South Central Noir

I’ve already tried going to sleep once. Caro was asleep above me, I could hear her breathing. I lay down, hugging the mattress. I could hear my heart pounding and pounding. I tried and tried to go to sleep. Nothing. I got up again. Started to write here.

I feel like that time when I was ten, when I stayed up late. Something was gonna happen, I could feel it. And it did happen. That night we had an earthquake that woke everyone up except me, because I was already awake.

I’m just lying here, writing, waiting for the earthquake to arrive.

Where the Smoke Meets the Sky by Nikolas Charles

South Figueroa Street

Olin’s heart raced as he crouched in the darkness watching the fire. What began as the small flickering flame of a match quickly grew into a furious blaze. A faceless fireman appeared in the doorway, the last one out. Before he could escape, the roof collapsed, crushing him under the weight of a thousand pounds. He let out his last gasp of air in a shrill scream expelling the devil smoke.

Olin awoke to realize the scream he heard was his own. By the time the morning siren sounded at 06:00 hours and the detention services officer announced rise-and-shine over the loudspeakers, his nightmare went silent. The same dream that played on the screen inside his head each night fell dark once more. He shielded his eyes as the fluorescents lit up the dormitory room where other male juvenile offenders snored and passed gas.

A delinquent named Linwood Earle eyeballed him every morning. Other boys warned Olin to keep his distance. He had black-on-black tattoos running up his arms and across his back. He had scruffy growth under his lip and around his chin. He had a permanent scowl and a deadeye gaze. Olin did his best to ignore him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he recalled the dream, he shrugged it off to his night sweats, one more hardship of life in the hot box called Central Juvenile Hall.

Olin rolled his wiry frame off the low cot and got in line for the latrine. Linwood Earle was still sitting on his bunk giving Olin the stink eye. He wondered how long it would take before the emotionally disturbed youth became combative. As soon as he started sleeping in the group room, this guy zeroed in on him. Honed in like some kind of nuclear missile.

A big Black DSO named Officer Hawkins approached Olin holding a clipboard. He was tall and thick with massive arms and a stern expression. His job was to maintain order and control of the unit and he took his job seriously. He circled Olin comparing the X number on the back of his wrinkled and sweat-stained uniform to his paperwork. “You’re Roberts, Olin Raymond,” he said. “Your defense attorney, Ms. Klein, is here from the Juvenile Court with some legal documents. She will meet with you in the front office.”

Olin walked with his head down and his hands behind his back. He remembered the lady attorney as soon as he saw her. She was damn good looking and smelled nice too.

“I’ve been handling some aspects of your case,” she said. “I brought LA County deputy probation officer Jesus Garcia here today to assist you with your successful transition back into the community. I met with the judge and the prosecutor this morning. The cause has come back as undetermined. Therefore, you’re no longer a suspect and the charge against you has been dismissed. You’ve been granted a release by a court order. Do you have any questions?”

“Am I really getting out?”

“You’ll be discharged in the custody of Officer Garcia. He will transport you to your new residence. Fortunately, it’s operated by the same staff as your previous group home. You can stay there until a more permanent revision can be instituted.”

Olin was glad to be getting out but it wasn’t all good news. He walked out to the lobby of the detention center after the three-minute shower they allowed him. His hair was still damp and unkempt. He was back in the street clothes he hadn’t worn in months. Jeans, a pair of Vans, and a black Public Enemy T-shirt.

Officer Garcia waited for him. He was an older Mexican man, probably fortysomething, Olin thought. He had a gold badge sewn on his shirt and a thick black mustache. Adults are dangerous. Cops even worse. Olin didn’t have any reason to trust him anymore than anyone else.

“Okay, amigo. Vamos!” the man said, leading him out of the building.

Olin kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the ground.

Garcia read his body language. “It’s all right, my friend. Everything will be better soon. Today is your lucky day.” He led the way to a white older-model fifteen-passenger transit van. “You’re my only VIP in this, our luxury limousine.”

“This is just a van.”

“Not just a van. It’s a big, ugly van. Climb in.”