Slipping Into Darkness Read online

  I hustled the boys out of the car, all the time looking over my shoulder. I rushed up the brick walkway and banged on her heavy mahogany door.

  “Is that you, Z?” Venita called through the door. She peered through her peephole and snatched open the door.

  As soon as Venita saw the boys, she broke into tears, grabbed all three boys at once, and began to kiss them all over their faces. She held all three of them in a headlock embrace. I was shaken. I’d never seen my OG Cripping mama cry before. I guess time brings about a change.

  “Leave us alone with all that mush,” Koran said, pushing Venita away.

  “Who is you anyway?” Tehran demanded, lip curled in defiance.

  “Yeah, we’re not babies. We’re soldiers.” Milan stood with his shoulders back, bandy legs arched, like he was one of those Ugandan children soldiers.

  “Now you see how bad this Crip thing is, Venita?” I shook my head in distaste.

  Venita ignored me. “Boys, I’m your grandmother.”

  “No, you ain’t. My grandmother in Brazil.”

  “My grandma live in Arleta.”

  “My grandma live in Southgate.”

  “Well, I’m all y’all daddy’s mama. Y’all may have different mamas, but y’all all got the same daddy. He my son. Y’all all look just like that boy.”

  “I thought his old lady was in jail,” Koran scoffed.

  “I’m his old lady, and I’m here. Do I look that old to you?”

  “Yeah,” Tehran piped up. “You real old.”

  I cringed. I remembered how vain Venita used to be, and with her new Rihanna-red weave and super long fake acrylic nails, she still thought, at fifty-one, she was quite a diva, even if a ghettofabulous one. Venita’s mouth crumpled and I could tell she was hurt.

  “Hey, Tehran.” I stepped in to soften his childish, outspoken blow. “You need to take charm lessons from your daddy. Now take Mayhem. He was a charmer, even when he was a little boy.”

  “You got that right. He sho was,” Venita said, eyes glazing over with her happy memories of my brother’s childhood before she went to prison.

  We stepped inside the living room. The house boasted light rosewood floors. A new, expensive-looking French provincial sofa and loveseat sat in the corner. The boys sat down. For all their bravado, the boys seemed at ease with Venita. I guess game recognizes game.

  “So you really is our daddy mama?” Milan asked, kind of with curiosity, kind of in awe. Apparently, Mayhem had told them about Venita and how her street reputation preceded her. If there was such a thing as being a ghetto celebrity, well, then Venita had been that back in the day. Whipping police’s assess, shooting, riding on drive-bys with the men, the whole bit.

  “Yeah. I sure am. What else you wanna know?”

  “I wanna know was my daddy a Crip when he was my age?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Well, why don’t he want us to be one? Talkin’ ’bout he wants us to go to college and work on Wall Street. Talkin’ ’bout how that’s really gangsta.”

  I was tickled myself at that. Mayhem may have been a criminal, but he was telling his boys the truth about that. More companies, countries, and Savings and Loans had been derailed by white collar crime than street crime could ever touch.

  However, Venita ignored their questions. “Come on in and eat some grits and toast. Your daddy loved grits when he was a boy.”

  “Venita, you’re gonna hafta get out of dodge–soon!” I urged. “Y’all can do the grandma-grandson thang once you get settled.”

  “Okay, okay, but they got to eat something. We’ll be out of L.A. by two this afternoon. There’s a Greyhound I can take.”

  “I don’t care where you go but make sure it’s not Atlanta or a big city where they can be traced. Change your phone number, and call me from a phone card when you get wherever you’re going.”

  I said my good-byes and awkwardly hugged my nephews. As I turned to leave, Venita reached up and hugged me.

  “Thanks, Z. I know this is a lot... .”

  Reluctantly, I hugged her back. I guess we had a new bond. We were both getting ready to descend into hell together.

  I didn’t breathe easily until I left the boys in Venita’s care. I felt like she was strong in a way that I’d never be strong. Like the fact she’d had babies and survived being separated from them, yet still could have hope at a second chance at life.

  I still wouldn’t feel right until I got word they were safe out of the state. Somewhere. Anywhere. I didn’t even care. Anywhere but here.

  Chapter Nine

  After I left Venita’s, I decided to go and sniff around before I went to the doctor in Westwood.

  I called and scheduled the so-called quack doctor’s appointment for later that afternoon, but I wanted to check out a few leads. First, I planned to go to the jungle. I decided to contact F-Loc since he was an OG who kept his ear to the pulse of the streets.

  It was noon by the time I drove up Crenshaw Boulevard, heading for the jungle, which was off Martin Luther King Boulevard. Driving along, I took in the L.A. sights and sounds. The feel of an open African market was palpable. Black Muslim brothers from the Nation of Islam sold the Final Call magazine and the famous bean pies. Vendors had set up on street corners selling incense, cheap paintings, imitation Oriental rugs, and various goods. A few local authors were even selling their books from stands they set up on the corner. I couldn’t knock an honest hustle though.

  This was a neutral territory. First, you have to understand something. L.A. has an invisible grid covered with gangs. You have to know the streets, and the terrain, to know which territory you’re in or you could wind up in a world of trouble. Just one street in the wrong direction could mean your life. Thank goodness, I knew Bloods’ territory, Crips’ territory, and the different Mexican gang areas. You even had Asian gangs to contend with in L.A. Many of the foreign gangs started out as protection groups because they were immigrants, but they grew into gangs and cartels once the drug trade became involved. Each gang had its own loyalties, its own turfs to protect. Most of the turfs were to be protected for money and for commerce.

  Then you had the other 95 percent of working stiffs, people who, like me, lived out their lives in relative peace until a member of their family was killed or got on crack. This is how I became a PI in the first place: when Trayvon was murdered.

  Thank goodness, I knew the invisible map of L.A. like the lines in the palms of my hands. I learned some of the gang territory from growing up in it, some more of it as an LAPD officer; then, later, I learned the rest as a private investigator of the hood.

  F-Loc had unofficially become part of my street team, my off-the-record CI–confidential informant. Each person was like his own little CIA—central intelligence for the streets.

  I gazed up at the pigeons squawking and filling the sky as I entered the jungle–the place in L.A. they say has only one way in, and one way out. The pigeons or tumblers were being flipped as an announcement of my presence. Although I hadn’t been a policewoman in a couple of years now, the denizens still considered me “one time.” This was a game but also an announcement of a potential legal arrival.

  The smell of the large Dumpsters wafted in the air. Welcome to the jungle.

  I called F-Loc on his private cell phone number as I sat outside his gated apartment building. “Loc.”

  “What it be?”

  “Z, here. I need your help again. I’m out front.”

  “Let me come down.”

  Unlike in the past when he was always accompanied by his muscle, F-Loc came down alone. He had learned to trust me over the past two years and never brought his boys with him. He used to bring his bodyguards and frisk me for a wire. He’d learn that I would use information, but his name never got put up in the mix. He trusted that I could get jobs done.

  Once he came down, he plopped down in the car seat next to me. I got straight to the point. “My brother’s been kidnapped. You know anything about this?”


  “Yeah, the streets is buzzin’. Sorry to hear about Mayhem. You know he was always a stand-up dude.”

  I panicked. “Why are you talking about him in the past tense? Have you heard anything? Is he still alive?”

  “No, I don’t know. You know these Mexican cartels are beginning to kidnap and take over territory. They pretty ruthless.”

  “Does that have anything to do with his kidnapping ?”

  “Naw, but this war on drugs does.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This war on drugs is a bunch of bullshit. The government don’t want to get rid of no drugs. This is an international business. Almost every industry is run through some form of drug money that’s been laundered. Rap, the car industry, guns, you name it. Not to mention the crooked cops and the different cartels who ain’t gon’ get paid if this stuff ever ends.”

  “So what is your point, F-Loc?”

  “It’s getting harder and harder for the brothers to make money in L.A. The Feds have cracked down on the border. Business is being conducted out the country now. They’ve even cracked down on the Colombians.”

  “And?”

  “Word on the street is that a big crime family in Brazil was cutting a deal with Mayhem and this was going to be his new connect. Some of the Eses got mad and felt he was undercutting them. He sent wifey, who used to be one of his mules, to do the deal; plus, she’s from Brazil and can speak that Portuguese. Anyhow, she’s being held hostage there with the money. Your brother was making some big moves since he got out last year, and somebody didn’t like it.”

  “Do you know anything about his strip club?” My job was like being part of the CIA of the streets. You had to get out there to get information.

  “It’s cool. I slid through there a few times.”

  “What’s the name of it?”

  “The Kitty Kat Koliseum.”

  “What street is it on?”

  “Hollywood Boulevard.”

  “So it’s in Hollywood?”

  “Yep.”

  “How about a tattoo with a snake on a pole?”

  “Those could be any of the Mexican gangs, but I think it’s mainly part of a family.”

  “Which tattoo parlor do they use?”

  “The main one the Eses use is in the barrio. It’s called the Innovative Tattoo Shop.”

  Someone knocked on my car window on the rider’s side and I almost leaped out my skin. It’s not always a safe place to be sitting in a car in the jungle.

  “F-Loc.” I glanced up to see someone who looked like a typical crackhead. Chapped lips. Knotted hair. Dirty. Shaking. “Give me a nickel bag. I swear I’ma pay when I get my GR check first of the month.”

  “Look, nigga. Do I look like government cheese sittin’ up in here? I ain’t givin’ a nigga a free nothin’. This ain’t the welfare. You see me talkin’ business. Get yo’ ass away from this car before I break my foot off in your ass.”

  Then, F-Loc turned back to me as if nothing had happened. “Sorry ’bout that. Like I said, shit is dryin’ up. I used to could break a nigga off, but not no more. Times is tough out here on the street. I ain’t givin’ out nothin’ but tombstones and ya got to be dead to get those.”

  I suppressed my laugh, so that he would know I was serious about my business. “Okay, thanks, Loc.”

  We bumped fists, and he climbed out of my car. Shaking my head, I drove off. I’d worked in the male culture so long as a policewoman, I’d picked up a lot of their ways. That’s why I was still trying to detox from all that swearing like the proverbial sailor. It’s not ladylike, and whenever I’m around Romero, he treats me like I’m fine china, so now I notice I don’t even want to curse.

  I didn’t know who to believe–F-Loc or the so-called agents. I bet the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

  Chapter Ten

  On a hunch, I jumped on the San Bernardino Freeway and drove out to the Innovative Tatto Parlor on Cesar Chavez Avenue. It was when I pulled up in front of the turquoise adobe-looking shop that I decided what I would do. I flashed my badge, quickly, the same way the Feds did to me at the Academy Awards that night.

  “Inspector Saldano.” I decided to pretend to be an inspector and I spoke with authority. “Who’s the owner?”

  The shop only had a half dozen patrons in it. Five men and one woman sat in chairs lined up against the wall, waiting patiently, as if they were waiting for a barber. Everyone was speaking Spanish, but I knew the language, which was an advantage. My father taught me Spanish before he died and Chica had taught me a lot of the language when we were growing up together.

  Some tattoos were frivolous, but many told a story. I’d read of a case where one man was arrested because he had the murder scene tattooed on his chest, and this scene got him life.

  “I am.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Pedro Garcia.” A short Hispanic who sat in a stool working on a client looked up and held his drill in midair.

  “We had a complaint from the health department.”

  “Oh, no, senora.” I could see the fear in his eyes. I wondered if he even had a business license or whatever was required to have a tattoo parlor. I looked around on the wall and didn’t see one on display.

  He was working on another Latino man, who had more tattoos on his face than Lil Wayne. “I’d like to see the tools you’re using.”

  He showed me his tattoo gun.

  “Do you clean it after each person?”

  “Sí.”

  “We had a complaint from people who had a tattoo that like looks like a snake on a pole. Could you show me a picture of this tattoo?”

  He pointed to his wall which had different customers poising with their tattoos. I took a picture of the tattoo with my cell phone.

  “I haven’t done that one but once. They’re common though.”

  “Do you know who belongs to?”

  “It belongs to Bonzo.”

  I spoke in Spanish. “Do you have an address or phone number for him?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’m going to give you a chance to clean this place up. Get your business license, too.”

  I decided not to press the issue and left. I wrote the name Bonzo down in my cell phone and left. I e-mailed the picture of the tattoo to Chica, who was getting pretty good as a bounty hunter in tracking people down.

  Chica called right back. “Where are you, mija?” She sounded worried sick. “Are you all right?”

  “I decided to try to help my brother.”

  Chica let out a sigh. “I’m glad you’re going to do it, but be careful.”

  “Did you get the e-mail?”

  “Sí. What do you want?”

  “Do you know which gang sign this tattoo this belongs to?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can find out.”

  “See if you can find a gang member with a street name Bonzo in your database. He would be part of a Mexican gang.”

  Chica had gotten really good at setting up our own private databases, which I had found to really come in handy as we built our businesses.

  “When are you going to go home? Romero even called looking for you. That was a first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sounded a little jealous, too. I’d never heard that in his voice before.”

  “He had to leave last night on business. I understood. He should understand now that the shoe’s on the other foot. Besides, he knows this is the kind of job we both have.”

  “So you’re working?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess he was just worried because he hadn’t heard from you. Keep me posted if you need me.”

  Chica dropped the subject. She was so happy to be working and standing on her own two feet for the first time in her adult life, she often deferred to my decision. “I appreciate you mentoring me, mija. You’re really showing me how to work the streets. ” She laughed, I guessed recalling her days of prostitution. “I mean, w
orking the streets in a good way. I feel good about myself when I bring in these bail jumpers.”

  I pulled out my phone and typed down what I could reenact of the abduction.

  Chapter Eleven

  As I looked over my presumably forged passport, I vacillated between my instinct of fight or flight. I really didn’t know what to do. Did I really want to go down this road? These people didn’t play. I had no idea what I was going to be going up against. I really didn’t want to get involved with his wifey, Appolonia, either, because for one, I didn’t know her and, for two, she really wasn’t my concern. I guessed she was as my nephews’ mother, but I resented that I would have to help her in order to help free my brother. This was a package deal. In order to free my brother, I was going to have to find her to even get the money.

  I looked up an Appolonia Silva, and I couldn’t find any record for her online. I also checked databases that I’d learned how to hack from Okamoto, who was a geek/hacker. I tried the Department of Motor Vehicles and checked the Department of Justice databases. I wondered if she was in the country illegally. The Appolonia Silva I did find only had a record in the last twelve years. Before that, her life seemed murky. She was like a female Adam. Just appeared on earth. At least Eve was taken from Adam’s rib.

  I went online with my phone and looked up Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Before I could get into the politics, the war on drug problem, the rainforest, my phone rang. I glanced down. It was Romero.

  “Where are you?” His voice sounded like controlled anger. At the same time, it cracked with anxiety. I’d never heard him that upset. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

  “You wouldn’t believe what has happened.” I couldn’t even muster up the courage to tell him what I’d been through.

  “Yes, I had a bad night too, but when I got back home I expected to find you here. You all right?”