Southside (9781608090563) by Michael Krikorian Page B

to testify in open court. She remembered her second cousin, Jermaine, who was set to testify against a gang leader a few years ago. From prison, the leader, Big Evil, ordered him dead, and dead he was in a week.
    Cardella prayed on it, then drove three miles to Gardena and punched 911 at a phone booth that had one window shot out and G-13 graffiti scrawled inside and out. Shit, she thought, you can’t go anywhere in this fucked-up city without some gang screwing things up. She asked to speak with a detective and she was trembling. She put her hand over her mouth and mumbled into the mouthpiece. The detective couldn’t understand her. She moved her hand away. “That shooting on Brynhurst. The one where Debra Sady got shot.”

CHAPTER 10
    Two hours later, Tiny Trouble of Seven-Four Hoover was in an interview room at the notorious 77th Street Division police station drinking a Dr Pepper in the shadow of the intimidating Detective Mo Batts, six foot five, 275, and Sandra Core, a very attractive dirty blond deputy district attorney from the Hard-Core Gang unit.
    Batts pulled his chair close to Trouble. “Let’s get down to business. Brynhurst. You know Brynhurst?”
    â€œNever met the man.”
    Batts slapped the top of Trouble’s head. Deputy D.A. Core shot him a look that said, “Don’t overdo it.”
    Batts resumed. “Are you familiar with a street in the Hyde Park area of Los Angeles called Brynhurst?”
    â€œYeah, that’s the street where the Rollin sissies hang out. Or so I heard. Towards myself, I ain’t never even been there. Too many faggots there for me. Me, I likes me some pussy. Some white sugar.” He leered at Sandra Core. She rolled her eyes.
    â€œWho you rollin’ your eyes at, bitch?”
    This time, Batts smacked Tiny Trouble upside the head. Hard. For Los Angeles gang members, rolling your eyes at them is a disrespect of the lowest order, a step from putting down your mother even if your mother was sprung and just a few steps away from putting down your saintly grandmother.
    â€œLook, here’s the situation,” said Batts. “We got several witnesses who saw you driving a Bronco on Brynhurst the night Debra Sady Griffen, the bus driver lady, was shot. They can point you out andidentify the car as being the shooting vehicle. Do you think we just came up on you out of the blue?”
    â€œFuck blue. This is Hoova. Hoova is orange.”
    â€œEnough with the colors bullshit,” said Core. “Didn’t that go out in the eighties? Wake up, boy.”
    â€œWho you callin’ boy, slut?”
    Batts slammed his fist into the wall. “Motherfucker. One thing I hate is for a lady to be disrespected in front of me. You know why, bitch? Because it’s disrespectful to me. Miss Core, can you let me alone with him for a few minutes? Wanna teach him some manners.”
    Core hesitated, but left. The hulking Mo Batts moved in close.
    â€œGet away from me,” Trouble said. “This ain’t
Zero Dark Thirty
. No torture. Back the fuck off.”
    â€œToo late for that. You dissed me. And now you’re going to be my punching bag.” He started throwing jabs that came close to Trouble. Trouble started to get up, but Batts, with one mighty paw, put a vise grip on his neck and ground him back down into the seat.
    â€œI’m gonna start yelling, you don’t back up.”
    â€œGo ahead. Yell. Scream like a bitch. Like the bitch you really are. You know what? I just came up with a better plan for you. Why bruise my hands? We need to give you a full-body cavity search.”
    At that, Batts pulled out his big nightstick. “Maybe I’ll get that pretty district attorney in here to watch to make sure I do this by the book.”
    â€œNo! No!” It was like a sweat spigot opened over Trouble’s whole body. Then his bowels started to loosen. He was about to smear his shorts.
Damn
, he