A few seconds later, Dupray, who was wearing boxer shorts and a red FUBU sweatshirt, opened the door and stared dully at us.
I immediately understood the provenance of his street name. His nose was long, wide, and aquiline- resembling an eagle’s beak more than a nose-and probably had been broken a few times because it had several switchbacks, like a mountain road. The FUC IT tattoo on the side of his neck was clearly visible in large block letters.
I flashed my badge and introduced Pinson and myself.
Dupray continued to stare into space, eyes unfocused, breathing through his mouth.
“Can we come in, Earnest?” I asked.
Dupray shrugged and we followed him into the living room, which contained a ripped vinyl chair with the upholstery spilling out, a stained throw rug over the cement slab floor, and a few plastic milk crates, which I figured were used for chairs. There were no curtains on the windows, just silver foil taped to the glass.
Dupray dropped into his chair, reached for a can of Schlitz malt liquor on the floor, took a long pull, and was immediately engrossed in a Blue’s Clues cartoon that was blaring from the television.
Pinson and I dragged milk crates across the floor and sat across from Dupray.
“Must be an interesting episode,” I said, jerking a thumb toward the television.
Dupray nodded, without taking his eyes off the screen.
I reached over and shut off the television.
“Hey,” Dupray whined. “Gotta watch my ’toons.”
“We’re investigating a homicide, Earnest,” I said. “We want to ask you a few questions.”
“Ain’t no thang,” Dupray said. “I got nothin’ to hide.”
“About a year ago, a Korean man who owned a grocery store at Fifty-fourth and Figueroa was killed,” I said. “We know that you were a witness.”
“How you know that?” he asked, looking genuinely surprised.
“I’m a homicide detective. I know a lot of things about you. Now I want you to tell me what you saw that afternoon.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll have to arrest you for withholding information from a detective,” I said, bluffing. “And book you into county jail, where they don’t show cartoons in the cell blocks.”
Dupray scratched his nose with a knuckle and swigged his Schlitz. “If I help you, will you help me?”
“How?” I said.
“I been lookin’ for a job around here, but nobody want to hire me. I think they prejudice against bruthas.”
“In South Central?” Pinson said, incredulous.
“Tha’s right.”
“Maybe it has something to do with that,” Pinson said, pointing to the FUC IT tattoo on his neck. “You get rid of that, and we’ll talk about getting you a job.”
Dupray rubbed his neck and stared out the window.
“Let’s get back to what we were talking about,” I said. “Can you tell us about the afternoon of the shooting?”
“Do I have to?” Dupray asked, still staring at the blank television screen.
I nodded somberly. “Yes you do.”
“All right then,” Dupray said, mouth open, with a blank, bovine expression. “What you want, again?”
“We want to know what you saw?”
“I seen a few things.”
“Can you recount your activities that afternoon?” Pinson said.
Dupray bit his lower lip, his forehead furrowed in intense concentration, and said, “Five.”
“What do you mean, five?” I asked.
“You ask me to count my activities that afternoon. I watch TV. I smoke some bud. I get a burger and fries at Jack in the Box. I walk down to the thrifty store across from that market to buy myself a belt. That five things I did.”
I suppressed a smile. “Actually, Earnest, that’s only four things, not five. But we said to re count your activities, not count. That means tell us what you did that afternoon.”
“I just did.”
“Okay,” I said. “What did you see when you got to the thrift shop?”
“I saw a guy with a cartoon mask comin’ up on the chink’s store. Had a rod in his hand.”
I exchanged a glance with Pinson. This was consistent with what Latisha-who had seen a man in a Shrek mask-had told me.
“Automatic or revolver?”
“Automatic.
“Shiny or dull finish?”
“Shiny.”
“Did you see what kind of car he’d been driving?”
“Didn’t see no car.”
“What did you do then?”
“I knew trouble coming down. So I beat feet.”
“Can you describe the man with the gun?”
“I just did.”
“Was he tall or short?”
“Can’t rightly remember.”
“Slender or stocky.”
“Too long ago.”
“What race?”
“No race. The dude was like walking.”
“Was he black, white, Hispanic?”
“Seemed black to me.”
“Any tattoos?”
“Homie’s wearing a tight T-shirt.” He tapped his fingers on his upper arm. “But I could see right under the sleeve that the dude had a big C and a big K, with the C crossed out.”
Pinson and I exchanged a glance. We knew this meant the shooter was a member of a Blood set. CK is a common graffiti in Blood neighborhoods. It means Crip Killer. And the C s are usually crossed out with big X s.
“Right or left arm?” I asked.
He patted his right arm.
“Did you see anything else interesting while you were there or while you were walking back?”
“Naw. I was movin’ fast. That all I know. Now can you come up with some kind of re — ward for me?”
“For what?”
He scratched the side of his head with a palm. “I hear about people who tell po-lice about crime activities get some re — ward.”
“If what you tell us leads to an arrest, we might be able to come up with something for you.”
We leaned against my car and Pinson said, “You think he’s holding out on us?”
“I think he’s too stupid to hold out on us.”
“What do you make of his story?”
I stretched, my back sore from sitting on the plastic milk crate. “What he said surprised the hell out of me. That’s a Crip ’hood.”
“Surprised me, too. There’s a dozen Crip sets crisscrossing these streets.”
“That’s why, when I first caught the case, I was chasing Crips.”
“I would’ve, too.”
“It’s been years since I worked the South End. What Blood set would be poaching in this ‘hood?”
“Let’s see,” Pinson said, stroking his chin. “A couple miles north are where the Back Hood Bloods hang. That
