South Central Noir

“Compatriotas?” the young woman replies.

“Yes,” Rocky says, “I notice you’re sporting the national colors and figured we’re compatriots.”

The two young people laugh. Rocky knows it’s nice to be recognized as Salvadoran, a people who live in anonymity, oppression, the culture of secrecy imposed by a country with a long history of military dictatorship, and, in the US, the faceless nothing of being “Latino.”

“My name’s Rocky,” he says. “I’m a private eye looking into the murder of Arnulfo Cartagena. I’m sure you’ve been asked about this before.”

“Yeah, the cops questioned us once,” the young man says. “But that was it.”

“So, you’re a real detective and Salvadoran?” the woman asks.

“Yes,” he says, and shows them his license. He looks at the posters of Che Guevara and the Salvadoran poet Roque Dalton in the corner of the rec office. “You know that we had detectives in El Salvador, including in the Frente?”

“You were in the FMLN?”

“Yes. We had compañeros who, in addition to being guerrilleros, were doing counterintelligence work.”

“You mean like chasing spies and infiltres?” the increasingly excited young man says.

“Yes, and there were many compañeras who did the work too. We also investigated crimes among members of the Frente — you know, rape, beatings, and even killings committed by some of our soldiers.”

“Wow. You were a guerrillero detective!” says the young woman. “That’s sooo cool.”

“So, what can you tell me about the people who use the gym at night?”

“Well,” the young man says, “the main people who use it are basketball players, mostly young guys playing pickup games and this one team that uses it once a week. Them and the church group from across the street that practices music here Mondays and Thursdays.”

“Church group?”

“They bring guitars, an electric drum set, a bass, and singers.”

“Who leads the band?”

“The guitar player. I think his name is Alfonso, a guy with a bunch of tattoos. I think he was in a gang. He’s the one we gave the keys to because they asked permission to stay late. And, you know, they’re in a church and they’ve always been respectful.”

Rocky heads to the church, acting like a feligrés, one of the faithful looking to reconnect with God after backsliding. Sure enough, he quickly locates Alfonso Mejia. He and the other band members use the space at night to rehearse songs of redemption with the blood of Christ.

Rocky had confirmed with local Salvadoran sources that Alfonso’s a former gang member, now part of the ministry of the church targeting at-risk youth for salvation. He also found out who led him out of the gang and into God: Pablo Guardado, the accused murderer.

Guardado had actually led the ministry targeting gang kids in South LA. He himself was a kind of peacemaker. What would lead him to go back to la vida loca? Rocky wondered. Maybe he never left it and remained connected. Many a homie has.

Rocky parks on Compton Avenue, on the same side as la Resurrección. It is about twelve thirty in the morning when the young band members open the door. Rocky steps out of his car.

“Alfonso?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Roque Anaya, private investigator. Folks at the Comite Esperanza asked my firm to look into the murder of Arnulfo Cartagena. I just want to ask you some—”

“Nah, bro. I ain’t got nothin to say to you,” the young church member says. “I’m not in that world anymore and already spoke with the police.”

“Which world?”

“Never mind.”

“The gang world. Actually, I’m told you’re still in la vida loca, using the tithes the faithful give you each week to buy one of God’s gifts: crack. Word is you’re like those Catholic curas who preach beautiful by day and party hard as hell by night.”

“What the fuck, ey? Who’s tellin you this shit?”

“People who have a lot more stuff to tell me, they say, stuff I can share with your wife, your friends in the congregation... and Homeland Security.”

“Fuck them — and fuck you.”

“Okay. I’m gonna give you a break and let you cool off and think about what you can and can’t tell me. I’d hate for your baby to graduate from elementary school without seeing his dad there.” Rocky had discovered that Mejia has a newborn son, a redeeming force without equal in the world of Salvadoran migrant gangs.

The young tiger’s balls have been touched. He adopts a pensive posture before speaking again. Rocky knows that deportation can often mean death to young Salvadorans. It also means not seeing their families. He knows precisely how to squeeze Salvadorans, many of whom live under the boot of being undocumented because the US government never recognized how it created a refugee and migration problem when it backed the fascist military dictatorships for all those years. Rocky doesn’t like using this lever, but needs to if he wants to get to the bottom of Arnulfo’s murder.

“Okay, okay,” Mejia says. “Look, I can’t talk right now. All I can tell you is that it involved escuadrones.” With that, the young man hurries to his Chevy and speeds away.