To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  Still, he hesitated. In the last two years his T-cell count had become damn near normal. He only took two pills a day and sometimes even forgot to take them, something inconceivable a few years back. But the mental block hadn't totally lifted. The whole drama of explaining that he was HIV-positive and seeing the look on a woman's face—the fear, disappointment—suppressed his lust.

  So D talked himself out of speaking to her and, sadly, felt relieved.

  But then she walked over to the table.

  "Hey, guys," she greeted Peanut Butter Wolf and Madlib. Seems she was a regular in the Stones Throw/Funkmosphere scene. Night shook her hand too and gave her that I'm-a-hot-singer-so-you-should-probably-want-to-fuck-me look. She took it in but didn't seem impressed. "Oh, hi," she said when she spotted D. "I know you, right?"

  "Yeah, we met the other day. You sold the house next to my family's. I'm D Hunter. Michelle, right?"

  "Oh yes," she said. "You were having the wake. I'm so sorry. Hope I wasn't inappropriate that day."

  "Not at all."

  "Mind if I sit down?"

  "Ahh, no."

  Night saw D's discomfort and smiled. "I can make more room."

  Michelle slid into the booth next to D, who was surprised and suddenly very shy.

  Fortunately, Michelle held her own: "I love that area of LA. Did you guys grow up there?"

  D gave her a condensed version of his childhood trips to LA and his grandfather's life and times, which led Michelle to lean in close. D grew uncomfortable but excited.

  "We were one of the first Korean families in Arlington Heights," she said, referring to the once predominantly black middle-class area. "My family owned a number of stores on Western, and we even have one or two on Crenshaw."

  "It was rough between blacks and Koreans in LA back in the day."

  "Yeah. My father and mother didn't speak much English, so there were some misunderstandings. It took them some time to get comfortable."

  "They got hurt by the riot in '92?"

  "I was only five at the time, but I know it had a big impact on my parents. To this day it's a sore subject in the house."

  "Hey," Night said, "sorry to interrupt, but let me slide out. I'ma get up and jam with Dâm-Funk. If that's all right with my manager."

  Madlib and PB Wolf stood up too. A buzz rippled through the crowd as Night and the Stones Throw crew approached the stage.

  "This is great," Michelle enthused. "You must really enjoy working around so much music. I wish I could get paid to do that."

  "It can be fun. But it's not as stable as real estate."

  "Oh, yeah. But stable isn't everything. A girl can't spend all her time selling."

  Michelle's friends Lana and Joey Chao soon came over, introductions were made, and music chatter continued. Joey peppered D with questions about Night's new LP, which D gracefully dodged.

  Then Night appeared onstage with Dâm-Funk and band, plus Madlib on a drum machine. Together they worked out an eccentric electro version of "Black Sex." As the crowd surged to the stage, D took Michelle by the hand and, accompanied by her two friends, guided her to the wings stage right.

  Michelle didn't pull her hand back, just looked up at him with soft eyes. He let her hand go once they were situated. Lana whispered something in Michelle's ear as they shared a giggle and started swaying to the music.

  After all the drama around his grandfather's death and the search for Dr. Funk, it was great to be full of music, hearing his friend blow pure and sweet, feeling the buzz of a new woman checking him out (and feeling her back).

  * * *

  Later that night D, Michelle, Night, and the Stones Throw crew stopped at an all-night taco stand before hitting a bar in Little Tokyo, where Mexican hipsters, Japanese homeboys, and millennial beauties in horn-rimmed glasses and floral dresses chatted and slipped outside to smoke. D kept an eye on Night, aware that this was just the kind of environment that could seduce his friend to the dark side.

  "I see you, D," Night said at one point, reading his mind. "But I got this. Keep your eye on that fine Asian chick, okay? Or I will." He let out a chuckle.

  Sitting at a table with the Chaos, Michelle told D about clubs, music, food, and the city. D realized he'd never spent any real time with Asians of any ethnicity. He'd lived in a white, black, and Latino world back in New York. As he watched Michelle he figured this was a good time to expand his horizons.

  "I gotta go," she said around one a.m. "I have to show some houses at nine."

  "I'm glad we met under different circumstances."

  "Me too." She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. "Please pass this on to Night. If he wants to buy or rent in LA, I have many attractive properties."

  D felt a touch deflated. Was all this hanging out just a ploy to get Night's business?

  Michelle read D's mind: "Let me have your phone." Dutifully, he handed it over.

  As she typed, Night leaned over from his conversation with Madlib and said to D, "Looks like you need the bodyguard."

  Michelle gave D his phone back, along with a deep hug, before leaving with Lana and Joey.

  "You through macking girls, D?" It was Night again. "Madlib and I got some ideas. I figure, as my manager, you'd want to know."

  "Indeed," D said with a smile, "I do."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NARCOCORRIDOS IN BOYLE HEIGHTS

  Onstage at La Zona Rosa on East Cesar E. Chavez Avenue, El Komander and his band were performing a song that favorably compared today's Mexican drug god, El Chapo, to Jesús Malverde, a 1900s bandit who was the patron saint of twenty-first-century outlaws. El Komander wore a black cowboy hat, a bedazzled black denim shirt, jeans, and pointy black boots. His band members, even the accordion player, wore black masks like bank robbers. Women crowded the stage in clingy dresses and heels, reaching out toward El Komander, who basked in their adoration while singing a narcocorrido filled with murder and blood.

  D was absolutely the proverbial sore thumb: a tall black man in an ebony ensemble amid ten-gallon hats, cowboy boots, and a bar decorated with Mexican flags. The crowd at La Zona Rosa in Boyle Heights was about 99 percent Mexican or Mexican American. D stood at the bar sipping on a Tecate, trying not to make eye contact with anyone.

  Red Dawg had disappeared into the crowd ten minutes before, vowing to "be right back" as the corridos moved dancers around the wide, wooden dance floor. To D's R&B/hip hop–raised ears there was zero rhythmic complexity in the music. Folks were moving enthusiastically to a rudimentary shuffle beat. D did dig the accordion that provided the melodies—it was an instrument he'd never heard live before so the novelty of it amused him—though he wasn't sure how long before that would wear off.

  The bartender had his back to D, but was scoping him in the bar's mirror. That wouldn't have bothered him so much but the tattoo on the back of the bartender's head was of Diablo's skull with piercing eyes and a gleeful smile. When the bartender turned around, D saw that the skull was a reasonable facsimile of its owner's own rugged face. "Yo, holmes," he said. He was a solidly built man, his bare arms bearing tats (D recognized Jesus near his elbow), a leather vest revealing a hairy chest, a glittering gold cross, and round, mountainous pecs. The mustache on his lip was salt-and-pepper but the soul patch on his chin was snow white. He looked to be an extremely fit sixty. He wasn't hostile, but not warm either. "You want another beer? Maybe something stronger?"

  "Another Tecate would be fine, amigo."

  "You gonna dance?" the bartender asked. "I'm sure a lot of people here would enjoy seeing you out there."

  "I bet."

  "I'm not being disrespectful, holmes. I see you vibing to the music. You like the corridos?"

  "I'm learning to enjoy them."

  "You from Nueva York, right?"

  "The accent, huh?"

  "Yeah. And you guys from there stand a certain way."

  "I guess. You must know Nueva York well, huh?"

  "The part I know, I know.
But this is LA, holmes. You may see what you see in this place. But you don't know who knows who, who owes who, and who owns who." He paused and let that sink in. Then he said, "I saw you come in here with Red Dawg."

  "He's an old friend of my family."

  "Big Danny, right, holmes?"

  "Yeah."

  "I heard what happened to him. I bet you and Red Dawg are trying to find out who capped him. I respect that. I know I'd want to know who did my papi. I respect that. Anyone would. But respect only goes so far. You ask the wrong person and the beat could drop like a Dr. Dre track. Your head will be ringing and you'll never know why."

  "What's your name, amigo?"

  "Antonio."

  "I'm D Hunter. I am not Red Dawg's friend; I'm Big Danny's grandson. Glad you are so concerned for a stranger's safety."

  Antonio's eyes widened and then his face softened. So did his voice.

  "This ain't the first time we met, D. I recognize you now. I believe I met you back one time I had some business with Big Danny. You were just a kid and I had a lot less hair and no gut."

  "Were you a cop, Antonio?"

  "I was the motherfucking long arm of the law, holmes. I was 1-Adam-12 with an accent. I was the real Erik Estrada and a lot more handsome."

  "You miss it, huh?"

  This bid for familiarity was just a bit too much for the bartender. "This ain't Behind the Music. I got no sad stories for you, holmes. That is, unless you don't pay attention to your surroundings. Then you could get hurt."

  "Why do you care?"

  "I liked Big Danny. He carried himself well, and whether you wore a cop's badge or a bandanna, he was straight with you. I see you his kin, so that gives you a bit of rope. But Red Dawg? I don't give a fuck about that liar."

  "What's he lied about?"

  "If Red Dawg says he's breathing air, check his breath for carbon dioxide. But Big Danny, he was a decent human being and looked out for that fool. But see how he ended up . . . And people knew and liked him. You? Nobody around here knows you. Nobody gives a fuck. Enjoy your beer."

  From behind, D heard Red Dawg's voice: "D, we should leave."

  "You're ready?"

  "Yeah. We have to go."

  Red Dawg moved quickly through the bar toward the front door. D followed in his footsteps, trying to not bump into anyone but sure there was trouble at his back.

  Once outside, D headed past the doormen and a few folks standing outside smoking. He didn't see Red Dawg so he went to the parking lot around the corner from the club.

  Red Dawg was standing next to Big Danny's ride looking anxious. Suddenly, three cholos—two plus-size and one pinto—rolled up on him. No words were exchanged. They all just started scrapping. The two big guys grabbed Red Dawg and threw him against the car while the little man wailed at his gut.

  D grabbed the puncher around the neck and spun him hard, so that he bounced when he hit the ground and then rolled over holding his damaged elbow. Next up: which of the big men would roll on him first? There was a moment's hesitation—the little man had been in charge and the duo weren't sure how far to go without him.

  "Let him go!" D snapped, hoping they'd just follow orders. No dice. The cholo on the right loosened his grip on Red Dawg and shifted his body toward D. But before he could take a step, D kicked his right kneecap. He went down like a chopped redwood.

  The third man, the biggest of the posse, now had to make a decision: let Red Dawg go and back off, or flex on D and see what happened.

  "Let him go!" D barked again, optimistic but prepared to scrap. The big man shoved Red Dawg aside like a nuisance (which he was) and took a step toward D. Clearly he saw D as a worthy opponent.

  "Hector, back off!"

  D glanced over his shoulder to see Antonio standing there with a baseball bat in hand and two bouncers by his side. Hector eased up a bit.

  Antonio walked over to D but kept his eyes on Red Dawg. "D, I see you found your amigo."

  "What up, Antonio?" Red Dawg said.

  "I was just telling your amigo here that you never know who knows who in East LA." He reached down and picked up the smaller man, who was still clutching his elbow. "You see this man?"

  "I do," D replied.

  "He brings in sportswear from Mexico and does business with your friend Red Dawg."

  "The bitch owes me!" the small man yelled.

  "Fuck you," Red Dawg said, "I don't owe you shit."

  "Sounds like he said, she said," Antonio observed.

  "Who you calling a she?" the small man asked.

  "Must be you, since you were stupid enough to answer."

  "So what now? Po-po?" D asked.

  Antonio laughed, then leaned over and punched Red Dawg dead on the jaw, knocking him to the ground. Then he turned to D. "Take him home," he said. "But remember, you are known by the company you keep."

  * * *

  On the ride back Red Dawg was quiet, rubbing his jaw and moving it around slowly, hoping it wasn't broken. D turned on the car radio and Gerardo's "Rico Suave" popped up.

  D chuckled. "Here's some real LA rap for your ass."

  Even in his embarrassed state Red Dawg tried to laugh, but it hurt like hell.

  "You like, huh?" D said.

  "Fuck no," Red Dawg mumbled. "But he did have some hot bitches in that video. He was from the Valley."

  "One-hit wonder," D said.

  "Abso-fucking-lutely."

  "So, what the fuck happened back there?"

  "I got jumped."

  "Yeah. Sounds like you earned the ass-whipping, my man."

  "I don't owe that dude shit. He just can't count."

  "Did you find out anything about Teo Garcia?"

  "Nobody's seen him."

  "That's what you said before we got there. So you didn't find a thing. But I guess I did, which is that a lot of motherfuckers got problems with you."

  "You know it's cause I'm a Blaxican."

  "No, I'm thinking it's because you an Assican."

  "You ain't funny."

  D pulled the car over to the curb.

  "What?" Red Dawg said.

  "I'm beginning to think maybe my granddaddy got capped for some bullshit you did. I'm beginning to think he was busy cleaning up some mess you got into when he either accidently got shot for you, or he was there when they really wanted to do you. Maybe it's you who's in trouble with Calle 18."

  "Fuck you, D. You don't know shit."

  "I know that the detective thinks you're holding out on me, and that the cholos back there think you ain't shit. My granddaddy is the only person who seemed to give a fuck about you, and now he's dead."

  Red Dawg pushed the car door open and D watched him stomp away into the East LA night. Antonio was right—he really didn't know who's who or what's what in these Cali streets, and he wasn't sure how to fix it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE DETECTIVE DRINKS COFFEE

  The morning after Red Dawg's misadventure, D thought it was time to check back in about the official investigation. He left five messages before Detective Gonzales called him back.

  "There's still an ongoing investigation into your grandfather's homicide, Mr. Hunter," he assured D while slurping his coffee.

  "That's good." D held his phone in his left hand, since his right was soaking in a bowl filled with ice. "Are you aware that we had an attempted break-in at the family home?"

  "Yes. A report on that was passed on to me."

  "Do you think there's any connection between my grandfather's murder and the break-in? I mean, these guys might be Calle 18."

  "Not that I can see, Mr. Hunter. I looked over the statements of the men you subdued—great work, by the way—and it seems like a crime of opportunity. Someone told them there was a lot of jewelry in the house, and that just a woman and a boy lived there."

  "Is it because my grandfather was a loan shark that they believed that story?"

  "These two are new to LA. They haven't been over the border very long, so I do
n't believe they had much insight. They heard a story, got an address, and saw an opportunity. They are wannabe bangers. That's all."

  "Who'd they get the address from?"

  D heard the detective flipping through papers.

  "Not sure," he said after a moment. "Their stories contradicted but they did agree they heard about your home at a bar in Boyle Heights."

  "La Zona Rosa?"

  This got the detective's attention. "You hang out in Boyle Heights, Mr. Hunter?"

  "No, detective. Just heard of it as a good place for music."

  There was a long pause before Gonzales spoke again. "I went through their statements carefully, Mr. Hunter. If I thought there was a link to the murder, believe me, I'd pursue it. Speaking of which, have you had any luck in getting Red Dawg to talk about who your grandfather loaned money to? We didn't find anything on his computer, but there must be some kind of record in his files."

  "I'll try again, detective," D muttered with little enthusiasm.

  "Good. Mr. Hunter, I don't believe there was any grand conspiracy to kill your grandfather. Somebody was in debt to him and didn't want to pay or didn't want anyone to know the reason he needed to borrow money—that's what this is about. Maybe the shooter was afraid your father could have blackmailed him. That's a motive."

  "Do you believe Red Dawg knows who killed him?"

  "He may know. He may know and doesn't realize that he knows. Where are you going with this? Did he say something?"

  "Could he have been involved himself?"

  The detective picked his words carefully. "At this point I can't completely rule that out. But my impression is that if this man was loyal to anything or anyone, it was to your grandfather. Unfortunately, he's not the brightest light in the ballroom, so maybe him seeming suspicious is just because he's confused about how to act when he's trying to do the right thing. Anyway, I gotta go, Mr. Hunter. I'll keep you posted. Make sure you do the same for me."