Cravitz rose at 4 a.m. on Saturday, Halloween day, and promptly got things going. Two hundred sit-ups,
He put on his robe and slippers and strode out into darkness of his rose garden. His rambling View Park home was situated along the ridgelines of the north-facing heights. He clambered to the garden summits.
As the sun rose, Cravitz touched his forehead reverently against the earth and said a prayer to the awakening world and to his ancestors and vowed, as he had every year for a decade, to be a good man and do at least one good thing for someone more needy than himself. For twenty-four hours he’d drink only water and fast from his bad habits: gratuitous violence, pussy-chasing, wine, and greasy-ass food consumption.
Things were going swimmingly until Cash called.
“Happy Halloweeeeen, little brother,” the old dude began.
Cravitz winced. His big brother Cash had burned up careers as a policy man, a dope man, a loan shark, and a hustler. He’d done time at Folsom, at Vacaville, and at Pelican Bay. For many of L.A.’s starry-eyed wannabes, he stank of money, power, and the streets. He was now in his fifties but still had the tastes and habits of a small-town hood.
“It’s your world,
“Naw, you d’play-a,
“What ya want?” Cravitz said.
“Y’boy Yip been here,” Cash said.
“Already?”
“Yep, he ran by early this morning. I was just gettin’ outta my breakfast meeting with Bennita and ’nem. The muthafucka was staring at Bennita like she was made outta cake.”
“How did he look?”
“Skeerd as a cat.”
“Scared?”
“Did I stutta?”
“You give him the keys to the place in La Caja?”
“He got ’em and gone.”
Cravitz breathed a sigh of relief.
“He didn’t leave that pretty gun, though. That Mexican ain’t dumb as he looks. Th’ chump oughta give it to me. Woulda been mines long time ago if I’da had my way.”
“I don’t know why Yip is so spooked.”
“And, honey, is he. Talkin’ freakish. Didn’t even sound like hissef,” Cash said, then added with an amused cackle, “Yip fuckin’ somebody’s wife?”
“Yip’s a choirboy.”
“Oh, he fuckin’ somebody’s boyfriend then. Somethin’ up,” Cash said, then dropped the subject. “When you comin’?”
“Now,” Cravitz said.
“Well then, c’mon, boy. I done took care of y’friend. Now I needs you t’ take care of some messy bi’ness, f’me.”
Cravitz knew his brother, a man of fixed habits, was taking his morning grits and waffles at the Chit Chat Room, his four-star Southern-style eatery in the mezzanine of the Chateau Rouge. He was feeling happy, frisky, and evil, and, as usual, trying to bum a little free labor.
“How messy?” Cravitz asked.
“Middlin’ messy, I figure,” Cash went on with a chuckle, “You remember Bingbong Jackson? You know, that piecea pimp I used to hang wit from Vegas?”
“Umhuh.”
Cravitz had a low opinion of Bingbong. He had won his distinctive moniker during childhood. Every time he tried to snatch the purse of some unsuspecting grandmother, he’d whack her in the mouth-
“Well, he done hooked up with a pretty yella bitch name Bennita. They got a pad up in Vegas. They be staying at the Chateau Rouge f’Halloween. We gots a job f’you.”
“Bingbong Jackson ain’t done a sane act in his whole life,” Cravitz said darkly, “What’s that shitheel getting you into now?”
“They in th’ music bi’ness. Gots fo’, five little hoodlums from the projects with ’em,” Cash said thoughtfully, ignoring his brother’s rebuff. “Bingbong say these little thugs goin’ platinum. Some new kinda rap shit. Call theysef Fluboor, Flowbird… some shit like that.”
The Flo Boyz were a sensational new gangsta rap quartet out of Vegas. They were riding the crest of a publicity wave because of a violent spat they’d had with Strongbeach Posse, one of L.A.’s hot rap groups.
“I think this Bennita gonna let me smell her pussy if I book these boys on the main stage at Satin Dolls. They s’pose t’be th’ shit. Jes look like snotty-nose hoodlums t’me,” Cash went on. “Y’ wont me t’ send round the car?”
“Naw, play-ah,” Cravitz said wearily. “See ya at the Chateau.”
Cravitz rolled out in his ’56 T-Bird rather than the Escalade. The classic candy-apple sports car better suited his sly, nostalgic mood. Besides, the goddamn thing glittered like jewelry on the streets. He threw on his red T- Bone Walker T-shirt, his $2,000 snakeskin boots, and his favorite ragged jeans. The T-shirt slouched nicely over the big.45 Beretta he always carried, strapped on his left hip. He jetted down Stocker and when he hit Crenshaw, turned north to King.
Feeling suddenly impish, he slowed the roadster to a crawl and slouched low in his seat, kicking it old school with The Shirelles blasting on the box, like some
The Chateau Rouge, with Satin Dolls, its notorious adjoining bar, was situated on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard five blocks west of Crenshaw. It was a ten-story structure built in 1958 by renowned Los Angeles architect Paul Williams. Its facade was polished black marble, steel, and glass. It looked like a fat stack of bop records ready to be played. The whiteboy architectural critic for the
The hotel’s main driveway was already bumper to bumper with fancy automobiles when Cravitz slid up-twenty patrons were lined up for the Chit Chat Room. It opened at 5 a.m. and featured the best and cheapest breakfast in town: two eggs, Louisiana sausage, bacon, grits, two biscuits, and a cup of java for five bucks. The menu also featured New Orleans seafood, chit’lins under glass, East Texas hot wings, smothered chops, ham hocks and brains, and Johnnie Walker Black.
For Halloween, all the valets and chauffeurs wore black satin masks along with their red satin togs. Darlinda Smalls, the valet captain, waved him to the front of the line.
“Us girls got something for you, Quick,” Darlinda said, and all the girls started singing Stevie’s version of “Happy Birthday.” When they were done, Aleta Wright, one of the fine-ass Chateau Rouge lady chauffeurs, took Cravitz’s keys. It was already eighty degrees and Aleta was dressed for the weather in the Chateau Rouge’s trademark peek-a-boo red satin tux.
“Hey, bitch!” a voice behind him growled.
Cravitz turned. Behind him stood a quartet of young men. One of them, a tall pasty-faced yella boy with bling braces, held up his fists and showed two sparkling rings, each one spanning a hand, spelling:
Another brandished a sawed-off shotgun.
“Hey, Monster,” the pasty-faced boy said to the kid with the shotgun, “cover me.”
“What’s your name, son?” Cravitz said to the young thug with the gun.
“Monster P,” the boy said.
“That what your mama named you?”
