Joshua A. Triliegi 213 975 0067 Joshua@BUREAUofARTSandCULTURE.com
The Editor and Publisher of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE
Announces a New Experimental Serial Novel about Los Angeles.
Mr Triliegi will write a chapter a day for the next few weeks and
post the results in various languages at the three blog spots that
regularly showcase Art, Theater, Music and Community events.
" I thought it would be a good writing exercise to simply write
about what I see and hear everyday on the streets of the city.
To simply create a chapter a day based on the people and things
going on in Los Angeles. Since we all come from so many back-
grounds, styles, cultures and languages, I decided to structure
the multi character novel to represent all of Los Angeles. I simply
write a chapter a day by allowing the characters to unfold & the
story to reveal itself based directly on the things I see and hear."
" Its pure fiction based on generalities. For instance, Chapter Three,
which was inspired by a girl I saw on the bus earlier in the day, she
had a sketch book with some nice artworks and I thought about her."
Or Chapter One, based on a conversation I had with a guy who was
entering back into society from a long stretch in the penitentiary.
I thought about what other people in his life may have been thinking."
" Its a challenge to simply introduce a character and follow the
creative
line as it flows into something structured and complete. I usually know
the beginning and the end of each Chapter, and simply let the middle
fill itself out. I like the daily discipline as well as the audience
being
in on the process. In this particular case, I don't really take notes.
I just start with an idea and let it flow. This is not a normal novel by
any means, but it is a new and interesting challenge for both the
writer and the readers. Were publishing it in three cities and a wide
variety of languages, English, Italian, French, Chinese, Armenian,
Chinese, Hebrew, Japanese & Korean so far. Its been a lot of fun
I hope the people of Los Angeles and the world will follow it out as
it reveals itself. As the writer, in this particular case, I am just as
curious as the reader as to what will happen and how things will go.
The cool thing about this project is how quickly the characters began
to take on a life of their own. "
" Its an interesting way to work. I am putting together several other
writing projects and decided that this would be a good warmer upper.
We get anywhere from a 50 to 400+ views a day on our website for
our Articles, Reviews and especially our Audio Interviews, so this
particular literature project should be good exercise and at the same
time, allow people to see how a novel is actually created day by day."
They Call It The City of Angels
A New Serial Novel by Joshua A. TRILIEGI
Exclusively for Readers of BUREAU of ARTS and CULTURE and
our Three sites in Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York City
All National & International Copy Rights Reserved to the Author
Chapter One: Louis
Los Angeles is a funny place to live, but those laughing were
usually from out of town. Louis was a busboy down at Old Ma
Fritters Cafe & Saloon, the longest running truck stop in the
Harbor. He had been a busboy for almost twenty six years,
before that, he washed dishes, before that, he attended the
parking lot. Directing the truck drivers where to park, making
sure the working mom's could get in and out without missing
a beat, knowing the difference between regulars who ate at the
counter and the new comers who were most likely in town to
visit the Queen Mary or take a cruise Catalina Island for the day.
All in all, Louis was a quiet, hard working man with a simple view
on life. He was happy to have a job, never missed a day of work,
except the day his son was sentenced to seventeen years in the
penitentiary for manslaughter. That was over fifteen years ago
and today was the day that Louis Junior would come home,
this made him nervous.
Since that time, his wife had a stroke, his daughter had married
a local cop and he had three beautiful grandkids. So much had
changed since louis junior had gone away. In 1976, it was a old
world, now it was nineteen-ninety-one. The Dodgers entire team
had been replaced, there were new presidents, everything was
different. But still, he showed up to work on time and already
the word had gotten out that Louis Junior was back in town and
heading this way. He had reservations. He knew that Junior was
a good kid, got caught up with the wrong friends early on, had
been picked on and turned tough gut mostly for his own survival.
The accident had been complicated, it had involved a rival member
of another group of kids as well as one of Junior's ex- girlfriends
and to top it off the first cop on the scene was Louis' s new son-in
-law, Chuck, who happened to be white. They all lived in a big
victorian style house just above the port, which had a guest house
where Louis senior lived and in the big house, his daughter, Celia,
Chuck and the three girls, Cindy, Donna and Francine. It was a
good life, most of the time. Louis wondered exactly what he would
say, where junior would sleep and how all of this would play out.
He figured junior could stay on the couch in the guest house and
later he could break the news that after all was said and done:
Chuck had met Celia after that day in court and one thing led to
another, as things like this often do & well, here we are, a family.
He couldn't know exactly what Junior would think, say or do, but
he knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition. Junior had been saved
in the joint and had found god. He belonged to an outreach program
that was ready to offer him a chance to work and go back to school,
but housing was not provided. So, Louis said, " Yes son, of course
you can stay with us while you get back on your feet. " And so the
day started, as these days often do down in the port. Up at 5 AM,
to work by five thirty, he'd have an early lunch and since everyone
knew junior was coming home, had the choice to go home early,
but had already decide to stay the duration. Work was his way of
dealing with the troubles of life. It steadied his resolve, gave him
roots, kept him calm, kept him centered, even if deep down inside,
he knew that this was not an ordinary day and that things could
go bad.
No one was more aware of the impending problems than Chuck,
who worked at the front desk office directly across from the loading
docks at the longshore pick up and delivery. He hadn't seen Junior
since that day in court and before that the terrible rainy night on the
street with bodies mangled, wind swept asphalt, palm trees bending
to the ground and a fierce full moon reflecting anguish, pain and death,
in his eyes. He couldn't sleep all that morning. For a cop, he was, not
a total square, his own brother had been a pot dealer back in the nine-
teen sixties and since then, he himself had imbibed more than a few
glasses of whiskey a night. He was hip to jazz music, loved the various
cultures in Los Angeles and more than anything, adored his wife and
three girls. His family was his everything. He was thinking about junior
as he pulled into the cafe to get breakfast to go, and three cups of joe
for the boys at the office, who secretly hated the coffee served in the
back room. Ma Fritters Coffee was made with a pinch of cinnamon and
was generally strong compared to the instant regulation joe that the
knuckle heads made. Know one said anything as Chuck pulled into the
cafe, but everyone knew what was on their minds as Louis and Chuck
exchanged words in the parking lot. The waitresses and line cooks
stopped what they were doing and saying for just a second or two
and sure enough a hush drifted through the place. Those who didn't
know the score figured it out pretty quick. The cop and the busboy,
who was actually a fully grown man with grandkids, chatted quietly
about the day. Neither had figured out what was the best way to deal
with it, nor did they fully understand how junior would take it: both
understood it wouldn't be easy. Life in the L.A. Harbor never was.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Two: Mickey
"Look left, then right, then left again." What the hell is so difficult
about that ? Mickey muttered out loud to some mindless quack as
he skidded around the car and cranked his wrist an eighth of an inch,
which meant he was now riding from a basic twenty-five miles per
hour to the preferred forty-five along the coast of Malibu and on
into Venice beach where he kept a shop that tended strictly to Harley-
Davidson's. Mickey was a third generation biker, his Dad had known
some pretty serious guys back in the day. His grandfather had driven
a Harley from Washington State clear down to Southern California
back in the nineteen forties before going off to war, with the rest of
his generation. Back when Mickey was a kid, bikers were hated and
or feared by the general populist. Now, everybody and their grandma
wants to claim some piece of this heritage. His old man fixed bikes for
some of the well known biker gangs throughout California, but he never
actually signed up, if you know what I mean. What they call a civilian.
When his old man left town for a month, which turned into a decade,
Mickey finally took a crow bar to the lock on the old man's wood shed,
found his tools and started a business of his own. It wasn't one of
those
places with a big neon sign or anything like that, he just fixed bikes
for
guys in the neighborhood and eventually had a couple dozen regulars
and that was it. He had been offered partnerships before by local shops,
investors, squares with enough money to set him up well, but simply
didn't want the hassle. " As soon as you take their money, they own
you." That was his usual reply, but lately he'd gotten tired of the
bullshit.
Guys not paying what they owed, insurance companies not releasing
the funds on time, just cause they knew he was an unofficial Harley
repairman, as opposed to the guys with the big signs out front. Part
of him rejected the whole idea of middle America embracing the Harley
phenomenon. The other part of him knew it was good for business and
just might bring the company back into a thriving system, where bikers
could get some respect again. So, when a local rich kid offered him
10,000 dollars to expand the shop, he took it. Reluctantly, accepted a
chance to buy some new tools, get bonded, insured, even had the business
officially certified with a doing business as 'Mickey's Motorcycles'
license.
Some people said Mickey's old man had gone to Mexico, others figured
he got caught up in some kind of deal gone awry. There was talk that he
was overseas, Amsterdam maybe. No one knew for sure. He had stopped
thinking about it a few years back. Mickey made the house payments, took
care of his grandmother and tolerated his Mothers new boyfriends as best
he could. So much had changed since they were kids, growing up in Venice
beach. Back then it was mostly poor folks, now the place was turning
into
something else: well known actors, architects, airline pilots. It was a
good
thing his old man bought the place otherwise Mickey and his girlfriend,
Moon, would have been out of that neighborhood years ago. They lived a
block and a half away from Dennis Hopper's house & when Hopper bought
a Harley, Mickey was the guy he brought it to. Who didn't want to hang
out with Dennis Hopper? Mickey had creds on the street and in the hills,
which was kind of rare. He had clients up and down the coast and didn't
mind much making house calls, even if it took a couple days. He'd crash
out on the couch or garage or guest house until the job was done. Most
guys liked his company and liked to hear him wax poetic about the early
days of Rock and Roll, his mom had been the manager of several bands
up in the bay area and he knew just about everyone from Jerry Garcia's
to The Moby Grape's. People would say that Mickey was made from a
kind of American counter culture royalty. But, he shunned all that talk.
One of those quiet throw backs, except when it came to Moon, his only
truly admittedly obsessive relationship. Whatever she wanted, she got.
Moon was his first and only love. Once they had broken up for a day and
a half during high school graduation. A Friday night and all of
Saturday,
by Sunday morning, they were back together and never looked back.
As he pulled into the driveway, he glanced over to find his mother's new
boyfriend's red convertible, the passenger side windshield was riddled
with
what looked like bullet holes, upon closer inspection, he realized the
holes
were made with stiletto heels kicked from the inside out. "Here we go."
he thought, as he turned off the bike and figured, o.k. this generator
is
fixed. He knew there was something brewing, so he quietly strolled past
the front house and headed straight for Pop's shed. Always a safe
refuge.
But there in the back yard was the boyfriend wearing nothing more than
a pair of Ray-Bans and in a see through nighty, his Mom attending the
barbecue. " For christ sake Mag, what if Calley walks back here ?"
who momentarily turns in his direction, " Oh Mick, grow up will ya ? "
She had been telling him that since the time he was ten years old :
"Your not a kid anymore mick, your ten years old now, grow up."
He did. Got back on the bike, which he hadn't planned on returning
to his client till tomorrow, ripped up Pacific Coast Highway and on
into Zuma Beach, collected his fee and instead of getting a ride from
Jay, simply hopped on the Bus and called it a day. That's when he
noticed a beach comber who sure looked a lot like his dad. "That's
impossible. Must be going nuts. I gotta get out of here." He did.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Three: Josie
Josie was an artist. They had noticed that right away. By the time
she was three, she could sing a tune. By the time she was nine, she
could mimic any dance movement. By the time she was twelve she
could draw realistic pictures that were up to scratch with any adult.
Today is Josie's birthday. Her room is covered in teen beat posters.
Packs of Bubble-Yum chewing gum on the dresser. Photographs of
her girlfriend's at school, at the beach, at the park, award ribbons
from art, dance and singing contests, a letter of recommendation
from an art teacher at the local university, a pair of tennis shoes
in the corner and of course her dozens of sketchbooks filled with
classic portraits of friends, people she observed, objects, places.
Her parents had immigrated in the early nineteen sixties, they gave
her an American name, things were going to be hard enough for her
as it was, they figured, she was born here, she's the first American
in our family, lets go with the flow. Her Dad worked at a local factory,
her Mom was a homemaker of the old world style, she sewed, cooked,
gardened and kept the books. Josie was wide open when it came to
discussing friends, school, dreams and the future, but when it came to
her boyfriends, she never ever told a soul. Not her parents, not her
girlfriends, no one. So when she started dating Louis, who was a few
years older, no one had anything to worry about, because no one knew.
He had that protective quality that some guys have, she felt safe around
him. He was knocked out by her talents, even had her design tattoos for
him and his friends. It was a taboo sort of love, the kind that couldn't
last longer than a summer and it didn't. Louis eventually started dating
girls his age and Josie rebounded with a kid from her own school and
neighborhood. But deep down inside, she still had a love for Louis and
even though he didn't know it, he too was still in love with her.
By the time winter came along, they found themselves in the awkward
situation of having to see one another, sometimes in the company of
each others new playmates. At first this seemed easy, smile, wave, a
simple hello or how ya doing ? But after these moments, Louis found
himself troubled, confused, sometimes even angry. He didn't know who
he was angry with, Josie, the new boyfriend or himself, he just knew
that something wasn't exactly settled and it really confused him to the
point where sometimes he couldn't sleep. So, he started to call her up
just to say hi, then Josie's new boyfriend got word of this and reacted
accordingly. One thing led to another and now the boys were talking
about a showdown. The kind that spreads quickly, the word got out,
after a dance at school, they were going to meet and settled this thing.
Josie freaked when she found out, felt guilty, felt responsible and had
no one to tell because this was a part of her life she had always kept
to herself. So the pressure mounted until the night of the dance.
At first Josie said she wasn't going, then she changed her mind and told
Ryan, her new boyfriend, that she was going with friends and they could
talk after the dance, hoping this would diffuse the pressure and by then
she could help avoid an actual fight. Though, the way things went only
worsened the situation. Instead of avoiding a fist fight the entire
event
became a drag race through the boulevards of Los Angeles and by the
end of the night a car flipped in mid air, up an over the railroad
tracks.
Josie's Dad knocked on her bedroom door, no one answered. He called
her girlfriend's parents, no one knew what happened. Eventually they got
a call from officer Chuck of the county police department explaining
that
there had a been a terrible accident and could they please come down to
the Harbor hospital to help sort something out. They were unsure about
the identity of a person and needed verification. When Josie's parents
arrived, Chuck was standing in the hallway, clipboard in hand, this was
the most difficult part of his job. He could handle the tough guys, the
smart aleck public, the other cops on the squad, but he couldn't hold
his
water when it came to telling parents that we think your child is dead.
Josies's parents were led into a well lit room, two bodies were laying
on
aluminum stretchers with sheets covering each. The bodies had been
washed
of all blood, but there was nothing that could be done about all the
torn and
mangled flesh. Josie was under one of the sheets, Ryan was under the
other.
It was the first time their parents would ever meet. Eventually they
would
meet again in court and again at the arraignments and again upon Louis's
release from prison. Today is Josie's birthday and if she hadn't died
back in
nineteen seventy-six, she would have been thirty years old. Her dad
closed
the bedroom door, which he kept exactly as it had been the day she died,
wiped his eyes and promised himself that someone was gonna pay for this
pain. By then, he'd lost his wife and by now he began to lose is mind.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Four: Jordan
Jordan is a bus driver, it didn't define him, he's also a bass man,
a basketball coach, a bit of a poet too. He is the youngest bus
driver in all of Los Angeles County. Came out here to get away
from a seriously tragic family history. Born in Detroit, the week
of the famous riots, his dad was a serious player and took the fall
for being a member of an elite crew of dudes who actually helped
to start it. His Mom was in and out of town so much, he hardly
knew her. Came out here alone on a one time musical scholarship.
Recently, he ended up hocking his bass, a red fender given to him
by his uncle, still had the pawn ticket in his wallet, been meaning
to get over there to extend the loan voucher another ninety days so
he could get it back after paying up in full. Wanted to buy his girl
a pair of earrings and figured he could always get the bass back,
but with his car payment, rent and all the rest, he just let it drift.
He was two weeks away from getting off probation from
the transit authority. Six weeks of training and almost a
year driving and finally he would be able to exhale. His first
route started near LAX Airport, up La Brea, over to Crenshaw,
past Leimert Park & around Rodeo, down Martin Luther King
to The Sports Arena and back around again. He liked it.
reminded him of his parents, his heritage, his people.
But now, they had him driving from Venice Boulevard onto
the 405 freeway, up through Santa Monica onto Pacific Coast
Highway, past Pepperdine University and all the way up to
Malibu Pier and back again. Most people would have loved
that route but Jordan always said the drivers were snobs, the
kids crossed the street without looking, carrying surfboards,
lawn chairs, tourists from all corners of the world, asking
directions to places he never heard of, in languages he never
knew. He was hoping to get his old route back, but as the odd
man at transit authority, the chances were mighty slim. Most
of the drivers, managers, supervisors and radio dispatch persons
were steeped in the Jesus thing: Baptist, Christian, Catholic,
Protestant, you name it. Jordan was a third generation Muslim.
His Daddy, his Granddad, his Uncles, some of his Aunts and him.
He had already made his four rotations by seven o'clock that
evening, grabbed a cup of coffee and was looking forward to
seeing his lady for a late dinner at her place. Just past the
Malibu Pier, an area where he was always extra careful, he
slowed down a bit and coasted around the curve through to
the next straight away stretch, the sun was setting a golden,
peach - like glow, palm trees silhouetted in an all black design
that looked like a postcard. It wasn't Crenshaw, but it could of
been worse. Some routes were very tough on a driver, others
were easy street. Looking down the highway, he noticed a small
dark circle along the horizon line, couldn't figure out what it was.
A trash-bag? A backpack ? As he got closer, the object came into
view, it was a turtle, a rather large sized turtle crawling from
left to right, he swerved to the right avoiding the turtle, as he
did so, a camper van parked on the right pulled out in front of
him, and as it did, that is when he noticed the beachcomber
standing directly in his path, hit the brakes, skidding several
yards and slamming into the beachcombers several bags and
eventually knocking him to the asphalt, he turned to ask the
lone passenger if he had seen what just happened, but not a
soul was on the bus. " Could have sworn that cat was still on."
The first thing you are supposed to do is call it in. But Jordan,
just on reflex jumped off the bus to see what happened. He
looked down and splayed across the highway were several
small packages wrapped in brown paper and masking tape.
He looked closer at the corner of one of the small bundles
and noticed it was full of currency, unmistakably dollar bills.
All day long he had to watch people putting bills into the slot
on his bus, the corners always bending, creating a problem.
If anyone knew what the corner of a dollar bill looked like,
it was Jordan. The beachcomber, was out like a light, but
when Jordan put his ear to the mans chest, he could hear him
breathing. He could also smell his breath, whiskey and onions.
Why a man does what he does is always a mystery, mostly to
the man himself, so when he reached to pick up one of the
bundles and put it in his inside left pocket, it seemed pretty
natural. He got back on the bus and called it in. By now the
sun was down. The highway was closed. Ambulance, cops,
transit authority, the whole shebang. When radio reporters,
traffic helicopters and the local television stations came out,
he figured that he was not only going to be late for dinner.
There was a good chance he was going to be fired, even if it
wasn't his fault, even if the guy was drunk. To top it off, the
turtle was no where to be seen, that was his whole defense.
Wanda heard about it on the radio before he even got home.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Five: Cliff
Cliff was psychic, not for a living or anything like that. Just had
a knack for reading people, had a way with animals and a sort
of connection with the elements that was, let us say, out of the
ordinary. Like a lot of so-called handicapped persons, he had
some hidden gifts that made up for the fact that he couldn't
speak very well, had trouble with motor skills, would never be
able to hold down a job, keep a home or cook his own meals.
He was disabled as people like to say, remedial or worse even,
retarded. Cliff's father, Stan, was a judge, he always winced when
his colleagues used that term. His mother, Dora was a retired
lawyer who ran her own legal advisement company and would
actually correct people whenever they denigrated her son with
those types of labels. "Cliff is challenged, but he's no dummy." or
"He may need some help, but he's got a great heart." or "He has
his problems, but he's never said a bad thing about you." She was
nobodies fool. And by god she wasn't about to let people get away
with any mean spirited conversation about her only child.
He attended a sort of day care type of school. One in which there
were daily outings in between lessons, classes, working with sound,
colors, sometimes simplified mathematics and social sciences, to a
degree. In the classroom, his teachers were all certified practitioners,
but on daily social outings, volunteers were often on staff. Retired
widows, stay at home wives, middled aged women who were unmarried,
this kind of thing. They often took a group of kids to the park, out to
lunch or even to a museum every now and then. One day, one of Dora's
clients recognized him walking with his schoolmates and a volunteer
up past the L.A County Museum of Art. She specifically remembered
Cliff because her own daughter had some issues which led her to seek
legal advice and Cliff happened to be in the office with mom. Some
time later, the client mentioned in passing that she ran into Cliff at
the museum and couldn't help but notice that the kids were wearing
shirts and jackets of a wide variety with disparaging comments of
all sorts. Cliffs T-shirt, said in bold black letters : YOU STINK !
Another kid wore a hat that said, ' LOSER ' , another with a
jacket that stated, ' I never Loved You '. The client chuckled, asking
Dora where she bought it. Cliffs mom didn't buy it. In fact she had no
idea why her son was wearing it. Well, after some looking into, it
turned out that the ' volunteer ' had recently broke up with her boy
friend who happened to be a security guard at the museum, so she
made the kids wear these hats, coats and t-shirts unbeknownst to
any of the kids parents or the kids themselves. Further investigation
revealed that it had become a common practice among the volunteers
to do such a thing. The kids were being used as props. When Dora
found out about it in full, she brought it up to Stan and they decided
to do what any good legal family would do. They decided to sue.
Stan was a judge in high profile cases. Through the years, he had
watched his more liberal contemporaries end up in disparaging
posts such as traffic court in Compton or settling housing issues
Downtown, the Judge Judy type of detail. He had played his cards
right, literally. He was a kind man, patient, quiet, respected by his
bailiffs and well liked buy most of the people he worked with, not
necessarily by those he had sent to prison, but most everyone else.
Dora became a lawyer and later a legal advisor partly because they
were working in the same circles and partly to sort out the issues
they were having with Cliff early on. They loved Cliff immensely.
More than the usual parent might love a child and definitely more
than if he was, quote-unquote-normal. They had a nice size home
in the Valley and Stan drove North to work just a few miles away.
He tried not to bring his work home, but when your wife is a legal
advisor, a top notch lawyer really, it was almost impossible, cases
concerning children or abuse of authority or murder were always
a sticky issue, they both tended to lean pretty hard on the accused.
He was older by a few years, but Dora was mature for her age, so
it worked out pretty well. They all vacationed together twice a year
and during the holidays often took a cabin in the snowy topped local
mountains. Considering the situation with Cliff, they handled it well.
Around the time that Cliff became four, five and six , they noticed
he had a way of sensing what was going on , not only in their inner
lives, but also in the lives of people they worked with. If Stan had
a high profile case concerning an auto accident, Cliff might create
a drawing with unexplainable details. When Dora's mother was close
to death, he had drawn a picture of her final resting place two months
before they had chosen it. He was somehow reading the inner lives of
his parents and at first it freaked Stan out. Some days, before a big
trial,
Stan might peruse around cliffs room, looking for an image that might
help him with the case. Dora put a stop to it, but hey, who could blame
him? There son was psychic and they knew it. Wether Cliff knew it or not
didn't matter. Once, when Cliff was twelve, they woke up one early
morning
to find Cliff nestling with a Deer. He had no food to give it. He was
just
holding the dear, when they opened the door, it ran away. Another time,
a hummingbird flew into Cliffs room, sat on his finger, just sat there .
There were all kinds of encounters such as these. Dora thought maybe
she should mention it to a friend of a client who had written a book on
shamanism in the modern day, but Stan said no. He didn't want his
son ending up on some television show or lame story on NPR. It was
their secret. When Cliff got home that day, he took out a sketchbook
and drew a stunning and startling portrait of a man that Stan would
never forget, someone he hadn't thought about for fifteen years.
They Call It The City of Angels
Chapter Six: Chuck
Chuck wanted to make detective, so did half the guys in his
division. But he had been working on it actively for three and
a half years now. Had a friend downtown who advised him on
what to do, how to lay the groundwork. He started by making
friends on the street. If he found a tough guy, say, smoking pot
while driving. He'd pull him over, get his information, talk to
him a bit, instead of citing him, he'd tell him that smoking while
driving made no sense. He'd chat him up a bit, make a friend.
Later, after hours, he'd look up the kids record, run a check on
his family, find out where, when and how he hustled and made
it a point to meet him again. He did this for the past three years
and had connections all over Los Angeles, not just in his area.
He spent one day a week doing research, talking to other guys
who had made detective, even hanging around the division.
Everyone on the force knew he was angling, if it didn't interrupt
his local quotas, his desk duty and any other assignments,
no problem.
When word got out that his brother-in-law was getting out
of the joint after a fifteen year stint for manslaughter, people
started talking. Chuck realized that this was actually his
chance to make detective. These days everything on the street
was controlled by a unit of men incarcerated for decades and
sometimes for life. They gave the orders. Chuck knew that
after fifteen years, his brother-in-law, Junior had learned a
few things, things that could help Chuck move in on what they
call, the ' Big Dogs '. No detective would bother with some
small time peddlers, they all wanted a big catch, something
that would get some ink, something that would help them up
the ladder a few rungs. Recently, there had been a new crime
spreading through the city of Los Angeles. Somebody or a
group of people were torching palm trees in designated areas.
At first, they thought it was a kid or pyromaniac. As it spread
throughout Southern California, other theories popped up.
The burnt palm trees were a signal that certain local business
had not contributed to a certain individual or it was, 'a warning'
sign, 'a don't shop here' sign or a ' your on the list ' sign.
Chuck was in agreement that it was not random, he noticed
when, where and how it was playing out. Since making the
goal to become a detective, he had transformed the den into
an office. His wife and the girls knew Daddy was serious about
his work, so they watched television in the living room and
shared the master bedroom with bunk beds. While Chuck
and his wife Celia had what they commonly call a guest bed
room. Celia had an entire room to herself for dressing and
basic women's stuff with a vanity set Chuck bought when
they first got married.
In his office, which he always kept locked, Chuck had a map.
He followed murders: There had been over twenty-two in the
past ninety days. Drug busts: there had been three big ones in
the past forty-five days and dozens of small one's. Lately, he'd
been following the palm tree burnings. Even started reading
up on other incidents through history, from cross burnings to
lynching. Looking for something that might give him one up
on what was going down. The Mayor of Los Angeles, in an
official statement, directed to law enforcement had said that,
" The Palm Tree Burnings " were a scar on the city, were bad
for business, bad for tourism and had to be stopped. He wanted
a new kind of cooperation between departments wherever the
incidents had occurred. Incentives were given to both cops on
the street, detectives on the beat and even the local feds, since
several of the incidents had happened on federal property.
One happened on a reservation near Joshua Tree National
Forest and another happened directly in front of the Federal
building downtown. Some people said it was a scam, just another
distraction from the real crimes that were happening in L.A. :
Drug Smuggling, Child prostitution, Underground Pornography.
The so - called sanctioned crimes that made money. Chuck
didn't care what it was about, he had been told to get something
important on it and he'd be given a serious opportunity to make
detective. If he could crack the case, it was a total guarantee.
Several weeks earlier, Chuck went downtown to ask a couple
friends, one was a lieutenant detective, if they would give him
permission to tap the phones in his home. His brother-in-law
was getting out of the joint and maybe they could find out a
few things. The word would most likely come back officially
as a no. On his way home, he cranked up John Coltrane' s a
Love Supreme, while flying down the 110 freeway, he realized
that no one could stop him from recording any conversations
in his own home. He could drive out to the local Circuit Station,
buy some basic over the counter devices and wire the place up.
Chuck came from the generation that actually was offered shop
classes in junior high school. He had taken both wood shop and
electric classes, so, setting up the whole thing was not a big deal.
He wired the entire guest house in three hours and did it all for
less than what it would have cost to tune up the station wagon.
He couldn't tell Louis Sr. or Celia , they wouldn't understand.
It was his job. He knew that if they ever wanted to take another
vacation together, he'd have to make detective. Three days later,
Junior got out of prison and Chuck drove down to Ma Fritters
to get breakfast and check in with his father-in-law Louis Senior.
They talked about how to deal with Junior's Coming Home party.
'Are you heading back to the office ?' asked the waitress, ' Yep.'
Afterward, while driving back, he thought, ' Not for long babe. '
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