South Central Noir

The white security guard went on, trying to enlist Darryl’s indignation: “New residents at the Gardens?” The Gardens. Darryl almost laughed at the nickname for the former eyesore he’d walked past his whole life. Residents had been begging for a new paint job for twenty years, but new paint only came with the reopening. The evictions.

“We’re keeping an eye out for a Black male,” the white one said.

I’ll let you know if I see him. It took all of Darryl’s restraint not to say it aloud. He did say it with his eyes, though. The Black security guard glanced away, getting the joke.

The song “Fuck the Security Guards” from Rusty Cundieff’s Fear of a Black Hat was in Darryl’s Friday-night mix, which he played late when there were fewer children in the store. It would be so easy to punch on the sound system and let it blast. Security guards were cops without the training or even imaginary ideals, and a whole gang of them had been hired to patrol the shopping center where Sankofa was nestled since the renovated apartment building across the street began leasing at three times the price. Leimert Gardens, the landlord called the complex now, although it had no garden and the bougainvillea flowers wrapped around the fence had turned brown and died years ago. Darryl had seen these two rent-a-cops before through his picture window at the counter, their necks swiveling as they marched up and down the strip like the street was under occupation. Darryl hoped that the sun was burning them up in those black uniforms that made them look like SS.

“About your height and weight,” the white security guard said without irony. The brother still didn’t meet Darryl’s eyes. “If you see anyone...”

“If I see me?” Darryl said. “Sure. I’ll give you a call. You got a card?” He held out his hand. The white security guard was confused by his juxtaposition of sarcasm and willingness. He finally reached into his front pocket, behind his badge, and pulled out a business card: South LA Security — established 2016. But now his minor irritation had bloomed to anger that turned his earlobes red. When he leaned forward, he stared into Darryl’s eyes almost like a lover — and that was when Darryl knew.

Darryl’s grandmother had called it his Third Eye, claiming it was his birthright. Darryl knew things that were unspoken sometimes, whispers of premonitions. His stomach always knotted when he brushed against knowledge that was none of his business, but he’d learned to use the feeling to avoid problems when he interviewed job candidates or suffered through first dates that wouldn’t lead anywhere except where he’d already been. This time, the feeling was even stronger: the knotting, but also a burning.

This guy was bad news, a violent bully. Okay, maybe he didn’t need a premonition to guess that, but Darryl knew this particular man — RICK, his name tag said, no last name offered — was a security guard because he couldn’t qualify for LAPD, which was a true testament to his instability. And he deeply craved an excuse to hurt a smart-ass like Darryl Martin Jones. To kill someone, if he could get away with it — just to see what it might feel like. Even his smile looked like a trap ready to spring. Darryl pulled his hand back, hesitating to take the card. He wanted no ties to Rick.

“You’ve got a great view of the street here,” the Black one said. “Maybe you’ll see someone you don’t know? Someone who doesn’t belong?”

The door jangled again, and this time a white couple walked inside, maybe in their late twenties, both in hiking sandals and cargo shorts, their toes bare. On an adventure together. They hesitated at the sight of the security guards, but after a quick assessment they decided the space was safe. Darryl noticed how the woman drew her arms around her oversized purse.

“Do you have any children’s books?” she asked Darryl. “Picture books?”

Darryl pointed to the colorful corner display at the front of the store with the child-sized plastic play table. Bright red. Truly impossible to miss. But because his desk was so prominent across from the door, he was the concierge from the moment customers walked inside — no need to look for themselves. “Picture books up front. Young adult’s near the back. Let me know if you’re looking for something specific.”

“Great!” the woman chirped. She seemed to notice how tightly she was clutching her bag and let it fall limp to her hip. “Just looking for something for my niece for Black History Month. This is a beautiful store.”

“Thank you,” Darryl said, his eyes back on the white security guard. He realized he had never taken the business card, which the guard still held out within his reach. He hated the part of himself that felt more at ease with white witnesses nearby. He even put on a show for them. “And we serve beautiful customers. In a beautiful neighborhood.”