Buzzworm had headquarters set up semipermanently in the gold Mercedes. It was the central location, not the digs. Cellphone didn’t stop. Messages were piling up. Pager was going every five minutes. Mona was the secretary ’cause she could write. She told Buzzworm there was a reason she sat in the driver’s seat. He said, knowing her habits, it was a blessing this thing wasn’t going nowhere. He didn’t razz her too much; she was pretty good on the job. But he was needing some duplication service, meaning he was needing some self-duplication. Situation was needing a dozen Angels of Mercy.
“Where’d you find this bozo?” Buzzworm propped the phone to the shoulder and leaned back into the leather.
Homey on the other end said, “1-800 number advertisin’ your show, brother.”
“Don’t you know no 1-800 lawyer can be up to any good?”
“Got a brother point five and a motorbike.”
“That a workman’s comp or a car accident?”
“One or the other.”
“I know the brother. Half went to pay the lawyer. Other half ’s child support, and he’s still owing. Motorbike’s only thing left.”
“So what do I need? A lawyer to beat off another lawyer?”
“’Bout says it. What sort of fix is this?”
“Crips and Bloods. Making a truce. We made a contract. Make it legal binding.”
“What you need a contract for?”
“Gets it on paper. Gets respect. Like we corporate-like.”
“Crips, Inc.? What’s this? Some kinda merger?”
“First up, we were gonna do a joint CD. Talk mean, ’bout blowin’ off some slob’s head. Make us some money. And then after gettin’ it all out (watchu call it, like therapy?), it was just we gonna stop the shootin’. Gonna respect the territory.”
“Yeah?”
“Then, question is what’s the territory? See we gotta define the territory. Like who gets Van Nuys or what side of the Westside.”
“You consult a Thomas Guide?”
“How’d you know? Attorney got it all marked up, annotated in writing.”
“So when the LAPD taps an incident, they can go direct to your map, figure who’s jurisdiction and peg the correct gang?”
“Hey, it’s not even about bangin’.”
“It’s about trust?”
“It’s about how come the map’s wrong? It’s about shrinkin’ and expandin’ jurisdictions. How come Adams is this wide and Martin Luther King’s got more miles on it than you can walk comfortably anymore. How come a little crew with a bit-time two-block piece of the action now’s got a three-mile fiefdom? Contract like this gonna mean some heads get bashed.”
Buzzworm sat up straight. “What are you talking about?”
“We might be droppin’ out, but the hood’s what we know, like the tattoos on our arms. You don’t understand the demographics, you don’t understand nothing. And someone’s movin’ it around.”
“Maybe this lawyer’s pulled the so-called rug from under you.”
“What you jokin’ about this for? Anybody on the ground’d know what I’m talkin’ about.”
Buzzworm remembered the little homey with the vision of curving bullets. Homies talking nonsense had to have some sense behind it. He looked out the tinted windows. Folks were all settled in for the time-being. Washed baby socks and panties hanging out the window of a Chrysler van. More wash sunning out on the ivy. Kids were playing tic-tac-toe on all the dirty windows. What didn’t make sense? What made sense? Buzzworm scooted forward and popped out the sunroof. Manzanar was still up there vigilant-like. Like he couldn’t stop doing it. Somebody oughta take some food up to the man. Buzzworm made a note of it. Suddenly, he got the notion. Brother said, anybody on the ground’d know. Could it be? Manzanar’s overpass was stretched out, curved and maybe longer even. Could concrete do that? Buzzworm got back on the line, “So now what? You gonna start a war because the ground under you’s moving?”
“First off, we ain’t paying no lawyer.”
“’S not about no lawyer. It’s about things beyond our control.”
“Most things’s beyond our control.”
“This is way beyond. Before you go picking fights, better air this out. Do it on my show tonight. Whole world watching. Hear what you got to say.”
“Don’t guarantee nothing.”
“You about to sign a contract. Better to give your word to me.”
Buzzworm hopped out of the Mercedes to take a look at the general scene. Made a beeline for the NewsNow van. NewsNow Asian baby sister (aka Balboa’s substitute) was there looking somewhat stressed, but she never lost her ability to try to be wise. She said, “What? You run out of batteries already?”
Buzzworm tapped the Walkman. “If someone’d told me you’d be my supplier, I’d ’a lost this habit long ago.”
Baby sister pulled four Triple-As from the glove compartment. “I’ve been saving these for you.”
“We need to talk about sponsors. I don’t want no 1-800 lawyers doing commercials about how they can get a brother off DUI or put him on easy street with a disability check.”
“Maybe you don’t understand. You don’t choose the commercials. They choose you. I wouldn’t screw this one up. It looks good for syndication, you know.”
“Now let’s get a reality check here, baby sister. How long do you think this situation can last? Look around. LAPD’s not exactly surrounding us to protect and serve. They’re not going to let us live in the middle of a major thoroughfare forever, would you think?”
“This situation can be duplicated.”
“I want to ask you a serious question.”
“If that’s possible.”
“See that HOLLYWOOD sign out there yonder?”
“Hmmm.”
“I been watching it.”
“Right.”
“Either it’s coming closer this way, or we’re going closer that way. Know what I mean?”
“Haven’t you learned to talk to me straight yet? I failed English Metaphors and Symbolism 101.”
“I am talking to you straight.” Buzzworm moved into the van. “Kerry, pull down what the copter sees up there.”
Everyone peered into the screen—copter’s shadow running itself across the greater L.A. street scene. “There,” Buzzworm pointed, “that’s what I mean.”
“What?”
“Can’t you see it? Where we are. Harbor Freeway. It’s growing. Stretched this way and that. In fact, this whole business from Pico-Union on one side to East L.A. this side and South Central over here, it’s pushing out. Damn if it’s not growing into everything! If it don’t stop, it could be the whole enchilada.”
“Kerry, what’s he talking about? Do you see something?”
Kerry shook his head.
“Look, there might be some video distortion, but reality is reality. Are you all right?”
Buzzworm wondered about this reality. If they didn’t see it, they didn’t see it. Like the homeboy said, anyone on the ground’d know. These folks weren’t on the ground. They were online or somewhere on the waves. He shook his head. “Forget it. Gonna traipse over to check out the mama cookin’ at the hot dog stand. She puts out a red beans ’n rice affair that shouldn’t be missed.”
Baby sister smirked, “She may be cooking at a hot dog stand, but she put together a contract for her show that calls for Direct TV and cable rights, all foreign rights, even publication and movie rights.”
“Mona must’ve written it. Mona knows the lingo,” Buzzworm nodded.
“But movie rights?”
“Why not? Mama’s had an interesting life.”
“And what about this group called LAPD?”
“Los Angeles Poverty Department.”
“So.”
“Homeless performance group. They want a piece of the action. We were missing arts and culture. So I said why not?”
“They’re doing the news.” Baby sister pointed at the monitor. Two homeless anchors were sitting in beat-up bucket seats behind some kind of make-shift desk with decorative hubcaps, the real L.A. skyline draped behind them. Report was something like, “On the local front, memorial services for Newton Ford will be held this evening near the construction heap on the southbound at Expo which has been requisitioned for a cemetery. Ol’ Newt died of complications from starvation and the elements.
“On a happier note, Saratoga Sara gave birth to a baby girl last night in the back of a VW bus. Far as we know, both mother and baby doing just fine. Contributions of diapers, baby clothing, and food for the mother gratefully accepted.
“Now here’s Mara Sadat with a special report on Life in the Fast Lane.”
Cut to Mara Sadat standing in front of the open hood of a rusting Cadillac who said, “I’m standing in the Fast Lane North with Slim City who’s got one interesting project going on: an urban garden. Slim, tell us about your project.”
Cad occupant said, “Well, since this babe wasn’t goin’ nowhere, we pulled her guts out and filled her yey high with some good old-fashioned dirt.” Camera panned the dirt under the Cad’s hood. “And, now we got a garden goin’. Something we always wanted. Got lettuce in this corner, some baby carrots over here, tomatoes here. A patch like this’ll do some good feedin’. Folks in the Fast Lane a little distant from the right shoulders where the plantin’s easy.”
“What’s that climbing the antenna there?”
“Passion fruit. Down here we get our Cs too.”
“So here’s a solution in self-sufficiency. I’m Mara Sadat for urban gardens here on the Fast Lane.”
Baby sister turned to Buzzworm. “Are they for real?”
“They’re for real. Why don’t you catch a workshop? John Malpede and Luis Alfaro. Consummate artists in the field of performance. Next one’s up at four.”
“Meanwhile the real LAPD is up there.”
“That’s right. And the man who owns that dirt-filled Cad is probably putting together an arsenal of AK-47S to take it back.”
Baby sister looked serious at Buzzworm for maybe the first time. “What’s gonna happen?” Then she waxed nonchalant, L.A.-like, “Maybe we’ll be surprised for a change.”
“What’s gonna surprise you, baby sister? An outright war? That news enough for you? Looks funny for the moment, homeless comedy, doing the local news. But it’s too sweet. Homeless sweet homeless. Like we are the eye of a storm coming this way. Everything’s colliding into everything. No place for these people to go. What they gonna do? Put us all in jail? At forty thou per head, doesn’t seem too cost effective.”
Baby sister checked the time. “You got an hour. FreeZone’s up next. Who are your guests?”
“Street peddlers come to tell their side of the poison orange mess. Then, an on-site powwow ’tween the gangs.” Buzzworm started walking. “Yep. Until the invasion or whatever, I guess we’ll conduct business like a FreeZone.”
Day ran like that. One show running after the other. TV in the FreeZone. TV from the bottom. Aspirations of the lowest bum on skid row. Lifestyles of the poor and forgotten. Who’d a thought? Buzzworm was producing the hottest property on the net. Baby sister said it was a Hollywood wet dream. Either people’d watch anything, or as long as it was a show, it was cool. People figured: ’s long as the tube has to deal with it, it must be outta our hands.
And for the finale: homeless choir numbering near five hundred featuring three homeless tenors. Manzanar Murakami conducting.