I remembered my brother used to own several houses that he operated out of in Compton. Once when I saw it on a police warrant for search and seizure, I’d checked this one particular address out on my off duty time.
I must admit I was a little leery driving through Compton. With its reputation as a murder capital, who wouldn’t be? When I was growing, Compton, where my father had lived, was considered a step up from Jordan Downs. It had been peopled by a lot of homeowners. The truth was, the property had really escalated in value, but recently it was beginning to fall with this housing market crash.
Compton gained its bad reputation in the eighties and nineties when the gangs and drugs began to flood the area.
Today when I drove up to Mayhem’s address, I could tell by all the bars on the windows and doors, this was still a hot spot. I’d remembered when Mayhem operated with impunity when I was on the force, but I had to turn my head the other way. Besides, Compton wasn’t in our jurisdiction at the time I was a cop.
Eventually, everything must have caught up with Mayhem. The fact that he only served eighteen months made me think he must have had a really good set of lawyers, or he would have served more time than that.
I took a deep breath as I stepped out my car. I slowly walked up to the door and knocked. I held my breath and waited. I listened as multiple locks unlatched with a snapping noise of several locks.
“What do you want?” a buffed guy, who was hefty and resembled Michael Clarke Duncan, barked. I stepped inside this iron-barred house in Compton, and a coldness rippled through me. A sense of pure evil resided in these walls.
“I’m looking for Mayhem. I’m his sister, Z.” Three goons checked me before they let me pass the front foyer.
“Big Homie,” the Michael Clarke Duncan look-alike announced, “some young lady saying she’s your sister is here. Says her name is Z.”
As I waited, I glanced around and noticed they had a fish tank that covered the entire wall in what was supposedly a living room. There was no furniture in this room, and no place to sit down, but I didn’t want to sit anyhow. I studied the fish tank, which was filled with devilfish, which I understood were poisonous. I hated to think what this fish tank was used for. I’d heard that some dealers used devilfish to poison snitches or anyone who crossed them.
“Who the hell are you?” a deep male voice snapped, suspiciously.
I almost jumped in my skin at this male voice, but I was insulted he didn’t remember me. I looked up at Mayhem. “David,” I called him by his government name, “this is your lil’ sister, Zipporah, aka Z. I know it’s been a long time, but don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about me. Don’t you remember I was the one who used to follow you around the projects? The one who used to say, ‘Who Dave, Mama?’ to Venita, when she would say how bad you were.”
For a moment, Mayhem’s implacable features froze like a mask. Then slowly, a glimmer of recognition flashed in his face.
“What? My li’l sis?” I could see a smile start rising in his face. “Aw, snap. Z, is that you?”
Who do you think I am? I wanted to say, but I knew he was not a person to be joked with. “In the flesh.”
“What’s crack-a-lacking? Babygirl, you all grown up.” Mayhem lifted me off my feet in excitement, and I had to remind myself that he was my brother and I’d loved him dearly as a child. I had to separate the man from the myth and ignore the fact his reputation preceded him.
“Come on in my office,” he said. I followed my brother into what was probably a bedroom, but it now only had a desk and a chair in it. He closed the door behind us—I guess for privacy. Something made me think this chair was more of a hot seat for people who stole Mayhem’s products.
Inside, I trembled, but I held my hands still. I hoped Mayhem couldn’t pick up on my fear. I wasn’t afraid of the boy I remembered, but I was afraid of the man he’d become.
I noticed Mayhem was now called Big Homie because he was so buff. His upper arms possessed corded muscles. I hadn’t seen him since we were in our late teens, and although he looked older, he’d aged well. His pecan skin was as smooth as butter cream, he sported a bald head, and his nails were clean. His slacks were neatly creased, and although he didn’t wear any bling, like he did when I last saw him, he carried himself in a regal manner. Just looking at the influence he exerted over the other men, he could easily have been the president of a corporation if he’d been born in a different time and place.
“Dang. How did you get so big?” I asked, trying to act relaxed in front of my brother, the killer.
“Exercising. Pumping iron.” He bent his elbow and let me see him flex his muscles.
“I thought they stopped allowing all that pumping iron in the joint.”
“Well, some of us had our own private equipment, y’know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrow in a conspiratorial fashion.
I guess so with Mayhem being a drug kingpin, he probably had more freedom and more access to outside services than the average inmate.
“Excuse my place,” he said, fanning his hand around the sparsely furnished house. “I used to have a mansion in Beverly Hills, but the Feds confiscated all my shit. I’m a be all right though. I had some money put away. Anyhow, I’m getting back on my feet, and I’m on parole, so I have to be on the low-low. You know what I mean. I’m gon’ to have all that stuff back and more in a minute.”
I didn’t say anything. How could I condone drug trafficking, as screwed up as it had made our lives and so many of our neighbors—our whole community? But, at the same time, I acted nonjudgmental since I liked breathing in and out—yes, I loved this thing called life. And I never forgot one thing. My brother, Mayhem, was a killer. He could be smiling at you one minute and take you out the next.
“Do you have any little nieces or nephews for me?” Mayhem asked me.
“Nah.” I let out a “Whew!” and almost a Thank goodness sigh.
“It’s probably for the best.” Mayhem looked stern. “I’m glad you didn’t grow up in the projects with all those chuckleheads running around. I probably would have had to hurt someone over you as fine as you are. But I’m proud you ain’t got a bunch of crumb snatchers trailing behind you. Y’know, Venita started having babies at fourteen.”
I decided to lighten the mood and hit upon a more pleasant subject. “How about you?” I asked. “Married? Any kids?”
“Hell nah, I ain’t married. I got a wifey, though. Three different baby mamas—all boys. They ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“So I’m an auntie. I’ve got to meet my nephews.”
“Yeah, you should meet those little thuglets.” Mayhem said this with pride.
Oh, no, another generation of Crips.
Without warning, Mayhem switched horses in the middle of the stream. “Z, do you remember how I taught you how to shoot when you were about seven?”
I had squashed that memory with so many others, until Venita mentioned it. “Yeah.” Now I could see how I never had any problem “qualifying” when I would go to the rifle range while with the Department, or when I was in the Police Academy. I was quite the marksman, or should I say woman.
“Have you seen Venita?” I asked.
“Naw. I heard she’s out now.”
“Yeah, she is. I saw her the other day.”
“How she look?”
“Much better than when she first got out. How’s Big Dave?”
Since we had different fathers, I never did keep up with Mayhem’s father. I was just being cordial. All I know was we had the same mother, came out the same womb, and that was all that counted. It was “Mama’s baby, Daddy’s maybe,” the way I saw it. I’d just lucked up that I’d had a better father than Mayhem.
“Fuck that nigga. He still shootin’ heroin in his arm.” His mouth tightened into a stubborn line of resentment.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Ain’t nothing worse than an old ass junkie.” Mayhem sucked his teeth in disgust. “He the reason I ain’t nev
er touched none of that shit . . . But if people want to use the shit, somebody gotta make the money. Might as well be me.” He flashed a wicked grin, which made me think of Satan and I almost showed my fear, but I never forgot the first law of the jungle. Show no fear.
I disagreed with Mayhem, but I knew he was not a person you could disagree with him, so I changed the subject. “You know I’m trying to find Diggity and Rychee.”
Mayhem averted his gaze, as if it pained him to remember our younger siblings. Now it was his turn to change the subject. “Anyhow, I heard you were five-oh for a long time.”
“Yeah. Not anymore.”
“I hope you got you a piece and keep it on you.”
“Why?”
“Just can’t be too careful. You being a former cop and all.” Obviously, he’d kept up with me through the street grapevine and the prison grapevine.
“You knew I was on the force?”
“Yeah. I knew it the whole time. I have my ways of knowing things. I figured that’s why you never came and talked to me, but that’s cool. You had to do what you had to do.”
“Well, I’m here now.”
“Yeah, I heard about that shit that went down.”
“Which one?” Shit, I stayed in so much trouble with that drinking, I didn’t know which incident he was talking about.
“The shooting. I’m sorry to hear about it. From what I’ve heard, you were a straight cop.”
I saw my chance to leap in with my original intention. “That’s why I came to you. I never tried to put any shit in the game, and I don’t know of anyone who would try to be getting back at me. That’s why I’m trying to find information on who killed my nephew, Trayvon.”
“I thought you didn’t know where Diggity and Rychee is. How you an auntie if you don’t know my kids?”
“My foster sister, Chica, has five, well had five, now she has four. We were raised together in the same foster home.”
“Oh, okay. But look, li’l niggas get smoked all the time in the hood. Don’t nobody even give a fuck who did it. That’s just how it is.”
“Well, I do care.” I felt my blood pressure rising, I was so furious. I knew how, because it happened so frequently, many times the murder of black boys or men didn’t even make the newspaper or TV news. “Trayvon was family to me. I’m trying to find his murderer.”
“They got so many unsolved murders for us, they don’t care, sis. Just one less nigga as far as they’re concerned. It’s a war out here.”
“Well, I care. Can you help? Do you know anything?”
Mayhem was silent for a while. When he spoke up, his voice sounded cryptic. “Peep this. This thing is bigger than you know, lil’ sis. Be careful. Word is that some Narcs got in hock for a lot of drugs with the Crips, and the Mexican Mafia, playing both ends against the middle. I don’t know who these pigs are because they use street names. They go by L and M like those old cigarettes. I was on lock down when this shit went down, so they never bought or sold to me. ”
“Where are they now?”
“They done went ghost on a nigga. No one has seen them lately. See, their cover got blown.”
“Does anyone know who they are?”
“Those that knew done got wasted or are in witness protection programs one.”
“Okay, but what has that got to do with Trayvon’s murder?”
“I don’t know, Sis. All I know is your partner knew something on them, and he was getting ready to turn state’s evidence on whoever it was. He was an honest cop, like that Jake dude in Training Day. That’s why he got wasted. I hear they shot you, too. You all right? You sure you safe?”
“I’m fine now.”
“Yeah. Y’know I just got out and just found this out myself. I don’t now if it was L and M, there’s so many crooked pigs out there. I don’t know who did it yet, but when I find out who shot my baby sister, I’m gonna take care of it.”
Oh, shit, I thought. This is trouble. I got through the rest of our visit without showing my fear. We exchanged cell phone numbers and hugged each other.
“Be careful, Baby sis,” Mayhem said, walking me to my car.
I didn’t breathe deeply until I was out of Compton. You talking about relieved. I knew he was my brother, but I hoped I didn’t have to see him anytime too soon.
The pieces were beginning to come together for me. It was bad enough the crime lab report had been tampered with, and the bullets taken from Okamoto’s body had somehow mysteriously disappeared. But some of those names on the CD were not code names. Each allegation, from money laundering to drug racketeering to murder, to pandering of women, and all the perpetrators were law officers, top brass, or politicians. Some of them were cases I’d heard about when I was on the force, or crimes I’d heard on the radio, but many I hadn’t heard of. But was Okamoto’s murder related to the information on the CD? Who could have been the shooter? It could have been anyone. From what I’d read of the police record, the place was surrounded by law enforcement before they took me off to UCLA when I got shot.
I went on line and checked old newspapers and found each crime named had a date. Some of the crimes were not even reported in the media. I remembered the large quantity of confiscated drugs which had come up missing at the Police Central locker. But one of the names on the list was named L who was—Raymond Norris aka Flag.
Was this what Okamoto was planning on telling me?
What was I going to do?
25
After my visit with Mayhem, I fell into a state of turmoil, for that night. I couldn’t sleep. I was twisted up all inside. Because I was uncomfortable, I started jonesing for a drink again. I also wanted to take a drink because this searching for Trayvon’s killer was really getting next to me. I knew I had to do something, or I’d give in to my addiction.
I called my sponsor, Joyce.
“Joyce, I need help. Can I come over to the program?”
She agreed. “I hear the tension in your voice. Are you all right, Zipporah?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ll take a drink.” I paused. “This thing is getting harder each day.”
I wished I had kept a sponsor when I was on the force and had gone to AA. I’d thought about the coping techniques Joyce taught us while we were in rehab. She was good with using imagery and visualization.
It just seemed that nothing was working anymore. I’d tried all of what I remembered from her techniques that helped me cope with stress, but now that I was sober, none of these things seemed to be working.
I couldn’t wait until I sat in Joyce’s office on her sofa and closed my eyes, listening to her calming voice.
“See yourself standing on top of a mountain. You’re in your special place. Surround yourself with all your loved ones. This is where you go to heal.”
I tried to put myself on that mountaintop, but I was too stressed out. It was not working like it did when I was a child or when I was an adolescent. I tried to imagine my loved ones, but instead of visualizing a simple nuclear family unit, I saw several families together with jagged edges. First, there was Venita, and my three half-siblings, Mayhem, Diggity and Rychee. Then there’ was Shirley, Chill, Chica, and Chica’s surviving children, Malibu, Charisma, Soledad, and Brooklyn.
When I opened my eyes at the end of the session, I didn’t feel any better. I hadn’t even scratched the surface of what was going on with me. My sponsor was blonde and had blue eyes and it was embarrassing to even try to explain the family dynamics and dysfunction, which I grew up in. I left her office, feeling discouraged. I guess this was some ‘family work,’ as she called it, that I was going to have to put in myself.
That evening, when I made it back to my apartment, I kept staring at the picture of me with my daddy when I was about a year old. My thick head of baby hair had fallen out and I was baldheaded as an egg, but I looked a lot like my father. Same eyes. Same nose. Same forehead.
I dozed off with Ben curled at my feet. I had the same recurring dream, about my daddy sitting
up with the bullet hole in his chest, talking to me. But this dream felt real.
“Go back, Zipporah,” he said, “and you will get the truth. The truth will set you free.”
I sat straight up in my bed, dripping in sweat and heart palpitating so loud I could hear it in the room. I had to go back, but I needed to sort through what I could remember.
“Certain things are meant to be,” Venita used to say. According to my mother, the Santa Ana winds blowing in trouble was one of those things. I never forgot how my mother, looking out the door, watching leaves gust and pirouette in the rising wind, used to twist her mouth from side to side and shake her head. Grunting, she’d add, “A bad omen sure as my name is Venita I Love Jordan De la Croix.”
Perhaps that’s why when she met Strange, she didn’t see the wind at his back. She only noticed how he could talk to birds and that he had a parrot on his left shoulder. I didn’t have any pictures of them, but I still had a picture in my mind and in those images they were both young.
Just say our lives changed when Strange came to live with us in 1980. With what happened the fall of ’83, the Santa Anas had to be blowing something fierce that year. Afterwards, the world became strangely off-color and off-key. Even the leaves on the oak trees in L.A., which, contrary to belief, do turn amber, maroon, and cardamom in fall, gained a sinister look. Underneath the smell of jacaranda, oleander and eucalyptus prowled the smell of death. Yesterday, as I contemplated this enigma, I had no idea it would be an omen.
When I was growing up, my mother used to get depressed every December. That was the month the man she was living with left her when she was eight months pregnant with me because he heard that Venita wasn’t carrying his baby. True enough, when I was born, the rumors turned out to be true. Dave came back for a minute, but left her as soon as he saw me. He was light-skinned with kinky red hair, and I was dark-skinned with what they called “jet-black, good hair.” Venita was a red-boned beauty, as they called them back in the day.
L.A. Blues Page 16