Street Rules

'Well, just look at her!' she sputtered. 'That girl couldn'a been up to no good. Uh-uh.'

Then she went into the diatribe Frank knew by heart. How this used to be a nice place to live until the gangs started taking over and why didn't the police do anything about them? Always disposed to recruiting snoopy neighbors, Frank sympathized for about two minutes before taking a firm but graceful exit. She tried a few more places where she thought she might find Lydia, then tried the apartment again. Frank's luck was good because Lydia was just slipping the key into her lock.

'Hey.'

Lydia jumped. She relaxed slightly when she saw it was just Frank, but didn't finish opening her door.

'Got a couple questions for you. Want me to ask out here or some place private?'

Lydia grumpily clicked the lock, allowing Frank into a dime-sized but tidy apartment.

'How you afford this?'

'Ocho pays for it.'

'Damn. He pays for the place where you're knockin' boots with an off-brand. You got some nerve,' Frank praised. 'Let me ask you something personal. Did you and Placa ever do business together?'

'What do you mean,' Lydia asked, her dark eyes narrowing to slits.

'You know, like hustlin', going somewhere to do business outside the 'hood?'

Lydia cracked her gum, eyeing Frank with obvious disdain. She made a grunting sound, 'You mean like those low-class putas that hang out on the corner?'

'No, not like those skanks. I mean real nice, high-class work. None of that strawberry shit.'

'We don't gotta do that,' she said, her disgust becoming disbelief. 'Why you askin' that for?'

'It's just something I heard. I just-'

'Who you heard that from?' Lydia cried. 'I'll lay that fuckin' chingona out on the sidewalk. Who tolt you that? Don't nobody know nothin' about me and Placa.'

Lydia's indignation was real, and Frank calmed her, lying, 'Hey, it's no big, just some trash I heard from a kid in lockup. Did you ever meet her anywhere outside of here? You know, where no one would see you together?'

'People can see you anywhere,' Lydia said angrily. 'I tolt you, we hooked up here.'

'Nowhere else?'

'No.'

'What happened when you two saw each other on the street?'

'We'd flash each other. We'd dis each other, but not too much. We didn't want to start no trouble.'

Frank nodded, 'Tell me again about the drugs. Did she ever tell you who she sold to, or where? Anything like that?'

'I already tolt you that too,' Lydia explained.

'I know. I'm stupid. Tell me again,' and she did so, exaggeratedly patient, like Frank was a slow child. Frank again asked where Placa was going when she left her that last day. Lydia again said she didn't know.

'She did that sometimes. Just said she had to go somewhere. She'd get real sad and mad like. I asked her once or twice but she never tolt me. Said she couldn't, so stop askin'.

Lydia was wistful when she added, 'She was different like that. Cholos always be talkin' about what they done and what bad-asses they are, but me and Placa, we din' talk about where we been or where we are. We liked talking about where we wanted to be.'

'You knew she wanted to go to college, right?'

Lydia's animosity softened, 'Yeah, that was her dream. She used to say she had to get out of here. She said she'd take me with her when she left and that we'd leave this vida loca foolishness. One time,' Lydia smiled behind her hand, 'she said she wanted to be a cop and come back and arrest all the P51s.'

'What was your dream?' Frank asked.

'To go with her,' Lydia whispered.

'All right,' Frank said, feeling a pang of tenderness. 'You be careful out there. Don't make me have to be asking questions about you someday.'

'I can take care of myself,' Lydia huffed.

'Yeah, I know. That's what Placa used to say.'

Chapter Twenty-three

Frank had been determined to get to the Estrella's, but the 93rd pulled a new case before briefing was even over — a Korean store owner beat to death at dawn while rolling up his metal storm door. Tensions between black and Korean communities ran high in south-central. The blacks accused the Koreans of sabotaging their neighborhoods by operating liquor stores on every corner. The Koreans said they had every right to run a business where there was opportunity. Frank had called Fubar before they even rolled and he arrived as the coroner techs were loading the vies body.

The brass knew crime scenes were off-limits even to them, yet they consistently ignored the yellow police tape.

Foubarelle stepped under it and Frank was grateful he hadn't arrived earlier to fuck up the evidence collection.

'What have you got?' he asked, his chest puffed like a fighting cock.

Frank indicated three separate people talking to detectives. Smoothly guiding her supervisor back under the tape, she said, 'We actually have wits to this one. The old man was walking up the street. Saw a tall, muscular, black male, shaved head. He was arguing with the owner. He thinks the suspect's name is Luther Moore. Everybody calls him Mr. Em. Styles himself a Muslim but the old man says he's a bum. He got a little closer and he heard this Em saying he just wanted a pack of cigarettes. The vic, name's Ruk, he owned the store, but he wouldn't open up. Old man says Em kept arguing. Says Ruk seemed frightened and was trying to get into the store but Em was in his face. Em grabbed the vie by the arm and slammed him against the building. Then he picked up a garbage can,' Foubarelle frowned at the garbage still coating the sidewalk, 'and threw it at Ruk. Ruk went down, then Em picks up the can again and starts beating the vie with it. That's what the other two described too.'

'Shit,' Foubarelle said. 'It had to be an African-American.'

Frank smiled, knowing he was worried about the reporters pacing the area, cat-calling questions at him.

'Have fun,' she offered, but he grabbed her sleeve.

'Do we have any idea where this Mr. Em is?'

'Nope. Old man thinks he lives a couple blocks south. Might be an Eleven-Deuce Crip.'

That was LASD jurisdiction and Frank confirmed their notification. Inglewood and Watts PD, along with Southeast Division, had an APB too. Noah walked by, clucking, 'And they say smoking's not addictive.'

Frank put her whole squad on Ruk. They spent the next twenty-four hours searching for Luther Moore, amid howlings of the media, black and Korean business and community directors, deputy chiefs, the Chief, even the mayor. Frank could see them all churning this into another riot and pressed her crew mercilessly.

At approximately two o'clock the following afternoon, Southeast got a complaint from a woman who said there was a man sleeping in her garage. The responding officers found Luther Moore curled up in an Impala on blocks, snoring loud enough to scare Christ away.

Frank called Gail from the Alibi's payphone, exhausted, but exhilarated that their suspect was in lock-up.

'Been a long week,' Frank said. 'I'm glad it's Friday. We gonna see you tonight?'

'I don't think so. I've had a long week too.'

'Look,' Frank yelled, a finger in her other ear. 'I've got an idea, if you're not busy tomorrow.'

'I should chain myself to my desk until I can see the top of it again,' Gail sighed. 'But I'm sure your idea's better. What is it?'

'It's a surprise. I think you'll like it.'

'Another hegira?' Gail teased, making Frank smile.

'Not what I intended. Just be ready for me to pick you up at nine AM.'

'Where are we going?' Gail asked.

'If I told you it wouldn't be a surprise. Just wear something comfortable and plan on being gone all day. Can you do that?'

'I think I can handle it,' then, 'What are you up to?'

'Just trust me. Go home. Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?'