'You think you could get in touch with American Macado?' Alexa asked Shane after dinner. They were standing in their little kitchen in Venice. He was rinsing dishes while Alexa put leftovers away.
'I don't know,' he hedged. 'Amac isn't exactly what I'd call a friend.' Shane was looking into the sink, watching the residue of dinner swirl off the plate and disappear down the garbage disposal. American Macado was a Mexican gangbanger with whom Shane had a very unusual relationship.
Before he learned that Chooch was his illegitimate son, Shane had discovered that the boy was hanging out in the Valley with a bunch of La Eme. Eme is Spanish for the letter M-Mexican Mafia.
After the Molar case Shane needed to put some closure on Chooch's gang affiliation. The set Chooch had been running with was the 18th Street Surerios, a Southern California branch of La Eme.
Shane found out from Chooch that he had not yet been officially 'jumped' into the 18th Street gang, and was still considered a peewee gangster or a 'P. G.,' a pre-initiate who did errands and drug lookouts.
The blood-in, blood-out oath of La Eme stated that the only way into the gang was to shed blood at the hands of the set, and the only way out was in a casket. Shane wasn't sure how this applied to Chooch. As a P. G., was he subject to some form of retribution if he tried to 'drop the flag'- the gang expression for leaving the set?
Like all P. G.'s, Chooch had a carnal grande, big brother, in the Surenos. He was a hardened, nineteen-yearold Hispanic street soldier with the unlikely name of American Macado, known by his carnales as Amac. His parents were both illegal, but American had been born in the United States so he had an American passport. His father, Juan, was killed in a bar fight when Amac was only nine. Back then Shane had read the CRASH gang report that said that American was living temporarily with his tia, who was sick, so Shane had decided to pay the soldado a visit. The house was in the foothills of East L. A., just twenty minutes from downtown in an unincorporated area known as Las Lomas, The Hills. The narrow streets meandered aimlessly and the houses were all old, mostly made of unpainted, weathered wood. Chicken-wire fences transected everything, the cadaverous remains of rusting trucks hosted flocks of skinny roosters and wandering goats. The many vacant lots were trash heaps, littered with broken lamps and unwanted household garbage. The predominate language in Las Lomas was Spanish.
Shane arrived at the aunt's house uninvited, and was met at the door by a beautiful teenage girl who introduced herself as Delfina. She had long coal-black hair and warm eyes that seemed to look right through you. She was around Chooch's age, or maybe a year younger, perhaps fourteen.
'Mi tio is out back,' she said, and led Shane to a precarious, broken-down structure that was once a garage. American Macado was working on his cut-down '78 Charger low-rider, which was painted blue, the gang color of the 18th Street Eme. Delfina left and Shane began a tense negotiation. He tried to convince American that Chooch had a chance for a better life. Slowly, Shane was able to see past Amac's street-hardened exterior. What he saw was a huge personal charisma. American Macado was an exceptional youth caught in a violent world he had adapted to and was learning to master. There was no doubt in Shane's mind that if he lived, Amac would become a force in the 'hood.
After two meetings at the house in Las Lomas, Shane had finally convinced the battle-hardened street soldier to let him present Chooch's case to the gang council. This meet was held once a week in a park off Francis Street in East L. A., where the 18th Street Surefios got together and 'kicked down' their street taxes to veteranos.
Shane had been told to stand alone and unarmed on a street corner in the Valley, two blocks from the police station. He did as Amac had instructed. At ten P. M. he was picked up by four Suretios, including American Macado, in a low-rider. The muscular teenager said nothing as Shane was shaken down for guns and a wire, then blindfolded and taken to the sit-down.
When he arrived, he found four veteranos seated at a park picnic table. Veteranos were the Latin-American equivalent of a Crip or Blood Original Gangster. Over thirty, they had survived against the odds to become set leaders. Shane could see carloads of young vatos in trademark blue headbands patrolling the park's perimeter streets in slow-cruising low-riders.
At the meeting, Shane made the case that Chooch should be allowed out of the gang without a penalty due to his youth and because he now had a father to look after him. He explained that his son lived in two worlds. He was not a full-blooded Mexican, because half his heritage was Anglo, from Shane. He talked about Chooch's chance for an education and one day, even the dream of college. The set leaders listened as Shane made his pitch. Then an 18th Street veterano named Raul Cantaras asked, 'Dis P. G. took de pledge, es verdad?'
'But he was very young… He didn't realize that he was signing up for life,' Shane said.
'He is a man now, he is ready to wear the thirteen,' Cantaras persisted. The thirteen was a tattoo that stood for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, M-Eme. You only got to wear the thirteen after you were jumped in.
'If he is ready for 'courting in,' then it is too late,' another veterano said.
Then the oldest veterano spoke. Shane knew him from the gang briefings. Carlos Martinez was an East Valley Inca. Incas were supreme leaders.
'In this situation, the vatito cannot go unless you could make an agreement,' the man said. He looked right at Shane and added, 'You are chow. What promises can la policia make to us? What favors do you offer?'
'I can make no promises and grant no favors. I am a man of honor,' Shane said softly.
The veteranos all frowned. Then American, who had said nothing up to this point, stood. He was only nineteen, but these older men were prepared to listen respectfully. He was already known on the street as one hundred proof, having earned the three R tattoo: Respect, Reputation, and Revenge. They all paid close attention as Amac spoke. He told them Chooch was his carnalito, his little brother… that Amac had promised the peewee he would hold his back, look out for his best interests. He said he wanted this chance for Chooch… that the feeling was de corazon, from his heart. He promised the veteranos that in return for letting Chooch out, he would kick down double his normal street taxes for the next year.
An hour later the meeting was over and Chooch had been released from the 18th Street. Suretios without condition. It had been Amac who made it happen.
On the slow drive back to where Shane had been picked up, the Emes in the low-rider said nothing, but as Shane got out of the car American Macado stopped him. 'Hey, gabacho, promise me you'll make this chance count.'
In that instant, Shane saw in Amac's face a desperate longing, as if he were looking over a fence as his little brother Chooch achieved something he would never have freedom from the gang life. But there was no turning back for Amac, and they both knew it.
'I promise,' Shane said. Then he walked away. He and Chooch had seen American a year and a half later at Magic Mountain amusement park. Shane looked over and saw the twenty-year-old Eme with half a dozen G'sters standing in the Batman roller-coaster line. Amac walked away from his vatos and approached Shane and Chooch. He had shaved his head since that night in the park, and was heavily sleeved with new tattoos. Shane saw a new T4L inked on Amac's right shoulder, which meant 'Thug for Life.' By now, it was certainly true.
'Que pasa, camalito?' Amac asked Chooch.
'I'm good. I was hopin' you'd come to one of my football games. I was starting as quarterback at Harvard Westlake this year.'
Amac smiled. 'A quarterback is just change on a candy bar, dude.'
Chooch smiled but didn't say anything, so Amac continued.
'Glad to see you takin' good care of yourself since drop-pin' the flag. I'm countin' on you to not get off the gate. Ta no quieres mi vida loca.'
Chooch nodded.
'Que viva la raza,' Amac said. Long live the race. Then he turned and walked away to rejoin his group.
Shane had heard during various LAPD gang briefings that Amac had been bumped up to 'big boy,' which was a set leader. Now, at the unheard-of age of twenty-one, he had replaced Martinez as the Inca for the East Valley. Shane was not surprised because he'd seen Amac's power and leadership that night two years ago when four thirtyyear-old veterans had listened respectfully while the thennineteen-year-old helped Shane.
Shane turned off the water in the sink and folded the dishrag over the gooseneck spout. 'I'm not sure it's good for me to be talking to him,' he told Alexa softly. 'He's not just a street soldier anymore; he's the Valley Inca.'
'I know what he is. I read CRASH briefings. But we've had two more assassinations. This time both were
