One hour later, LaBarbera, Hart, and Trevon “Li’l Mayhem” Browning, eighteen, from Seven-Four Hoover, were driving to the home of Thomas Barrow, aka King Funeral, a menacing, muscular five-foot-nine thug, reputed, with his crazy young homies, to be responsible for keeping at least two Southside mortuaries in business.
King Funeral’s only sister, Bonnie, four years his elder, had once saved his life when she stepped in front of Eight Trey Gangster Crips who were about to shotgun her brother in an alley off 83rd and Denker. Bonnie had dated an Eight Trey shot caller and they honored her request to spare her brother. After, she asked Funeral one thing. Like a black female Don Corleone, she told him, “One day I’m ask you for a favor.” This favor would be to help her son Lyles “Tiny Trouble” Davis, stay out of prison. Bonnie had already lost her oldest son to Corcoran. At the precinct, Lyles had called his mom and she had called her brother to cash in that long-ago earned favor. King Funeral had no choice but to help the sister that saved his life.
Funeral kept the two-room dump right on 74th and Hoover where he came of age, but lived in a four-bedroom home in Palm-dale, fifty miles from the city. Hart was at the wheel, LaBarbera shotgun, and Li’l Mayhem in the back, uncuffed after a vigorous frisking. The road peeled away in fast-forward mode, and Hart was relentless on the gas pedal. Just fifteen minutes into the hour drive, Browning started complaining.
“I’m hungry.” The cops agreed, and five minutes later they were at the drive-in window of the In-N-Out Burger in Sylmar. Li’l Mayhem leaned up to Hart and said, “Gimme two double-doubles.”
Hart turned and looked at the criminal.
“Oh, yeah. Please,” added Mayhem.
Hart placed the order, four double-doubles, three fries, three large sodas, two Dad’s root beers, one orange Crush. “How do you know about double-doubles? Not an In-N-Out Burger anywhere near the Southside.”
“Man, don’t you know where the juvenile hall is? In Sylmar. Every time I got out, my boys used to take me here for a celebration. You feel me? I even know the burgers not on the menu. Animal style, protein style, four by fours. Just ’cause I’m from Hoova, don’t mean I ain’t worldly. I know plenty about the world. Geography and shit. You cops just think we stupid. We just temporarily trapped is all. I’m getting out and seeing the world. Seeing all the capitals. I bet I know more world capitals than you, cop Hart. That used to be my specialty in geography class.”
“It’s Detective Hart. But, all right, my Hoova,” mocked Hart. “What’s the capital of California?”
“Come on. Do I even have to answer that? Shit, Sacramento. Okay, wise man. How ’bout Libya?”
“Libya? Libya. Man, Libya’s capital is Tripoli. Okay, let’s go to Columbia.”
“Bogotá.”
“Well, I guess you should know that one since you’re doing business with those dudes,” said Hart. Once their food arrived, they drove away and Hart continued, “Okay. Now, where were we? How about Russia?”
“Man, it ain’t even my turn,” said Mayhem as he wiped cheeseburger juice off his mouth with his hand and smeared it on the rear seat. “But, if that’s the best you can come up with, then Moscow.”
Hart smirked. “You know, Sal. It’s kinda sad the kid here thinks he knows capitals because he knows three or four. Like, he knows Moscow and that makes him kinda smart for just knowing Moscow is the capital of Russia. You know what I mean? The sad thing is, he’s right. He is smart compared to his partners. At Fremont or Manual Arts or Gardena? Knowing that Moscow is the capital of Russia gets you put in the advanced class.”
Hart continued, talking like it was just the two of them in the car. “It ain’t their fault. It’s the parents. It’s the teachers who don’t care. It’s the decrepit classrooms with seventy kids in them.” Hart looked in the rearview mirror at Li’l Mayhem. “Don’t get me wrong. I think it’s good you know places like Bogotá and Tripoli and Moscow. Seriously.”
“Gee, thanks. I’m so glad I got your approval of my brain. But, maybe we oughta play for a few ducats. A Benjamin or something. You’re so smart. Putting everyone down in my ’hood. Let’s play the capital contest for some cash.”
“I don’t want your money. Plus, you probably don’t have but two dollars in quarters and dimes on you anyway.”
Mayhem reached into his pockets, and LaBarbera suddenly turned around, his right hand on his Glock 40, his left hand over the seat about to grab the Hoover’s throat, even though they had thoroughly patted him down earlier. “I’m cool, I’m cool. You already done frisked me.”
Mayhem slowly pulled out a tattered wallet and some cash. He had fifty-four dollars. “Let’s go for fifty. I even let your boss hold the green.” He handed LaBarbera fifty dollars.
Hart looked pissed off. Sal laughed. “Johnny, he’s calling you out.” Hart reached into his sport coat chest pocket and checked his cash. He had sixty-five dollars.
“Lebanon.” Hart said.
“Beirut. Madagascar?”
“Madagascar. Damn. Madagascar. Madagascar.”
Mayhem smiled. “Saying it over and over ain’t gonna help you, my detective. First round knockout. Give it up, Smarty Jones.”
Hart was getting a bit red. His foot was getting even heavier as the Vasquez Rocks slipped by on the left. The Ford hit 105. “Slow it down, A.J.,” Sal said. “Funeral ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“All right. I don’t know. What is it?”
“Capital of Madagascar is Antananarivo. Pay up.”
“First of all, even if that is right, this isn’t a sudden-death game. It’s just one strike.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“I’m saying it now. No game ends with one strike. We are doing three strikes, then you’re out.”
“Figured you like that three strikes rule. I got a homie in Pelican Bay on three strikes doing life because he swiped some lasagna. Believe that shit? Your whole life for some lasagna. Three strikes sucks.”
“Well,” said Hart, “Here’s your first strike. Liberia.”
Mayhem crossed his thin, but hard arms, sat down lower in the seat, and smugly said, “Monrovia. Named after President James Monroe. Just happens to be the only non-American capital city named after a U.S. President. How’s that for a dummy from the Southside? And for you, my cop, I wonder if you know the cap of Pakistan.”
Hart, after some serious brain searching, got Islamabad, but he stumbled soon after losing on Mongolia—Ulan Bator—and North Korea—Pyongyang—while Mayhem scored with correct answers to Finland—Helsinki—and Uruguay—Montevideo.
“Fuck,” said Hart.
Li’l Mayhem silently stuck his hand toward Sal who handed him his fifty back. Hart handed over fifty. “Don’t say a word, scum. I’ll pull this car off this lonely desert road here. Got me a shovel in the trunk. You’ll never be found.”
Mayhem didn’t say a word, probably figuring that was not out of the question. They sped in silence out of the craggy hills and into the suburban desert pot marked with cookie-cutter homes. This was once considered the promised land for middle- and lower-middle-class whites and blacks, a place where you could get away from crime and smog. But some of Utopia had turned into a desert nightmare. Sections of it were a lightweight version of Los Angeles, complete with gangs and drugs and bored teenagers whose virginity was long gone by fourteen.
“Take that next off ramp. Freeman Street,” Mayhem said. “Then go left like two miles and turn right on Daisy Hill Lane. That’s where he lives. I forgot the number, but I know the house.”
“Daisy Hill Lane?” said Hart, breaking his silence. “What a fuckin’ pussy name for a street. Why don’t they just call it Pussy Street? His wife must be in charge. I always knew he was a punk. How else would a man live on Daisy Mae Lane?”
“Daisy Hill Lane.”
“Daisy Hill. Daisy Mae. Same thing. You think this asshole who used to shout ‘I’m from Hoover Street, this is Hoover here.’ You think he’s bragging, claiming ‘I’m from Daisy Mae Lane.’”
Mayhem knew better than to correct. A minute later they turned into King Funeral’s driveway.