South Central Noir

He decided to head back northeast. Before Mario’s Tires at 68th he caught another tail. He remembered what the LA County therapist had said about paranoia: “As an abandoned youth, it’s expected that you’ll have some emotional disturbances.” This time it wasn’t an illusion. He could spot those headlights anywhere. Pure white and piercing.

A group of Black bruisers loitered on Figueroa near Marina’s Mini Market. They looked like the same crew who had taunted him before. When one of them waved him over, he rolled down his passenger-side window and pulled the truck in front of them.

“Need some weed? I got the good shit,” the dealer said.

Olin said no with a quiver in his voice as the man moved closer. A tall goon with a buzz cut and gauges in his ears stood beside him sucking on a spliff. A big thug in a sweat-soiled wifebeater appeared at the driver’s-side window, wide enough to block out the light. The pusherman leaned in with menthol breath and a tobacco-besmirched grin. He had an iced-out chain around his ink-stained neck.

“So, lookin’ for what, homie? Blow? Crack? Smack? Crank?”

“I need a firearm. I mean a piece.”

“Say what? You wanna buy a gun, New Jack? You fixin’ to go on a killin’ spree?”

“No. Protection only.”

“Dee-fense from the Five-O? I feel ya. How much you spendin’?”

“How much do I need?”

“Depends on what it is, know what I’m sayin’? Could be a revolver like an S&W or Ruger. Or a semiauto like a Glock or Sig. Then you got yer assaults with high-capacity mags. They be like AKs and shit.”

“Just a handgun, I guess.”

“Listen, homie, you better not be playin’. Meet me at Florence and Normandie tomorrow night in the alley between the gas station and the hot dog place. Make it midnight and bring a wad.”

Olin had second thoughts about meeting with the hoodlum — the guy had neck tattoos and a creepy vibe — but he had to go. He pointed the truck south on Figueroa, turned right on Florence, and continued west, crossing over Normandie. He picked out the drop spot from a distance, a place called Art’s Chili Dogs. It was wide and squat with an awning in front. It was closed and dark and butted up against a beige residence with black iron bars across the windows.

Olin turned left between the food stand and the gas station, into the narrow alleyway. The three roughnecks were already there with the trunk popped and their arms folded. Their car was parked in a garage with the back end facing out. “That’s him,” he heard someone say. They eyed him up and down.

“You’re late,” the dealer said.

“Sorry.”

“Got the bread?”

Olin nodded, tapping his front right pocket. The hoods stole glances at each other, shifting back and forth in low-slung pants and oversized basketball shoes.

“Let’s see it.”

Olin pulled out a pile of crumpled bills.

“Damn, boy. Count that bitch out for me.”

Olin’s hands fumbled and shook as he flattened out the bills and counted up to two hundred. The big thug took the money and stuffed it into his pocket. He nodded at the tall goon, who reached into the trunk and passed something to the dealer.

“For that, all you can get is this,” the man said, ramming the butt of a small black handgun into Olin’s sternum. Olin wheezed and coughed.

The three men disappeared into the garage and yanked the door shut. For a minute, Olin stood there alone in the alley. Now that he had a gun, he was ready for anything.

Olin had to find something to burn. He gathered the mismatched hand towels, stained T-shirts, and ladies’ panties that he’d collected from the Lavandería lost and found. He rolled each one tightly and tied it with twine, then loaded them into the bed of the truck along with the can of gas and the cleaning fluids from the janitor’s closet. He would soak each one with flammable liquid when he got to the site. It was a good plan, it was solid.

Olin darted out of the parking lot of Angel’s Plaza after midnight and drove south on Figueroa. He passed the lizards and the curb crawlers hunting them. There it was on the southwest corner of the intersection, a vacant one-story house labeled with a Condemned sticker. It sat on a slab in a small lot of dirt and dead grass. Olin thought he was doing the neighborhood a favor, ridding it of this hazardous eyesore. He turned right and parked on West 65th.

With his supplies in hand, he walked up the darkened walkway. He rattled the handle of the front door — it was locked and sturdy. Olin went around back to find another entrance. A horizontal board nailed across the back door was its only lock. Three kicks was the right combination: the door swung open into an entryway marred by vandals. He stepped over shards of glass and into the front room, treading slowly on the loose floorboards. He bent down to soak the laundry items in the accelerant when a shadow blocked the light from an outside streetlamp.

“What up, playa?” a voice said. In the dim light, Olin saw it was the dealer who’d sold him the gun. Flanked by his two hustlers, they blocked the only exit.