South Central Noir

“Something I’ve learned over the years is that there are people who don’t like to have their hands bloodied with murders, people who use others to do their dirty work.”

“Hmmm. So the death squads might be working for someone?”

“Who knows? But it’s something to consider, if you’re Salvadoran sense is that Guardado was set up to kill Arnulfo.”

“I gotta go speak to Guardado.”

Rocky waits in the long visitors’ line at the hulking, labyrinthine LA County jail. The line is overwhelmingly made up of Latino and Black women and children going to see loved ones being warehoused by the government. After an hour and a half, Rocky finally steps into the glass-plated room to meet the murder suspect.

Guardado looks Rocky over as he strolls gangster-style to his seat in front of the glass. The evangelical minister is nowhere in sight. “You’re that guerrillero detective that used to hang at Casa Esperanza, right?”

“Yes,” Rocky says. “I knew your uncles from the movement.”

“Yeah, my tíos gave everything for that causa, and what do they have to show for it? Ni mierda.”

“No argument from me,” Rocky responds, as his stomach tightens. “This whole situation smells funny to me.”

“Funny? Funny how?”

“They’re saying you went and bought a machete at Liborio’s to kill Arnulfo.”

“And?”

“And that’s not how your homies in the gangs kill people anymore. Come on. You know that, you know MS and 18th have graduated to where their weapons of choice are revolvers or the occasional semiautomatic. Killing Arnulfo with a machete feels out of synch with where Salvadorans are now, including the gangs.”

“So fucking what, ey? What difference does that make to me? I’m fucked and gonna be put away for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, but what about your story?”

“My story?”

“Yeah, you know. The way people remember you and what you did. You were on your way to heaven before all this. I want to understand why you returned to hell.”

Guardado stays silent.

“Look, I’ve been checking out your case and have a hunch about it.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“That you were working with somebody to kill Arnulfo,” says Rocky.

“Somebody like who?”

“I dunno. The escuadrones de la muerte, maybe? Who even operated in LA, until a few years ago.”

“Well, Mr. Guerrillero Detective, that seems like a smart theory. Too bad it’s wrong. Look, man, you’re right. For my family’s sake, I ain’t never gonna tell you or anyone else anything. But I will say that there’s someone else, someone who wants to terrorize people. Though they don’t sport gang or death squad outfits.”

“And what kind of outfits do they wear?”

“El de la chota. Take it easy, terrorista.” Guardado turns around and leaves his side of the glass-plated room.

Holy shit, Rocky thinks as he walks back to the parking lot. The fucking cops in the gangs are the ones who put Guardado up to this murder in order to shut Arnulfo up and send a message to those who want to “abolish the police.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Mejia was talking about the escuadrones like he was in El Salvador, where the police and military were the escuadrones, the terroristas.

Rocky drives back to South Central and parks his car on Compton. He plays “Sabor a Mi” and thinks about telling Yagoda that he knows what his cop gang buddies did. But this terrorist thing is bigger than Yagoda and him. Rocky will listen to what the boleros tell him about diving into this bottomless pit of lies and corruption, murder and cover-ups.

“Sabor a Mi” begins again.

If Found Please Return to Abigail Serna 158 3/4 E MLK Blvd by Désirée Zamorano

Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard

My school counselor said that I have to do this. She said she wouldn’t, ever, read what I wrote. She added: not that she didn’t want to know what was going on in my head, it was just rude to assume someone could read the words you had just written. She would need my permission.

Her name is Ms. Cifuentes and she’s glaring at the two boys in the back who are mumbling to each other. I know why I’m here, but I’m not sure why they are.

Ms. Cifuentes seems to always have a bunch of us come see her, though we’re not in her office, which is tiny. Today we’re in an area of the cafeteria not far from where a bunch of other kids are messing around in the after-school program. That’s where kids pretend to work on their homework and people pretend to help them. What is real are the snacks that are handed out. I’ve tried to sign up a couple of times for that, but they looked me up and said my grades were too good for that.

Too good for free apples and string cheese? What’s up with that?

I am not thinking about my grades right now. I’m thinking about Ms. Cifuentes. She’s old, not as old as my mom, but she must be thirty at least. She wears black plastic glass frames that end up on the tip of her nose. She could be super pretty, if she wore makeup. If I had a face like that I’d fill in my eyebrows, do a cat’s-eye and a cherry lip.