South Central

South Central Los Angeles suffered through a second night of violence and looting last night as several gangs engaged in an all-out battle for territory.

Fires raged through many areas, but the governor has yet to declare a state of emergency or call in the National Guard, despite repeated calls from the mayor�s office.

Matters took a strange turn when a local "shock-jock" radio host interviewed a supposed member of one of the warring gangs. "We fight for Manishtusu," said the unidentified man, "and all the fallen will bow before him in a pool of blood!"

Occult experts claim that "Manishtusu" is the name of a demon in biblical lore, one that has been linked to no less than eight violent cults in Los Angeles since the early 1930s.


LOS ANGELES, August 15, 2006 � The Los Angeles District Attorney�s office is aggressively prosecuting the farmers and their supporters who took direct action to stop the bulldozing of the South Central Farm on July 5th this past month. The trial for three of these activists is set to start this Thursday. The Farmers are asking people to show support by attending the hearing and to call the DAs office and urge them to drop the charges. South Central farm: On July 5th of this year ten courageous environmental activists took direct action in an attempt to stop the destruction of the South Central Farm. Their actions were non-violent, yet they received injuries from police violence. Now they are facing excessive charges from the Los Angeles District Attorney office. The hearings for three of these defenders of the farm begin this Thursday. Supporters of the fight to take back the South Central Farm are asked to attend the hearing to show support for those who put themselves on the frontline in the fight for environmental justice

South Central Los Angeles: Inside Voices
Maxi Cohen, Producer/Director

"Transcends all racial prejudice..." - Teledrama
"Original..thrilling...captivating." - Telejournal
This is a powerful documentary that honestly and directly exposes issues of prejudice, racism and class as they effect multicultural communities. Filmed by the people living and working in the areas affected by the L.A. riots, it is a vivid portrayal of the complex urban tapestry where violence and hope live side by side. It has been broadcast all over the world to critical acclaim.

Activist filmmaker Maxi Cohen decided the weapon of choice among the protagonists should be a video camera with which to film their lives. Among those participating are:

Lea Edwards, whose concern with raising her son as a black man leads her to film the volatile life of neighborhood gang members.
The Lees, first generation Koreans who lost their grocery store during the riots. Their grief was compounded by accusations that they had set the fire themselves.
Rubin Green, an African American high school student whose family is riddled with drug problems. His determination to rise above his problems led to his participation in the White House Summit on Children and Families.
Francisco Leon, was a migrant worker when he was young. His video concentrates on the plight of Latino street vendors as they are harassed by both the police and gangs.
Frank DePaulo, a policeman whose experience with gang members leaves him cynical about the future of the city.
Their honest voices and strong images bring out issues of race and class with compassion. Applauded by educators, dispute resolution mediators, community workers and the press, Inside Voices is certain to stimulate discussion.

Silver Apple, National Educational Film & Video Fest., 1996

"L.A.Rex" (a novel by Will Beall, 2006. A fierce and ferocious, grittily cinematic debut set in South Central Los Angeles that recalls both Richard Price and James Ellroy�with a soundtrack from Death Row records�by an LAPD anti-gang officer who continues to patrol the streets he writes about.

As far as everyone in the squad room knows, Ben Halloran is completely fresh to the streets of the 77th Division, a soft kid from the West Side who''s decided to become a cop and just happened to draw the hardest neighborhood in L.A. But demons from Ben''s complicated past catch up with him�and his tough, oddly principled Daryl Gates-era partner, Miguel Marquez�all too quickly. From the moment Ben and Marquez hit the streets together, they''re pulled into a web of ultraviolent corruption and retribution involving hardcore Crip gangbangers and tagalong gangsta-rap gloryhounds, L.A.''s Mexican Mafia, sleazy celebrity defense attorneys, and dirty cops with distinctly self-serving definitions of law enforcement. Ben is forced to choose among father figures and apparent destinies�trying to obey (and discover) his own moral principles as well as his desperate animal instinct simply to stay alive.

Author Will Beall is a Los Angeles police officer who has spent almost all of his career on the streets of South Central, much of it in antigang units. The book bristles with the energy and authenticity of his experience. But the true revelation of L.A. Rex is that Will Beall can write�his raw and brilliant, fearless prose simultaneously evokes Richard Price and James Ellroy.

The result is an explosive thriller that takes us deep into a city that''s further from Hollywood than we can imagine�a city that no other writer has managed to capture with this kind of hard-earned insight and intensity. L.A. Rex is already on its way to the silver screen, and Beall is now at work on his next novel. Articulate cop and hard-nosed writer, Will Beall is perfectly poised to become the next great noir laureate of Los Angeles.

A gang of fools wanted Wizard tits up. Those creepy-ass headhunters from Mara Salvatrucha had buried a statue of the Blessed Virgin upside down and sworn to drink his blood. And shermed-up mayate gunners in every mudfucked hood from here to East Oak Town drove around with Wizard''s picture tucked into the sun visor. Even the Nazi Saddle Tramps, those shit-stinking bikers from the high desert, would have skinned him alive - he''d heard stories of caves outside Lancaster with human hides stretched like Japanese screens. Over the years, Wizard had spilled enough blood on the street and in the yard to give them all kinds of reasons, but none of that mattered anymore. All his would-be asesinos were officially assed out. Wizard was protected. Only God could kill him now and even God wanted no part of the Mexican Mafia.
Cesar Salcido (nom de guerre: Wizard) had been just another sureno pistolero from Florencia Trece, serving out his time in Tehachapi for armed robbery, when his destiny arrived on the bus from County. El Viejo, the gray whiskered Eme cat who ran the whole enchilada inside, sent a kite down the bloc about a snitch on the transfer from county lockup. Wizard wasn''t doing anything special that afternoon so he melted a container of deodorant, melted and rolled it, melted and rolled it, until he had a weapon resembling a plastic icicle.

The secret shame of the California Penal System: most cons didn''t know how to really stick somebody. They''d just bum rush you at chow and shank you the way a teenage boy fucks - with that same furtive piston motion - punch a dozen leaking holes in you while you''re waiting for your scoop of powdered mashed potatoes. Sure, it was messy. A lot of guys lost kidneys, and some wound up wearing bags, but most of them survived. Stupid, Wizard thought. Why bother sticking some fool if you''re not going to put him down for keeps?

Wizard lay for the snitch in the showers, waited for the guy to tilt his head back to rinse that delousing crap out of his hair, and drove his shank into the guy''s eye. No official witnesses (this was prison after all), but there were a shitload of Polaroids - photos of the dead snitch with Wizard''s shank buried to the hilt in his ruined left eye, blood running like tears down his cheek, and his scalp weirdly tented where the tip of the shank had poked clean through the back of his skull. The pictures traded around the prison like baseball cards. Screws and cons alike were relieved to see the snitch taken out before his presence threw the whole place out of whack and touched off a riot. And just for restoring the prison ecosystem''s delicate equilibrium, they gave Wizard a year in the hole. Wizard figured that injustice put him in the company of Gandhi and Mandela, but he couldn''t get those faggots at Amnesty International excited about his case.

Wizard was still raw about the whole thing when he paroled four years later. Then he found a limo waiting for him outside the prison gate and all was forgiven. Joe Carcosa rolled down a tinted window and beckoned Wizard, patting the leather seat next to him. Wizard slid into the limo next to Jose Fucking Carcosa, the Dude himself, Eme''s Hombre Numero Uno in the City of Angels. Wizard leaned down to kiss the ring, but Carcosa stopped him, pouring Wizard a shot of Patron. The two men drank to their families and to Aztlan, Wizard already thinking this was worth a year in the hole. Then Carcosa made Wizard the offer of a lifetime.

Carcosa said they needed a South Central tax collector and Wizard was their man. "It''s your hood," Carcosa said. "You know the players. You know the street." Carcosa held up one of the snitch''s death Polaroids admiringly. "And you''re good with people."

The Eme''s monthly taste was a straight ten off the top of all dope, chop shops, extortion, whores and numbers, but they made it clear they wanted no part of punk-ass chickenshit liquor store holdups. "Leave that shit to the niggers," Wizard told all his payers. "Just do your thing out here like gentlemen, render unto Cesar what is Cesar''s, and we''ll all get along just fine."

Carcosa''s setup was pure genius: Wizard''s front was a Gang Intervention and Outreach Program called Calle Respeto. Wizard spoke to school kids about the evils of gang life, the horrors of prison, and all his dead homies. He made obligatory weekly appearances at some half-assed midnight basketball gig. Once or twice a year, he posed with celebrities at charity events. Wizard was a reformed gangster now, a force for change in his community. Calle Respeto allowed him to move through the hood without suspicion when he called on his payers, and with the Eme''s heavy mojo orbiting him like a forcefield, Wizard walked without fear of man or beast.

His job''s other perquisites included clean guns when he needed them and clean whores when he wanted them. Still, what Wizard loved best about working for the Eme wasn''t his neighborhood juice or his on-call harem, but his cosas his things. He''d filled his modest home to the point of clutter with earthly possessions. Throughout his stint in prison, unattainable things had haunted Wizard from dog-eared mail order catalogues. Studying those glossy pages, Wizard came to want things, to hunger for things the way a man hungers for a beautiful woman (On one occasion he''d actually jerked off to a picture of an air hockey game from the Sharper Image catalogue). And now, at long last, Wizard possessed the cosas that had so long dogged his dreams.

Wizard had his air hockey game, a snooker table, a jukebox with bubbles in it, and a high-def TV. Wizard had a macaw that talked and a huge framed picture of Elvis and Marilyn at some heavenly diner. The picture had a real neon light built right into it, the diner''s open sign flashing and sizzling. These were things few men could expect to attain and no man could expect to keep in South Central, but Wizard''s pad was painted with lamb''s blood, an invisible 13, the Eme''s special blessing, and a warning to every burglar and home invader in the hood: find another spot.

On the last day of his life, Wizard collected a little over seven hundred thousand from his payers. The crew from Barrio Mojado was a little light this time around, either under performing or holding out. Wizard made a mental note to find out which and deal with them accordingly. Otherwise, his collections went like clockwork. The bills were bundled with rubber bands per Wizard''s instructions and they rustled like dry leaves in the Calle Respeto duffel as Wizard dropped the monogrammed bag on the couch. Wizard cracked a Budweiser, poured a little into the macaw''s water dish, and flopped down next to the duffel to watch an old rerun of Adam 12 on Nickelodeon.

The macaw''s ears were keener than Wizard''s. The bird squawked a warning before Wizard heard the first boot land heavily on his front porch. Wizard saw the shadows shifting under the door and reached between the couch cushions for the Sigma pistol he kept there. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he wasn''t some punk who needed to sleep with his eyes open anymore. No one would dare come for him at his home, but old habits die bloody. Wizard still ate like a con, hunching over to shovel it in with his elbows pressed against his sides for protection. He still came like a con, lips pursed with silent intensity, so that the whores had no idea he was finished until he told them to hit the bricks. Old habits, Wizard thought, caressing the Sigma''s textured grip.

Wizard hit the remote, activating the television''s PIP (picture in picture) feature. His peace-of-mind security cams fed right into the TV''s auxillary port and PIP window popped lower right in the screen a little box under Reed and Malloy displaying Wizard''s own front porch. The surveillance camera stashed under his eaves showed two real uniforms at Wizard''s front door. At the sight of them, the macaw squawked, "Five-Oh! Five Oh!" Wizard ignored the bird, narrowing his eyes at the two figures on the screen.

He had counterparts in town who would have shit at the sight of blue suits on the front porch, but Wizard didn''t trip. He was after all, a reformed gangster and cops dropped by all the time asking him to lecture a wayward kid, scare some little pendejo into leaving this gang shit alone and finishing school. He''d just invite them in. No big thing. Still, something about these two made him hesitate.

The big guy was a hulking monster, roughly the dimensions of Wizard''s Wurlitzer jukebox. He had hands like wet catcher''s mitts and a Cro-Magnon brow, like rolls of quarters had been sewn right into his forehead. In profile the guy resembled a black Ben Grimm, The Thing from The Fantastic Four. His mouth hung open and even in the grainy resolution, Wizard could see shiny spit pooling in the guy''s huge bottom lip. His eyes were flat, lifeless.

But it wasn''t the big one that worried Wizard. It was his partner. This guy was a light-skinned black, might have had some PR in him. He was lean, muscular, and pretty enough in his Billy Dee Williams mustache to make some bull con a fine prison wife, but he didn''t look like a bitch. This dude had the eyes of a hunter and he radiated real street cunning. In fact, the guy didn''t look like a cop at all.

Crack! Crack! Crack! The big one''s meaty fist hammered his front door, a cop''s knock, the kind that rattles hinges. They actually taught them that shit in the academy. Establish your authority the moment you arrive. Let them know you mean business.

Wizard hesitated a moment, racking slide on the Sigma to chamber the first hollow point, and weighed his options. These weren''t rookies, no fucking way, but they seemed mellow enough. They didn''t stand offset from the doorway the way he''d seen cops do when they were half-expecting the occupant shoot them right through the front door. Their gun hands dangled absently at their thighs, never rising to caress the holstered Glocks on their hips. Wizard had never met a street cop that could resist the urge to touch his burner every few seconds. So, these guys were either taking it easy or they were aware of the camera and wanted to appear casual. Wizard leaned in close to the screen, trying to read the hunter''s eyes through the pixels. Fuck it. He tucked the Sigma back between the cushions and opened the door.

"Cesar," the hunter smiled at Wizard, baring teeth too white and straight for Wizard''s taste. His nameplate said RISLEY. The big one was MAPES. Risley offered his hand and Wizard took it. His grip was right, Wizard observed, dry and not too tight. "I''m Officer Risley." He spoke in a slow-jammin'' bedroom voice - Don Cornelius on Quaaludes. "This is Officer Mapes." Mapes nodded, noisily sucking the spit out of his bottom lip. "We need to ask you a favor." Sure, Wizard thought. Scare a little act-right into some delinquent. No problem. "May we come in for a moment?"

Wizard moved aside and the two cops stepped across the threshold. Risley closed the door behind them and Wizard somehow knew he''d made a mistake, an odd bit of Creature Feature wisdom coming back to him: once you invite Dracula in, you''re fucked.

"Five-Oh!" The macaw squawked, bobbing on its perch.

"Cayate!" Wizard hissed at the bird more forcefully than he''d intended. All his prison survival instinct, all his street time, was pumping him full of spooky juice. These dudes were bad ju ju, but there was no shaking them now. He''d just have to ride this out.

"Cool," Risley tapped the flat television screen. Mierda, Wizard had forgotten to hit the remote again and the screen still displayed his front porch. "Can''t be too careful in this neighborhood, right partner? Right?"

"Huh?" Mapes, who had been studying the skittish macaw with a look of childlike wonder that was somehow obscene from a man of his size, turned reluctantly to face Wizard. "Yeah," Mapes said, sucking spit. "Right."

"Not with the kind of cash you keep around, Wizard." Risley nodded to his partner and Mapes drew his side-handle baton with samurai quickness. Wizard lunged for the couch, but he wasn''t fast enough. Mapes caught him in the side of the head with a backhanded stroke. The solid aluminum baton connected with superhuman force, crushing his right cheekbone to powder and smearing his nose across the left side of his face on the follow-through. The room spun and he went down hard, blood bubbling from the torn nostrils of his crushed nose.

"Goddamn, nigga!" Risley scolded, his silky DJ voice replaced with a vicious ghetto bark. "The fuck I tell you? Damn near kilt his ass with that Sosa shit!" Mapes hunched his immense shoulders as though he expected Risley to hit him. Risley grabbed Mape''s ear and twisted it, forcing Mape''s head down the way you''d hold a dog''s nose in shit. "You see blood fillin'' that eye, nigga?" He pointed down at Wizard. "If you fucked up his brain, homeboy can''t tell us shit." Mapes nodded shamefully. Risley rolled his eyes to Wizard, one professional to another, his exasperated sigh saying: you see what I have to work with here.

"Goddamn nigga!" The bird squawked.

Wizard knew this game well enough to know he was dead. Badge or no badge, no one with the ganas to steal from Carcosa would leave a witness alive. Wizard clawed his fingers into the carpet as the room spun further out of control, tilted his head to the right, and vomited a froth of blood-tinged Budweiser.

"Concussion," Risley pronounced, shaking his head. "Get him up. Don''t let him pass out." Risley stepped over Wizard, heading for the kitchen. He paused at the Wurlitzer, and leaned over the menu, tapping his chin with his index finger. He pushed some buttons on the juke and his selection plopped on to the turntable: The Fleetwoods crooning Come Softly. Risley stepped into the kitchen, bobbing his head to the music.

Mapes yanked Wizard up by a huge fistful of his blood-soaked guyabera shirt, twisted Wizard''s arm behind his back. Mapes half-carried, half-marched Wizard into the kitchen and rammed Wizard into the big stainless steel sink. Wizard bent double over the sink, coughing blood into the basin. Mapes still had his left arm twisted behind him at an impossible angle. Risley hopped up on to counter next to the sink, banging his heels against the low cabinets like a kid. "We''re not here to arrest you, Wizard," Risley said.

"I kind of figured," Wizard mumbled.

"So," Risley said, absently scratching the ingrown hairs along his jaw line. "Where is it?"

It seemed crazy to Wizard that they didn''t already know. Either they hadn''t noticed the bag on the couch or they''d just figured he''d never leave Carcosa''s cash lying around like that. They were expecting a loose floorboard, a false bookcase.

"Tear the place apart," he whispered. He was dead anyway.

Risley nodded to Mapes. Mapes hooked a massive arm around Wizard''s neck, nearly lifting him off his feet. Risley grabbed Wizard''s right forearm with both hands and shoved his hand down into the garbage disposal. Wizard felt the dormant teeth of the disposal, slick with greasy offal. He tried to yank his hand out, but with Mapes on his back, he had no leverage. Risley jammed the heel of his palm against Wizard''s elbow, forcing his hand down against the teeth. Then Risley reached across the sink for the switch. His fingertip touched the toggle. "Where''s the money?"

"Fuck you," Wizard spat.

Risley turned on the disposal. The motor hummed. Wizard''s vision blurred, but he would not scream. The machine was eating him. Skin peeled. Tendons tore. Masticated nerves sent wild currents up his arms, commanding him to pull away, but the disposal had him now. Even without Risley jamming his hand into it, Wizard couldn''t have pulled free. He heard the wet crunch of those spinning teeth as they chewed his bones and cartilage to bloody paste. The gears ground to a halt, choking on what must have been his splintered wrist. The sink backed up. Transfixed, Wizard watched thick blood bubble up from the drain. His fingers floated among the corn and carrots.

Risley leaned in close to Wizard. "This is only the beginning, amigo," he said, "It doesn''t stop until you tell us where the money is."

"Then I guess were in for a long night," Wizard said.



http://us.penguingroup.com/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9781594489266,00.html


http://repositories.cdlib.org/lewis/wps/06/ - South-Central Los Angeles: Anatomy of an Urban Crisis


FILMAKERS LIBRARY
SOCIOLOGY - http://www.filmakers.com/indivs/SouthCentral.htm

Watts Towers - http://www.darkroompeople.com/drp8/losangeles/image015.php

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Art Crimes: Los Angeles 83
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