To Funk and Die in LA by Nelson George

Author:Nelson George
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2017-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

WALLI'S ILL-FATED LOVE AFFAIR

D was doing mountain climbers in the living room. He'd pushed the living room coffee table up against a wall and shoved his grandfather's old easy chair into a corner, laying his yoga mat over the moldy old shag carpet. He was going at it, his arms anchoring him as he drove his legs toward his chest. A 15 Minute Hell ab workout played on his android.

If you did this right—and didn't cheat with short sets—a workout of mountain climbers, bicycles, and various twists generated dripping sweat, heavy breathing, and active stomach muscles. D was on his last thirty-second burst when a call interrupted him. Irritated, he glanced over at his phone, but picked up when he saw it was Walli.

"What up?"

"D, can you come pick me up at school?!" He sounded unsteady, agitated, fearful. "There's been a shooting. I don't want Ma to know yet."

Twenty minutes and a couple of run red lights later, D was standing outside a crime scene tape along with TV news crews, ambulances, and black, Mexican, and Asian Angelenos. A young Mexican girl was crying into the arms of a black male teacher. A tough-looking Asian kid with tats peeking through his white T-shirt puffed a cigarette. One of the cops policing the perimeter was Crowder, who had come by the house the night of the robbery.

"Hunter, right?"

"Yes, officer. I'd say that it's good to see you again but this is a terrible situation."

"It's happening all the time, one way or another. Your nephew almost got shot."

"My cousin—is he all right?"

"I got him over there. We haven't taken his statement yet. You keep him calm, okay?"

D found Walli sitting on a curb, teary-eyed with specks of dried blood on his J Dilla T-shirt. At his feet was a crumpled bouquet of gardenias. Some broken petals covered his sneakers. Walli appeared to be in shock. D had seen this look before; he sat down and pulled the teenager close.

"The police take your statement yet?"

"No. They told me to wait here."

"Okay," D said. "Tell me everything. Then we'll figure out what to say to them."

It had been about a woman—well, actually, a teenage girl. Her name was Carmen. They'd been classmates his sophomore year in English. Walli had noticed her round hips, thick black hair, and sharp sense of humor. In his junior year they sat next to each other in history class and bonded over Cesar Chavez and began a private Snapchat flirtation neither their parents nor classmates were aware of.

Black and Mexican friendships, while not forbidden by their parents or even rare among classmates, were still fraught in a neighborhood quickly transitioning from black to brown. Walli and Carmen used the relative privacy of social media to leap over the barbed-wire fences of race. No Bloods, Crips, or Mexican or Central America gangs breeched their Snapchat sanctuary.

Walli kept any tension between Latino and black classmates out of conversations with his mother, who'd been fragile since Grandpop's murder. Talk of cafeteria fights at school sure wouldn't calm her.

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