Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 10

We decided to try St. Andrews park. We walked the length of St. Andrews to Eighty-seventh Street, and there we found a civilian waxing a custom van. Just the thing we needed-a van. This meant more shooters could be secreted inside. More shooters meant more deaths. We stepped to the vic-the victim.

"Hey, man," I began spiritedly, as if I were really impressed by his van. "This is a clean van."

"Yeah, you like it?" said the civilian, who stood about six foot three and looked to weigh about three hundred pounds.

"h.e.l.l, yeah," said Tray Stone, "this m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka's tight."

The civilian then took in our attire and demeanor and, amped on adrenaline, looked everywhere but at his van.

"Yeah, I work hard for my things," he said nervously and then, as if expecting something, he added, "too hard."

At that, Diamond swung into motion. It all seemed rehea.r.s.ed, we had done it so many times. One step back, draw the weapon, and instruct the vic to lie down on his stomach. Then, either Tray Stone or I would frisk the vic, taking anything he had. We treated the women much better than the men. We'd never rape the women, nor would we take the whole purse.

But this time when Diamond swung into motion his action was countered, as if the vic was a mind reader. When Diamond made his step backward the vic took one step forward, and when Diamond reached for his waistband to retrieve the strap the vic pounced on him with all of his height and weight. Diamond went down as if he wasn't even in the vic's way. De, Tray Stone, and I moved with alacrity to aid the homie who was now being pummeled by the vic, who was screaming something about him working too hard for his s.h.i.t. Somehow, Diamond managed to wiggle free of the vic. He did so on his own, because the head blows we were delivering to the vic seemed to do little. The man had gone stone crazy on us.

When Diamond jumped up, looking like a frightened boy who had just seen a ghost, he started backing away mouthing something that we could not catch. The vic began to turn his big frame in our direction. Tray Stone hollered for Diamond to "shoot him, shoot the m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka." That's when Diamond found his voice and screamed, "He got the strap!"

By then it was too late.

"Now," the vic-turned-a.s.sailant said, "I'm gonna kill all you dirty, no-good little punks."

All I could think about was Death Wish. We each ran in separate directions, first for our lives and then to try and confuse the vic-a.s.sailant. I hadn't taken ten steps before the first shot cracked into the darkness.

POW!.

Good, I thought, he ain't shootin' at me. And then the second shot cracked.

POW!.

And I'll be d.a.m.ned if he didn't hit me in the back. Two other shots cracked off and I presumed them to be at the others. In the meantime, I dove for cover.

Within minutes of being shot my whole right arm was numb and I couldn't move it or my fingers. The shooting had stopped, but I was still reluctant to get out of my hiding place. My worst fear came from thinking about what the .22 bullet had done to me internally. All the stories of bullets traveling, ricocheting, and tearing up organs came rushing on me in every voice I had ever heard them in.

Suddenly I saw a shadow to my right and tensed. The shadow seemed to tense, too. Friend or foe? He must have thought the same thing I did, because simultaneously we both broke and ran. As I made distance I looked back. s.h.i.t, it was Diamond.

"Diamond," I hissed, "over here, it's me, Monster."

Diamond doubled back huffing and puffing, still wearing his frightened-little-boy face.

"Oh, what's up, cuz?"

"I'm hit," I said with all the it's-your-fault I could put into it.

"d.a.m.n, cuz," Diamond said, now looking out from our hiding place like we were trapped in Khe Shan. "I'm sorry, homie, but that big-"

"Don't sweat it," I interrupted him. "We got to get away from here. I can't move my arm."

"d.a.m.n," Diamond whispered with disgust.

"C'mon, cuz," I instructed Diamond, "we got to move."

We bailed out of our foxhole and into the lights of an on-coming car, Diamond waving his arms dramatically.

"Cuz, that's a van," I shouted. "It might be-"

"m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas!" was all we heard coming from the van. Then: POW! POW! POW!.

It was him all right, rolling on us. We darted to the left and ran through some apartment buildings, out the back, and onto Manchester Avenue. Once on Manchester we made our way over to the Boys Market parking lot. There we found Tray Stone and Crazy De. My entire right side now throbbed. With all the excitement making my heart pump faster I knew that I was losing a lot of blood.

Before I could say anything, Diamond told De and Stone that I was shot and that the man was rolling around looking for us. De looked like he was going to be sick. Stone kept mumbling threats about killing the man.

"We gotta get Monster to the hospital," Diamond said, feeling responsible for my wounding.

"How we gonna do that?" De said. "You done let fool take the d.a.m.n strap from you. How we gonna-"

"Man, f.u.c.k you, De!" Diamond shot back. "You seen cuz over me, what I s'posed to do? Huh? What?"

"Cuz, f.u.c.k it, just f.u.c.k it," De said, waving Diamond off dismissively.

"Naw, ain't no just 'f.u.c.k it', 'cause you seem to-"

"HEY!!" I shouted. "I'm dying, man, we better do something."

Stone spotted the father of one of our homegirls and flagged him down. We piled into his car and Stone told him to take us to the hospital. I objected, to everyone's surprise, and said to take me home. I had an irresistible longing to see my mother. Blue, our homegirl's father, was driving at a slower than normal pace, leaning in the seat-obviously drunk-and listening to old down-home blues.

After several blocks of this, with us looking from one to the other in irritation, Crazy De leaned over, inches from Blue's ear, and whispered, "Monster got shot tonight and we tryin' to get him home. Now, if he dies in this car because yo' old a.s.s is drivin' too slow, you gonna die in this car, too." Then, more loudly, "NOW DRIVE!"

Blue drove so fast that I was scared we'd all die in an auto accident. He bent corners on two wheels, ran stop signs, and bullied his way through red lights. I don't know if he was driving this way for me or him. Moments later we came to a screeching halt in front of my house. When we piled out, Blue looked relieved.

We knocked on the front door and Kerwin let us in. He and Mom sat at the front-room table eating.

"Mom," I began with a stammer, "I'm shot."

"Boy, get outta here with that d.a.m.n foolishness, I ain't got time for it."

"No, I'm serious, I can't move this arm," I said, pointing to my right arm with my left hand. I felt like a small boy trying to convince Mom that I had sc.r.a.ped my knee without there being a hole in my pants leg.

"No, Mrs. Scott, he really is shot," De said respectfully.

To this Mom balled up her napkin, threw it into her remaining food and said, "s.h.i.t, boy, you always into something. You gonna be dead before you eighteen." And she promptly stalked off to her room to retrieve her car keys-I hoped.

"Let me see," Kerwin said, getting up from the table.

"Man, f.u.c.k you!" I responded and sat down.

"What happened?" Kerwin asked, looking at the others, clearly not expecting an answer from me. But the homies already knew that Kerwin was a spy for Mom, so they said nothing. Every morning when I woke up I'd hear him in the front room telling Mom about things he had heard I'd done.

"Kody turned a party out on Eighty-fourth," or "Kody shot such-and-such," he'd say, so I knew not to tell him anything. If he heard it on the street, so what? It could be rumors.

When Mom came back up the hallway she had her keys, jacket, and purse with her.

"C'mon here, boy," she said, and walked right past me out the door. When I went after her, the troops followed. "And where y'all think you goin'?" she said, primping herself. "I am sure not going to be riding around this city with the four of you. It's bad enough that I got to ride with this one."

I rolled my eyes to the moonless sky and saluted the homies with the Tray.

"Three minutes," came their reply, and Mom and I were on our way. At the first corner she began in on me.

"Now what happened this time?"

"Nothin'," I said sullenly.

"Nothing?!" she shouted. "You got a d.a.m.n bullet in your body, somebody put it there."

"You don't want to know," I said, staring out of the window, trying to disengage.

"Kody, I need to know what happened. These people are not stupid. They are going to need an explanation to this shooting. Now what happened?"

"Is that why you wanna know, just so you can have an explanation for them?" I shot back. "What about you? You haven't even asked me if I am hurtin'. No, you too busy fussin' to show me love, to say somethin' kind or nice. No, it's always fuss, fuss, fuss."

She gave no reply, just looked straight ahead. So I continued.

"You wanna know what really happened, Mom? Really?"

She didn't answer.

"We went to take a van for a move and the dude took the gun from Diamond and shot me in the back."

"My G.o.d," she said with disdain. "Kody, why do you want to take other people's property? That's not right. People work hard for what they have. You can't just-"

"Mom, can you drive faster, I think I'm bleeding to death."

"Oh, now you scared of dying. You should have thought about that when you had your bad a.s.s out there, robbing folks. Now you want to worry about dying. I'll tell you."

I didn't respond and she didn't drive any faster. When we finally got to the hospital, well over an hour had pa.s.sed since I was shot. We were made to sit in a waiting room. There were four people there: two New Afrikans, one Chicano, and one American. The American was called first. She had a cold. Mom went off.

"You stupid motherf.u.c.kers, don't you see my son has been shot!? You mean to tell me that a white woman with a cold is more important than my son with a bullet in his back? What kind of d.a.m.n hospital are you people running here?!"

The receptionist, an American, was dumbfounded. Totally speechless, she sat safely behind the part.i.tion, thankful for her seclusion from Mom. Mom kept at it until two American doctors wheeled out a wheelchair and rolled me back through the double doors.

First I was X-rayed, then led to a room with a bed to await the results. The entry hole, they said, was very tiny and didn't seem to have done too much damage. I explained to the doctor about the numbness and he said it was a symptomatic response to shock and delay of treatment. He added that he doubted if it would be permanent. Mom sat on the side of my bed and gazed out the window.

"Yes, officer," I heard a female voice say, "he's right in here."

"Thank you," said a scratchy, still unseen voice.

Then in through the door came two American soldier-cops, one with a clipboard, the other with a Winch.e.l.l's Donuts coffee cup. The one with the clipboard was older, redder, and more go-with-the-flow. His face was like worn leather, hair gray and managed as if he had just had it styled for a V05 commercial. The younger one was straight off the beach, a surfer-n.a.z.i from h.e.l.l, all jittery and gung-ho, eager to make his bones in the department. I could tell right away that a conflict existed between these two. New versus old, traditional versus contemporary, professionalism versus personalism. I decided to have a little fun.

"What's your name, son?" asked Clipboard.

"My name, sir?" I asked, as if not overstanding the question.

"Yeah," Donut Cup snapped, "your name. You know, the legend you were given at birth?" His tone was pushy like "all you people are so stupid."

"Oh, yeah," I said, "my name. Kody Scott, sir." I was careful to be nice and respectful to Clipboard, while agitating Donut Cup with my feigned stupidity.

"Where did this incident take place?" asked Donut Cup.

"Incident?" I asked right back, looking from Donut Cup to Mom for an interpretation of "incident."

Donut Cup turned his head.

"Where were you when you were shot?" asked Clipboard with all the ease of a family doctor.

"I was standing alone on the bus stop at Adams and Western."

"Southeast, northwest?" asked Donut Cup.

"No," I began, as if he had it all wrong. "I was not at Southwest College, I was on Adams and Western."

"On which side of the street were you standing?" asked Clipboard.

"On the Adams side in front of the gas station going toward downtown."

"That would be the southeast corner, then," said Donut Cup, trying to hammer his point home.

"I just always thought it was the corner of Adams and Western," I said, trying to look perplexed. Donut Cup turned a shade darker.

"What happened while you were standing on the bus stop?" asked Donut Cup.

"Well," I began, imitating an old man by rubbing my chin in deep thought, "I wasn't really standing on the bus stop, I was standing behind the bus stop, in back of the bench on the sidewalk between the gas station and the street."

Donut Cup went flaming red, grabbing his head with both hands as if he were trying to stop from going mad. Mom put a hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh. Clipboard, ever-patient, just waited to rephrase the question.

"Look," said Donut Cup, his face a stricken mask of anger, "all you have to do is answer the questions as we ask them. If you can-"

"Whoa, whoa,' said Clipboard, turning full around to face Donut Cup, "if you'd let me ask the questions you would be better off."

"Yeah, but-"

"Ahh," said Clipboard with an upheld hand, waving Donut Cup to silence.

"Now, uhh, Kody, as you were standing behind the bench on Adams and Western," he began and paused for a second to turn and look at Donut Cup as if to say "this is all you got to do." Then he turned back to me and simply said, "What happened?"

"A brown Monte Carlo came by traveling eastbound." Now I looked over as Donut Cup as if to say "you people are so stupid." "A guy with a .22 rifle hung out of the window-"

"Which window?" asked Donut Cup.

We both ignored him.