie, right? Why would they cover his face like that unless it was shot off or something, right? But I checked. It’s still there, except the cheek’s smashed in a bit and an ear’s gone, but he didn’t die of that. He was stabbed.”

  But this one, it doesn’t look so eerie to me. To me it just means whoever hurt him didn’t put the flannel on. Because whoever did that cared about him. They did it almost like they didn’t want him to be cold. And there’s something else too. The way the sleeves are wrapped down and around—it hits me and I don’t know why—the flannel sleeves, they’re nearly frozen in place underneath his head but they’ve been folded that way, almost like a pillow, almost like what I did for Gutierrez except different, because I know, and I don’t know how I know, but it was done for him after he passed. To me, it just looks like a good-bye, like the way people put things in coffins for the journey.

  No, I think, not eerie. Somebody cared for him an awful lot, whoever he was.

  When Najarian sheets him back up, I can’t help it, I touch my necklace where my St. Anthony medal is, the saint I was named for, and I say a little prayer in my head for the man in the flannel, for whoever he was, for however he got here, and for his body to get home safe so his family can find whatever solace they can.

  ABEJUNDIO ORELLANA,

  A.K.A. MOMO

  MAY 1, 1992

  4:22 P.M.

  1

  ¡Puchica! I should’ve never trusted Cecilia. Staring at the remains of my burned-down house, I know I’m between a rock, another rock, and a hard place. Only way out is down in the grave or up and out, cuz I sure as shit ain’t about to go sideways. I got to be cool as ice water now. But just to be truthful, I’m sweating hard. This riot shit’s got the worst timing ever.

  Rock #1: The motherfucker named Trouble and twenty of his angry homeboys are stacked up behind me at the curb, every one of them packing, every one of them looking for an excuse to do something to anybody, especially me. They don’t like what I find here, if it don’t make me innocent in their eyes, they kill me.

  Rock #2: Sheriffs rolled me up on drugs charges when I was transporting through Hawaiian Gardens seven weeks ago, but a homicide detective sergeant from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department swooped in and offered up a life raft when he told me he didn’t give a fuck about the drugs if I knew about murders and could name names, so that’s how I became a confidential reliable informant for the LASD. If Trouble knew that, shit, if any homeboys knew that, even my own crew, I’d already have a new hole in the back of my head. So far though, so good. I’m still breathing . . .

  And kicking ash. That’s the hard place, where I’m at right now, dirtying my good boots all up, my snakeskin ones, as I try to find what’s left of my bedroom on the lot where my one respectable house used to fucking be cuz what this means more than anything is I have to come back on somebody right when I’ve been planning on getting out, taking the sergeant up on his offer of relocation.

  I can’t do that now though. Now I got to get myself out of the first spot: prove to Trouble I had nothing to do with the gun, which means find the safe. At this point, it’s guesswork on the floorplan cuz there’s some piping and I can see what’s left of some tile where the bathroom used to be, but even the walls aren’t there anymore and that’s some cheap-ass construction work. I entered about where the front door used to be but now it’s just the melted-up grate of the security door. In my head, I figure it’s about ten steps to the bedroom, so I do that, and then veer right when I see the door of my home-run safe open on the floor. Man, I relax a little then. I breathe, cuz that just saved my ass right there.

  In my head, I thank the thieves for that much, cuz those motherfuckers proved my argument by not shutting it back up. This way, an open safe is a ripped-off safe. My gun safe is closed up tight though, so I feel like I know what happened now.

  The ones that did this came by Wednesday, Cecilia let them in, they got her fucked up or out of the way or she was in on it, and they hit the gun safe. They took that to Fate and got paid, and then maybe they kept an eye on the house and when they saw I didn’t come running, they figured they got away with it, so they came back, and Cecilia let them in again, and part two happened. My home-run safe got jacked and they burned the place to the fucking ground, comprehensive-like.

  But right now, the important detail for Trouble is that the gun safe might be closed, but the other one is open. Since it is, Trouble’s convinced someone gaffled my shit and burned the house down to cover it, cuz he thinks he’s all Sherlock Homeboy now. He don’t know that title already belongs to Fate’s boy, Clever. And that motherfucker is, too. Clever as anything.

  “So they really did burn you,” Trouble says as he looks around, like he�
��s examining evidence. Really though, this stringy motherfucker with lettered tattoos instead of eyebrows is trying to play me macho, telling me what to think. Don’t get me wrong, this motherfucker’s hard, but he ain’t Big Fate hard. He gets his bitch to shave his head every day and starch out his shirt and pants. He’ll tell everyone, even people that don’t ask. That’s the kind of guy Trouble is. Tough, but he likes playing the role almost as much as he likes being it.

  “Guess you told the truth after all,” he says. “Good for you.”

  His homeboys in earshot kinda smirk at that but try to hide it by turning away. I might be between rocks, but I’m still not to be fucked with. If any of this was like normal, Trouble comes at me all respectful. He asks for help right and gets blessed with it. Not now though. His brother’s dead. The city’s on fire. Right now, he couldn’t give a fuck about asking right for anything. He’s just taking what he wants. He knows it’s a numbers game now.

  I got a crew of eight to run my business and protection from above, but it’s the kind of protection that isn’t immediate, doesn’t stand in my doorway and scare people off, and right now Trouble’s got a click of almost a hundred behind him. I don’t play this right, he wipes me out. He’s crazy enough to do it. But he needs me too. Needs what I can get him. And he’s playing the one card he’s got: he says Fate was trying to put me in a frame when he had my gun swiped and used on Joker and that whole party. By his logic, Fate had my gun stolen on purpose so Trouble would think I was helping them and then come at me and kill me in a rage.

  The funny thing is, if that’s how it went down, it almost worked. That Payasa chick dropped my gun in the backyard of that party. One of Trouble’s junkie homies recognized it as mine on account of the white tape around the handle, so when they got everything taken care of with getting people to hospitals and rallying up, they started looking for me. Turns out I wasn’t reachable on my pager, which they thought was suspicious, but my thought was: How did I know they weren’t trying to rob me or frame me up?