South Central Noir

Hope reached into the ridiculously small pocket of her jeans where she had five twenties rolled tight inside of a straw. That money would never be spent unless things blew up and they had to get out of town fast. Getting out of town seemed more and more likely, since they had already used up most of the favors they had coming from the girls they were down with; they were left with Aunt Thelma and Manny the Perv. She wouldn’t consider help from people she didn’t know well ever since that social worker tried to take Chauncey away. Hope had called her because she thought she had no choice; Rika and her boyfriend at the time were squabbling in front of the house and it got to the point that Rika had pulled her duce-duce on him.

That’s when Hope figured that she had to do something, so she unfolded that barely legible number for Child Protective Services she had saved to do the right thing, but the right thing turned out to be so wrong. The social worker arrived the next day, a small, dark-skinned Asian woman who listened quietly and took a lot of notes. Soon, it became clear that she knew all about Rika and that she already had a thick folder on her. Hope realized that the social worker wasn’t going to take Rika away, just Chauncey. Hope changed course and threw out the incontestable fact that Rika was the best fucking mother in the world and that she’d made up the thing about Rika chasing her fool boyfriend in the street, trying to shoot him in the ass.

Rika had realized that Hope was on her side and came on strong with lies knowing that she was a fly’s finger from losing Chauncey.

“Oh yeah, the house is messy because I been working long hours — I don’t own a gun and I’ve never shot at anybody — I’ve been off drugs and living a healthy life.” Rika continued lying her ass off with the best butter-couldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth routine. Hope nodded with fake enthusiasm at all the right places. The social worker shrugged, realizing that she didn’t have a case and left with a bitter look on her face. After the social worker cleared out, Rika charged Hope and brutally slapped her. Rika was a relentlessly neglectful parent, not a physically cruel one, and rarely hit Hope, but this time she looked murderous. “If I had time, I’d beat your ass good,” she had said, and disappeared into the street. That was just the start of the times when it went from really bad to unbelievably fucked up.

Hope wanted to fall asleep; it just wasn’t going to happen. What she needed more than anything was a chance to catch her breath; she didn’t see how she could. She had to calm down, to rest, maybe even sleep, though she didn’t like her dreams.

First headlight beams flooded the room, then steps, a key in the lock. The chair stopped the door from opening.

“Open up! Don’t keep me out here!”

“Oh shit, he’s here,” Hope said, still whispering as though Chauncey could possibly sleep through all the shouting. He wailed and Maria put her hands on top of her head as though she were trying to keep it from flying off.

“Hey, I hear you. Open the door!”

Hope knew the voice though she didn’t want to. Not him, not now.

“It’s Manny, he’s early,” Hope said, fear and anger in her voice.

Maria turned on the light and reached for the diaper bag and held it close to her chest. Hope held Chauncey in one arm and with her free hand pushed the chair away and opened the door.

Manny stood there in the doorway, silhouetted by the ample off-street lighting radiating from the parking lot — lighted parking lots supposedly kept gangsters away like sunlight did vampires, though vampires didn’t shoot the lights out.

Hope ignored him as she cooed to the baby, doing her best to calm him. For whatever reason he didn’t close the door behind him. Hope couldn’t bring herself to do it either. Somehow it closed itself.

With liquor stink all over him, Manny stumbled over to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and unlaced his boots. Suddenly this room with all the mirrors and purple everywhere looked like what it was: a place that pervs like Manny could get their freak on. He was a little man who walked with a cowboy swagger when he wasn’t staggering, and who drove a SUV so big it had a ladder. Brown-skinned and weathered like he earned a living outdoors, he was a building inspector for the city of Los Angeles. The owners of the motels around the bedraggled central city, all Patels and Kupuys — South Asians trying to make a living on some of the worst streets of Los Angeles — knew Manny’s kind, and comped him rooms to keep him smiling and happy as he had his way with underage girls.

“Where’d you find the boy?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Good, good. Didn’t know you had a white mama.”

“My mother’s not white.”

Manny grimaced like talking to Hope was too much work. He looked away from her and focused on Maria. “I finished my vacation early, just so I could get back here and spend time loving on you.”