Southside (9781608090563) (3 page)

Michael Lyons was not source rich in Central. So when officers arrived at the scene of the shooting on 2nd and Broadway, in front of the very building where the LAPD compiles and analyzes its crime statistics, they didn't know the victim. Though he had his license in his wallet along with $227 in cash, including a C-note stashed in a semihidden compartment, and a
Times
picture ID, they didn't put it together.

It wasn't until homicide detectives were called in that the significance of the shooting became clear. Most of the city's homicide dicks, many of whom rolled on all shootings even if they weren't life-threatening, knew of Lyons.

He had done gang stories like no one before and most of the homicides in the city were gang related. Those stories had won him admiration to the point where the police would tell others in their division, “Lyons got a gang thing today,” and they would actually read it. And often they would respond by cracking down on the gang. Bigger the story, harder the crack. It was always curious how Lyons could get gang members to go on the record, knowing it would be brutal for them in the days following publication. To the police, it just reinforced the stupidity of gang members.

Those stories never glamorized gang life, but they probed deeper into the “why” of it all, the ultimate futility, the almost certain sad conclusions. But, more than anything else, they brought a human element to even the most notorious killer. Lyons's stories brought to life people whose entire biography in most other reporter's articles were simply summed up in two words, “gang member.”

So, when detectives showed up, they knew this was big local news. And they knew the case would be taken away from them. Detective Megan Tropea of Central Division called the head of LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division, which handles high-profile cases.

“Tatreau.”

“Jimmy T, Tropea here. Got a good one for you.”

On the phone, at his Mission Viejo home, forty miles away, Captain James Tatreau waited, heard nothing. “All right, Megan. I'm waiting. Or do I have to guess. Is this
Jeopardy!
? Who got it?”

“Well, Jim, actually on
Jeopardy!
you are given the answer first and then you answer by asking the appropriate question.”

“Megan, who the fuck got shot?”

“Michael Lyons.”

“No shit? Dead?”

“Not yet. Hit pretty bad from what I hear. He's at County USC. Got it near the Redwood.”

“Damn. He gonna make it?”

“Two in the torso.”

“Fuck. TV's gonna be all over this. They like that crazy nut. Actually, so do I. We're taking it.”

“That's why I called.”

“Stay there till I get some guys over.”

“Of course.”

Jimmy Tatreau hung up. Went to his closet. He had his own, separate from his wife's and just as packed. As head of the elite Robbery-Homicide unit, Tatreau often took high-paying security consultant jobs on the side. With that money, he put most of it into his passion—clothes. He would need to dress well for this one. This was
gonna be a natural for the press. One of their own. Maybe even national press. Jimmy T chose his favorite and most expensive Italian suit, a charcoal Kiton he had had made for him in Naples a year ago. With it, a $270 Paul Stuart sky-blue dress shirt he picked up on Madison Avenue during a recent homicide conference in New York. Slipped on some black New & Lingwood Stamford loafers. As Jimmy T began calling detectives, he pondered which Hermes tie to wear. He might be on the
Today
show by morning.

On 2nd, a narrow, busy street that led to the freeways, Detective Tropea had officers tape off the block. By the time the crime-scene tape was up, the television media were already there.

Dr. Charles Wang was only thirty-one, but he had already seen more than a thousand gunshot wounds, from distant grazes to intimate sawed-off blasts. He was the head of trauma surgery at Los Angeles-USC Medical Center in Lincoln Heights, the busiest hospital for violent crimes in California.

So when Wang saw Lyons's wounds and the striking amount of crimson staining the front of his muscular body, the doctor wasn't particularly concerned. In fact, he took a ten-second look, wiggled some body parts, and surmised that Lyons would not only survive, he would not sustain permanent damage. Wang knew from the patient's color and the extent of blood flow that no artery had been hit.

One of Lyons's wounds was a through-and-through to his extreme right side just beneath his rib cage. If you had to get shot near the greater stomach area, this would be the ideal place. You couldn't plan it any better. The more serious wound hit just inside his right armpit, three inches below his collarbone. Lyons would be in severe pain. He'd have some impressive scars. But, thought Wang, Lyons was one lucky reporter.

The doctor knew the reporter. Lyons had interviewed him for a long, mesmerizing profile of a fifteen-year-old gang member, a Fruit Town Brim who had been shot two different times in the head, once with a .45, and survived. Wang had saved the kid's life both times. By the end of the story, the kid had gone back to gangbanging.

Michael Lyons was semiconscious as he was wheeled into surgery. “Mr. Lyons, Michael. It's Dr. Wang, Dr. Charles Wang. Can you
hear me? You've been shot, Michael, but you are going to make it. Can you understand me? You are going to be all right. Do you understand? Try to relax and we'll get you through this in good shape.”

Michael looked up at the doctor as two orderlies pushed the blood-and-sweat slimed gurney. Dr. Wang walked alongside and kept talking gently. As he walked, he had his hand on Mike's forehead, comforting him.

In all the confusion, in all the pain, in all the surrealism of this incident, Michael was still aware enough to know that the last thing he wanted to do was panic. He didn't want to for two reasons. One was a lesson he had learned a long time ago in the South Bronx when that part of the borough had been the national poster slum for urban decay. It was something his best friend there, Jose “Baby” Rolon, the leader of the Reapers street gang on Daly Avenue, told him after Jose had been shot eight times. “Mikey, if you ever get shot, don't panic. That's the way to survive. You panic, you die. You panic, your heartbeat goes up and more blood pumps out. You got it? Low heart rate means less blood coming out of you. It's that simple.”

The other reason for not panicking was that it simply wasn't cool. Sky Masterson would not panic. Nor would Shane. Or Luke. Or Rick Blaine. Or Frank Bullitt. No way. The last thing he wanted was an article or the TV news to talk about how he was panicking. How pathetic would that be? Maybe he'd soiled himself. Pissed himself, too. But, that stuff was natural after getting shot. Nothing could be done about that. He must be doing all right if he thought that was his biggest concern.

The doctor spoke reassuringly. “You've been remarkably calm. Have you been shot before? This old hat to you? You look bored.” Michael looked at Dr. Wang. “That's okay. Don't talk. I'm going to take care of you. By the way, the television cameras are here. Lots of them. You're a big star.”

Michael nodded ever so briefly and then he passed into a slumber, deep and peaceful.

Throughout that chaotic Monday evening, local television stations broke in with teasers.

“Crime reporter gunned down in the heart of the city. Film at eleven.”

“Writer shot downtown. Film at eleven.”

The local news programs all led with the shooting. It was a natural. A huge L.A. story with an excellent cast—a reporter, a bar, guns, gangs, downtown, a well-known girlfriend. Had Lyons been killed, it would've been a national story.

Like all reporters, Lyons yearned for page A-1, but with his neglected Southside beat rarely got them.

Most of his night crime stories didn't get much space in the paper—even homicides, especially if they were in the ghetto. Still, Lyons covered them with gusto. But, so often those killings would be briefed—a two-inch capsule—and the next day there would be another homicide and yesterday's killing was all but forgotten, except by the dead guy's family and friends, the guy who shot him, and the overworked detectives.

Michael and some reporters called certain shootings “SIWA”: Shooting In White Area. Reporters and column inches were assigned to shootings in accordance with property values and victims age. A shooting in Watts, South Los Angeles, East Los Angeles, or McArthur Park would not make the paper unless the victim was a child under ten, a grandma over seventy, or an incredible hard-luck
story. A lightly grazed thirty-five-year-old white female in Santa Monica was good for a eight-inch story inside. A wounded fourteen-year-old boy in the Beverly Center got at least the front of the second section called LATEXTRA. The extraordinary Holmby Hills, Bel Air, Beverly Hills, or Pacific Palisades homicide guaranteed A-1 for days.

Of course, a SIWA meant more coverage, more reporters, usually three, sometimes more. At least one of them would hit the streets and that would almost always be Lyons, who had the best feel for pavement.

Michael understood this was simply the way it was at all the papers. He had been initially disappointed to learn that even the vaunted
L.A. Times
followed that standard policy. Homicides in his Southside beat were often reduced to briefs, the one-inch digest. That was just the way it was.

But, how could he really complain? He was a staff writer at the
Los Angeles Times
, even with all the layoffs and buyouts, still one of the nation's best newspapers, a paper where thousands of journalists, rookies and veterans alike, would auction their ideals to be on staff.

Breaking news clusterfucks were not Michael's forte, though they could be exciting. He preferred to go where television cameramen never tread. To alleys and projects when there wasn't breaking news, but stories of everyday life. To waiting rooms at prisons and jails. The struggling life. The doomed life.

I saw the curved metal railing above me, the cheap thin curtains that partially privatized the bed. I felt the meagerness of the blanket. I've had better blankets at Men's Central or Wayside. I saw wires leading away from me.

A male Filipino nurse came in. He said nothing and took my vitals: blood pressure, temp, pulse. I numbly stared at the ceiling and wondered what is it with Filipinos and nursing? Just once, once before I die, I'd like to see a Filipino doctor.

Almost in automatic mode, as the male nurse was wrapping up that blood pressure device, I went into the same routine I always did with Filipinos.

“From Manila?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been to the Tondo?”

All Filipinos responded identically, with a smile and look of amazement. “You know Tondo?” was the response. Always. Like Tondo was a person.

I usually told them that I had heard about it from my father, Tony, an Oakland-raised Vietnam vet who'd been to the Philippines and spent time in Manila's infamous Tondo slum, a teeming hellhole with rats the size of wolverines, shirtless, barrel-chested men in alleys with machetes, and whores who should've been in grammar school.

But today, all I said was, “Heard about it.” The nurse left after adjusting some drip. I tried to look down my body. Much of my torso was bandaged. I felt my head, no bandages. If I didn't move much, I felt no pain. The drip must be morphine.

Then I panicked. Full-bore anxiety attack. With it came a spasmodic jolt of cold sweats. Was I damaged? Was I paralyzed? Could I fuck again? I thought about my girlfriend, Francesca.

I tried to breathe in real deep. It hurt. Even morphine has its limitation. I tried to remember facts I loved, to test my brain. The birth and death years of Alexander the Great?–356 to 323 B.C. Number of Mantle World Series home runs? Eighteen. Relief. A few more to double test myself. Francesca's address and phone number. Got it.

I quoted from
The Iliad
opening, the Robert Fagles translation. “
Rage, Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus' son Achilles
.” It was one of only two lines from
The Iliad
I knew by heart.

Okay, I'm not brain dead.

I moved my feet. They moved, as did my toes. My hands and
fingers worked. With trepidation and long, slow breaths, damn the pain, I touched my penis. It stirred enough to calm my greatest fear.

I lifted and twisted my neck. Moved my arms, I didn't feel that bad. I smiled and drifted off. Morphine did that to people.

A few hours later, I woke, disoriented. I wondered if word had spread. Was anyone here? My girlfriend? My sister? Of course, they must know. I looked up at the TV. That Filipino nurse was there, watching the news.

I remember the car pulling up. I remember it was an older American car, probably GM. It stopped and a man, a black guy, getting out because I noticed the purple rag he had. Grape Street Crips. I thought this guy was old for a Grape, maybe even fifty. And then I got shot. That's it. Maybe, I thought, when this dope wears off I will remember more.

For many years I had lived with an ominous feeling something dreadful would befall me that would send my life spiraling downhill to its ultimate sad ending. Sometimes I felt this dread hover about me like a swarm of hornets and knew soon their stings would lay me out.

I'd dismiss it as foolishness, as drama, as booze-spattered anxiety. As long as I was vigilant, nothing really bad would happen to me. I'd be on the lookout for the ax and when it swooped, I'd dodge it as gracefully as Manolete sidestepped horns. But the feeling would return. I could be simply talking to a friend or alone in my ride and I'd sense doom racing toward me with intent to imprison, paralyze, or kill.

Often the dread would feature me killing a baby while driving drunk. The worst of the worst. As real as I could, I would imagine, no, not imagine. Imagination is for good things. I would conjure up this terrible scene, strain to feel its horror. I would envision the mangled body of this dead infant, the grieving, angry family, my own heartbroken family. The revulsion that my life would be. And I
would languish in that thought and then, when all was doomed in this conjured life, I'd rejoice in reality.