Baxter Clare - L.A. Franco 2 - Street Rules by Baxter Clare

Author:Baxter Clare [Baxter Clare]
Language: spa
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781931513142
Google: byQFAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 1931513147
Publisher: Bella Books
Published: 2003-02-01T03:00:00+00:00

Frank started walking away, then called, "Hey!"

Bobby turned, and she asked if he'd ever brought the Estrellas donuts. He thought carefully then answered, "No."

"All right. Check with Nook would you? See if he took them any?"

Ever meticulous, Bobby made a note of it right there. Frank drove away, aware the donut she'd had with Claudia had long since worn off. A hole-in-the-wall off Crenshaw made incredible catfish and greens, but the place only had two tables, so Frank called in an order. She added a side of corn-bread, and coffee and bean pie for dessert.

At the tiny restaurant a large man, whose name she couldn't remember, greeted her with winking gold teeth. Black vats of oil simmered behind him and he gleamed gunmetal blue in the close kitchen. Frank poured hot sauce and salt on the greens then propped the containers open in the passenger seat. She went south on Van Ness to get back into Figueroa territory, then meandered east on 52nd. She drove slowly through the residential streets, eating with her fingers, enjoying the sweet, greasy fish and hot, sharp bite of the greens.

Even on her day off, her eye caught the three kids slinking into the alley too fast, the woman in the too-tight outfit near Tripps Market, the crackhead jerking toward a cluster of young men at the corner and their defiant perusal of all traffic. But none of that bothered her right now. With the sun warm through the window and hip-hop on the radio, she rolled through the shadows of tall palms and billboards advertising Hennesy and Alize, Virginia Slims and Camels, Whitney Houston and Ice Cube.

Strikes and tags boldly proclaimed which gang's turf she was in. Van Ness Gangsters and P Stones Jungles, Rollin' 60s and Rollin' 50s, Barrio Mojados and 38th Street. Where the boundaries met, rival names were repeatedly crossed out. Fresh names were painted over, then they too got crossed out and repainted. Frank made note of new tags and recognized old favorites. She turned onto a stretch of Denker that Placa had sprayed regularly. She didn't see anything recent, but paused at a tire yard fortified by brick walls and steel gates.

On the north wall, below the concertina wire and above a garbage-strewn lot, Placa and Tonio had painted a hauntingly beautiful memorial. Clasped black and blue hands, tattooed with three dots, prayed to a Grim Reaper rippling overhead. A weeping Madonna and Virgin of Guadalupe, skillfully robed in blue and yellow and orange, flanked the hands. The mural was circled with the names of fallen Kings. The inner ring had been completed long ago. As more kids died, their names had created a second, and then a third ring around the figures.

Sure she could have painted her way out of south-central, Bobby had barraged Placa with scholarship forms and program applications. Frank didn't know if she'd ever filled them out. Too late now, she thought, finding Placa's name flowing in blue script, a temporary tail on the outer circle.

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