To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  They were both amused by this revision of film history but D wanted to circle back to her family history. "Anyway," he said, "you were gonna tell me about your father's skills."

  "Well, he listened to everyone and picked up the slang. He'd say cuz to gangbangers and they'd laugh and not steal as much."

  "I guess they figured he was trying to fit in."

  "Apparently he even got good at dice," she said.

  "Craps?"

  "I dunno the name of the particular game but he'd do it with them. It made things easier—at least that's what they told me, cause I was very young then." It was clear that even though Michelle was sharing with him, it wasn't easy for her.

  "Looks like it all worked out," D said smoothly, then waited for Michelle to inquire about his own family, a narrative of ghetto tragedy he hated relating. There was no way to talk about the death of his three brothers without putting a serious damper on any evening. Debating how much to tell, how much to lie about, and how much to omit made each new human interaction a challenge. Plus, the fact that D carried the HIV virus made the whole getting-to-know-you phase of any new relationship a dark, tangled journey.

  For the most part D kept details to himself, hating to see the cycle of sadness, horror, bewilderment, and sometimes disgust inspired by stories of his family and his health. Though he came across as big and strong mentally, D was actually a collection of fragile pieces liable to shatter at an intimate touch. He didn't want people, certainly not a beautiful woman, to perceive him as a walking, talking HBO documentary on urban despair. Yet here he was again, sitting across from a lovely lady on the verge of changing forever how she saw him.

  D was saved, for now, by the arrival of Michelle's nighttime party partners, the Chaos. Joey managed several restaurants (when he wasn't DJing) and Lana was a veterinarian. Like Michelle, they were doing what their parents wanted, but they used the nightlife east of Western as a release. The Chaos drank several beers with them and then they all took an Uber to a club on 6th Street to see Awkwafina, a half-Korean/half-Chinese MC from (of all places) Queens, New York, who had a good flow and an amusingly deadpan way with her punch lines.

  The crowd was all in their mid-to-late twenties, well dressed, and 80 percent Asian with a sprinkling of Latinos and whites. D thought Awkwafina was cool and was impressed with the crowd's response, especially how they knew the words to her rhymes and sang all the hooks. In the digital age, when audiences were sliced and diced into microscenes, Awkwafina was satisfying an audience starving for its own voice.

  Down the block they grabbed a quick bite at a hot-pot joint. Afterward, as they waited for another Uber, they saw a minivan pull up and let out three middle-aged businessmen in suits and four young Korean girls who entered the club next door.

  "Doumi girls," Michelle said.

  "What's that mean?" D asked.

  "Men pay $120 for them to join them in singing rooms," she explained. "The taxis pick them up and take them to clubs like this. They are private clubs where you have to speak Korean to get in. This is the side of Koreatown outsiders never see."

  "Seems to upset you."

  "Yeah. What's that movie, Six Degrees of Separation? In this neighborhood there is much less."

  Another Uber took them downtown to Little Tokyo where they went to Tokyo Beat, a ramen bar in an outdoor mall that on Tuesday nights was home to a fun electrodance party. This crowd was younger, postcollege, split evenly between white and Asian with a few hipster black kids in the mix. A series of DJs manned the turntables. D really enjoyed Mousey McGlynn, a performer who alternated singing originals with snippets of radio hits while programming electrobeats.

  But the evening didn't really turn up until midnight when a crew of Chicago footwork dancers took control of the space in front of the DJ. Two black dancers in their thirties and an eclectic crew of younger white dancers began moving in frantic sixty- and ninety-second bursts to beats programmed up to 160 per second. Turned out this was a crew who met at Tokyo Beat every Tuesday to get down and show off. Michelle and D shared a ramen bowl while the Chaos Snapchatted the dancing Chicago footwork to their global posse.

  The Chaos had an apartment near Little Tokyo. So after last call at one thirty, the quartet stopped by their one-bedroom condo and smoked some strong Cali chronic out on the balcony. When the Chaos went inside to find munchies, D and Michelle stood close.

  "So," she said, "what did you think?"

  "I saw another LA tonight. Thank you." He passed her the last of the joint. She took a final hit and then put out the roach on the railing. "Don't you have to go sell houses in the morning?"

  "In about four hours. Sunglasses, eyedrops, mouthwash, a shower, some quality perfume, and no one knows what I did the night before."

  "I bet your mama knows everything," D teased.

  Michelle snorted. "She thinks she knows everything. So nothing new there."

  Michelle leaned over and kissed D, their mouths smoky. Her smaller body pressed against his.

  "Nice," he said finally.

  "Yeah, cause you never know."

  D and Michelle shared one last Uber ride, heading to Hobart Boulevard in Koreatown and Michelle's walkup apartment, where, in her extremely neat bedroom, he didn't tell her anything but was as careful as you could be while having fun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  WALLI'S ILL-FATED LOVE AFFAIR

  D was doing mountain climbers in the living room. He'd pushed the living room coffee table up against a wall and shoved his grandfather's old easy chair into a corner, laying his yoga mat over the moldy old shag carpet. He was going at it, his arms anchoring him as he drove his legs toward his chest. A 15 Minute Hell ab workout played on his android.

  If you did this right—and didn't cheat with short sets—a workout of mountain climbers, bicycles, and various twists generated dripping sweat, heavy breathing, and active stomach muscles. D was on his last thirty-second burst when a call interrupted him. Irritated, he glanced over at his phone, but picked up when he saw it was Walli.

  "What up?"

  "D, can you come pick me up at school?!" He sounded unsteady, agitated, fearful. "There's been a shooting. I don't want Ma to know yet."

  Twenty minutes and a couple of run red lights later, D was standing outside a crime scene tape along with TV news crews, ambulances, and black, Mexican, and Asian Angelenos. A young Mexican girl was crying into the arms of a black male teacher. A tough-looking Asian kid with tats peeking through his white T-shirt puffed a cigarette. One of the cops policing the perimeter was Crowder, who had come by the house the night of the robbery.

  "Hunter, right?"

  "Yes, officer. I'd say that it's good to see you again but this is a terrible situation."

  "It's happening all the time, one way or another. Your nephew almost got shot."

  "My cousin—is he all right?"

  "I got him over there. We haven't taken his statement yet. You keep him calm, okay?"

  D found Walli sitting on a curb, teary-eyed with specks of dried blood on his J Dilla T-shirt. At his feet was a crumpled bouquet of gardenias. Some broken petals covered his sneakers. Walli appeared to be in shock. D had seen this look before; he sat down and pulled the teenager close.

  "The police take your statement yet?"

  "No. They told me to wait here."

  "Okay," D said. "Tell me everything. Then we'll figure out what to say to them."

  It had been about a woman—well, actually, a teenage girl. Her name was Carmen. They'd been classmates his sophomore year in English. Walli had noticed her round hips, thick black hair, and sharp sense of humor. In his junior year they sat next to each other in history class and bonded over Cesar Chavez and began a private Snapchat flirtation neither their parents nor classmates were aware of.

  Black and Mexican friendships, while not forbidden by their parents or even rare among classmates, were still fraught in a neighborhood quickly transitioning from black to brown. Walli and Carmen used the relativ
e privacy of social media to leap over the barbed-wire fences of race. No Bloods, Crips, or Mexican or Central America gangs breeched their Snapchat sanctuary.

  Walli kept any tension between Latino and black classmates out of conversations with his mother, who'd been fragile since Grandpop's murder. Talk of cafeteria fights at school sure wouldn't calm her. And Carmen? Why even go there with his mother? A real-life/virtual Mexican girlfriend? A shouting match waiting to happen. Today was Carmen's birthday. Sweet seventeen. Walli was going to surprise her and show the school what he felt in his heart—that explained the gardenias.

  Unfortunately for Walli, his goal of cementing black/Mexican relations ran afoul of a multinational group of gangbangers. He was coming around the corner toward school when he saw Carmen coming from the other direction. For Walli it was a slow-motion teenage dream coming true. Then cue the scary music (in this case a bomb-ass Dr. Dre track) as three baby Crips, who might have harassed Walli for the hell of it anyway, spotted the gardenias.

  "Hey, fool!" called out the oldest and tallest of the three. "Those for me?"

  Now Walli had two options: try to ignore the three young Crips and incur their wrath; or joke with them and risk their ridicule and the snatching of the gardenias. Either scenario would happen in front of Carmen.

  Walli chose to ignore the baby Crips, hoping only one of the trio gave a damn about him and that the other two would be too busy looking at girls to fuck with him. Alas, the girls the other two locked in on were Carmen and Tarsha, a cute black girl standing nearby.

  Carmen saw Walli and smiled. She saw the gardenias and giggled. Then her vision was blocked as the oldest of the Crips, probably eighteen and actually quite handsome despite a few scars on his face, got in her way. Worse for Walli, this kid was smooth. Had some actual game. Walli moved to the side to get a better angle and, damn, he saw Carmen laugh at something he said.

  The other two Crips attempted to engage Tarsha, who wasn't charmed and tried to get past the duo and their lascivious intentions. Carmen started to look nervous and glanced Walli's way, weighing whether or not to involve him. After all, she was an attractive girl in an LA hood; negotiating with gangsta lotharios was the price of that ticket. Walli's young manhood was now challenged. He'd have to walk over there if he was to ever respect himself, much less have Carmen consider him as a true boyfriend candidate.

  Things escalated when a red Impala creeped toward the school's entrance. Inside were three Latinos. Walli noticed them heading in his direction and recognized the kid in the passenger seat from history class. Teddy, maybe? A big burly man behind the wheel rocked Locs. The car pulled next to Carmen and the baby Crips. Walli's former classmate yelled, "Get away from our women, nigga!" and then the Crips cursed them back.

  D asked, "Who shot first?"

  "The older guy in the back of the car stuck a gun out of the window," Walli said. "At first he didn't shoot—I guess he was just gonna scare them. Then the older Crip grabbed Carmen by the arm like he was gonna kiss her. That's when I ran over."

  "You grabbed the Crip?"

  "More like ran into him."

  "You pull him down?"

  "Ah, well, I actually kinda just, you know, bounced off him."

  "But he let Carmen go?"

  "Yeah. Then the shooting started. I saw the older Crip shoot first."

  "No you didn't."

  "I did."

  "You didn't. You fell to the ground. You covered your head. You heard the shots but you didn't see who shot who. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Where's Carmen?"

  "Ambulance took her."

  "Was she hit?"

  "Just got blood on her from somebody. But real scared."

  D noticed Crowder approaching. "Remember," he said, "you didn't see who shot first. You don't have any theories. You just tried to help your friend. You hit the ground and covered up."

  Walli stood up, still shaking.

  D didn't want his cousin identifying gang-banging shooters for the LAPD. "Oh Walli," he said, "give me the flowers."

  * * *

  Two hours later Sheryl held Walli in her arms, tears streaming down her face as she realized how close she had come to losing her son. In retelling the story, Walli and D neglected to mention the flowers or Carmen. It was just the tale of one classmate trying to help another.

  Sheryl in midrant: "Those fucking Mexican motherfuckers! Bitch-ass drive-by bitches! Taking over our neighborhood. Scaring good folks away."

  D knew she was excitable and a touch prejudiced, but he hadn't ever seen her like this. She glared out the window at the Mexican kids playing soccer next door. D wondered if he should grab the shotgun from under the kitchen table before his aunt went postal.

  "Ma," Walli said, "the police said the people shooting were from El Salvador."

  "I'm tired of all of them. They came in and overran this neighborhood like roaches in light."

  "Well," D said, "black homeowners sold to them."

  "You ain't from here, D, but you see how they do. I'm sure that's why Dad had that shotgun under the table. You saw them fools try to break in here. Fuck them all."

  Walli and D sat on the sofa, prepared to wait out her fear. This was something that had been eating at her, eating at lots of old-time black Angelenos, and the high school shootout gave it voice. Moreover, it had turned his lovely aunt into a temporary Donald Trump supporter.

  "It's time to sell the house. I've had enough of this shit. My little boy ain't gonna die in these damn LA streets. They took my father. They ain't taking him."

  "I know a broker," D said.

  "Better not be no taco eater."

  "She's not."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SUN HEE PAK TELLS A STORY

  After working out at the Equinox on Sunset Boulevard (Walter Gibbs hooked him up) and grabbing an omelet and green juice at Caffé Primo next door, D cruised along and made a right at Western. Soon he found himself in Alternate LA. Down a long stretch of the avenue the store signs were written in Korean, Spanish, English, or trilingual. D was in a sun-drenched Blade Runner reality that made him wonder what country he'd entered.

  Big Danny had been no stranger to Western Avenue as he made alliances there that helped him cut corners at his grocery store and nightclub. If he had any problems with white distributors on anything from cigarettes to gummy bears, there were Mexican, Korean, or Japanese businesspeople who had the hookup. It wasn't always brand-name material, but changing wrappers solved that problem. D had vague memories of wandering through a Western Avenue swap meet, trailing Big Danny as he haggled with a Korean man. Now he wondered if these various deals involved some form of loan-sharking.

  He was a little early for his meeting, so he checked out some of the shops at the Koreatown Plaza Mall, impressed by the range of products being sold. Once again D had the feeling that he'd traveled a great distance by just taking that right on Western. On the second level he walked past a large Korean supermarket and then stopped in a bookstore, leafing through a lifestyle magazine which featured a four-page spread of Korean B-boys sporting the hottest urban gear. Hip hop, you don't stop, he thought.

  Next to the bookstore were the stained-glass offices of Pak City Real Estate. The reception area consisted of two sofas. D lounged down on one, while a Latina in her forties sat in the other with a little girl. The woman read from several legal-looking papers while the daughter played on her mother's phone. On the wall behind them was a huge map of Los Angeles. It could have been any anonymous office anywhere in the city, except for the music: a man passionately crooned an Air Supply–type ballad in Korean.

  Behind the reception desk sat a cute, chubby, college-aged Korean woman, who was focused on her phone. D cleared his throat. "Hi, my name is D Hunter. I have an appointment with Michelle and Sun Hee Pak."

  "Oh yes, we were expecting you. I'm Michelle's sister Alice. Take a seat and I'll let her and Mom know you're here." Instead of phoning, Alice got up and walked down a co
rridor into the back.

  D felt the Latina's eyes on him. He smiled. Her eyes shifted away as if he had a bad disease. Then both their heads turned when they heard the unmistakable voice of a scolding mother emanating from the back. The words were in Korean but the tone of parental disapproval was universal.

  It went quiet for a moment and then the scolding resumed. Alice emerged from the back and said, "Michelle will be out to get you in a minute," and then went back to her iPhone.

  A minute later, Michelle appeared from the back, a forced smile upon her lips.

  "Nice to see you again," D said. He leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she stuck out her hand for a stiff handshake instead.

  "Come on back," she said. "My mother is looking forward to meeting you."

  D found himself sitting across from stern-faced Sun Hee Pak, a petite, formidable, middle-aged woman in a blue-and-green floral dress. Michelle meekly stood next to her mother.

  "You are related to Daniel Hunter?"

  "He was my grandfather."

  "You do have his eyes," she said, then added, "His lips as well."

  "Oh, I guess I do. You were friends?"

  "He helped me survive the '92 riot."

  Michelle looked at her mother with wide eyes. "That was his grandfather?"

  "My daughter knows this story but must not have been paying attention to her mother," Sun Hee said as Michelle avoided D's gaze. "Your grandfather was both practical and wise."

  "You mean he knew how to keep a secret," D said.

  Sun Hee Pak smiled and then continued: "Daniel came to this area when it was still mostly Mexican and made friends with many Korean merchants in the area. This was a difficult time for such relationships. So many of us did not speak English well. So we had a hard time communicating, particularly with black customers. You probably know of instances where Korean shopkeepers shot black customers."

  "I knew there were several black people murdered by store owners," D said flatly. "And that no one was brought to justice."

  "Yes," Sun Hee admitted, "it was tragic. It made it difficult for us to find common ground with blacks and Mexicans. So hard. We were strangers. We were afraid. Whites told us blacks were violent. The police told us blacks were animals. So, often, fear overcame our reason. We didn't see black people as human and blacks didn't respect us. Terrible time. We met your grandfather at a swap meet. He was negotiating with a friend of ours who was importing sneakers from China."