“No, please, Maggie,” Guido sighed. “I’m hungry.”
“I bet we can find some really terrific barbecue in Southeast. Somewhere around Central and 103rd.”
“No,” he said, adamant.
“You brought up the issue, Guido. To be fair, we have to talk to James.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said, hefting the recorder. “I don’t want to eat down there. Feed me now and I’ll be your slave all day.”
“I’m ashamed of you,” I said. “Slavery is not politically correct.”
I took him out Sunset to Barragan’s in Echo Park for heuvos rancheros. As I dug into the trencher-size platter the waitress set in front of me, I realized it was the first time in a long time that I’d had any interest in food at all. I more than made up for the lapse, with Guido keeping up bite for bite. As skinny as he is, he has always been a big eater. We worked through our massive entrees, the beans and rice, two sides of chips and fresh salsa, and finished off with cold flan. When there was nothing left, I let out my belt a notch, leaned back in the upholstered booth, and sighed. Guido was pouring out the last of his Corona beer.
“Ready now?” I asked.
“When you are,” he said, and finished his beer in a long swallow. “Fueled and happy, I am yours.”
We drove straight down the Harbor Freeway to Century Boulevard. The morning scene was very different from the night. The streets teemed with people going about their business, oblivious to the squalorous backdrop. Women in bright dresses or skimpy halter tops and stretch pants led flower-like little girls by the hand. Little boys, in baggy shorts and high-top basketball sneakers that were surely too heavy for their skinny legs, jived and hustled irreverently among them, laughing and teasing all the time. It was a parade. Knots of men hung out on the sidewalk to watch it pass by.
Two churches had “Free Charles Conklin” banners tacked up over their front doors. Identical banners.
We passed the corner on Century where Wyatt Johnson had been shot fifteen years earlier, and continued on two more blocks to Central. Three short blocks down Central we found 103rd Street, and Unity Market on the corner. I hadn’t noticed it on any of my trips to Etta’s.
Since leaving the freeway, we had passed gutters dirty with litter, not a small quantity of human litter, too, sleeping it off in doorways, loitering anywhere there was something to lean against. In stark contrast, the immediate area around Unity Market was spotless. There were no weeds growing through the cracks in the freshly swept sidewalk, no trash at the curb or blown up against the side of the building.
Most of the neighborhood market and liquor store owners in Southeast had plastered over their display windows and strung razor wire around any openings or vents. The Unity, however, had an open front to show off bins of fresh fruits and vegetables, cut flowers in big cans. There was a smell of fresh coffee. It all seemed to belong to a different, a gentler place.
When Guido and I walked up from the car a man I guessed to be in his sixties was helping an elderly woman select oranges. They had a little discussion about each orange before putting it into a paper bag. The man was very patient, courteous to the point of courtliness. He was a big man, a commanding presence. He wore blue jeans and sandals, a short, colorful batik tunic, and an embroidered Muslim cap on his short, nappy gray hair.
“Good morning,” he greeted us. “How may I help you?”
“We would like to speak with James Conklin,” I said. “There is no James Conklin here,” he said. He looked me over with uncomfortable yet not hostile, intensity. “But if James Shabazz will do…”
“I am Maggie MacGowen, Mr. Shabazz. This is my colleague Guido Patrini.”
“I know who you are, Miss MacGowen. I am an admirer of your work. On several occasions I have shown your films at F.O.I. evenings at the temple.”
“What is F.O.I.?” I asked.
“Fruits of Islam. Lessons on family living. I have shown Latchkey several times. Aged and Alone as well. We who are in the middle must take the responsibility of caring for the little brothers and sisters as well as our elders.”
The old lady shopper said, “Amen, brother James,” and moved on to the fresh broccoli.
“You have rare insight, Miss MacGowen,” he said. His stare made me uncomfortable. “And compassion as well.”
“Thank you,” I said. I knew I was blushing and would not look at Guido, but I gave his arm a pinch.
“What brings you here?” Shabazz asked. “Are you working on a film?”
“Yes, I am,” I said. “We want to talk to you about your grandson, Tyrone Harkness.”
“My grandson?” He was taken aback.
“Tyrone told me you are his ‘daddy’s daddy.’ That’s why I assumed your name was Conklin. Is Charles Conklin your son?”
“I suppose in the sense that all of Allah’s children are the sons and daughters of all mankind, then the young brother is my son. But I have no children of my own. Would you like to come inside and have a cup of coffee?”
I looked at Guido.
“Maybe something cold,” Guido said, meaning another beer. We followed James Shabazz inside. The market was immaculate and attractive, a cross between a health food store and a 7-Eleven. There was no alcohol of any kind, nor anything like a hot dog in the deli case. Three teenage boys in big white aprons were attentively helping customers, keeping things in order, and working the register. A sign over the check-out counter said, “Allah provides.”
Shabazz filled three paper cups with unfiltered apple juice. As he handed one to me, he said, “How is Tyrone?”
“Considering where he is, I suppose he’s all right,” I said. “He spoke of you with real affection. He told me you’re going to take him away from the city when he gets out.”
He smiled. “I was talking about helping him enter the Kingdom of Allah, but Tyrone seemed to think I meant summer camp.”
“What is your relationship to Tyrone and his father?”
“Let me show you,” he said, and led us out through the back of the store to a patch of asphalt off an alley. Bright, crude murals covered all of the facing walls. Paint-spattered tables and easels were folded up against a small shed at the side.
“I have this little parking lot here,” Shabazz said. “After school there isn’t much for the youngsters to do. Idle hands and minds go looking for trouble. Every child needs structure to his life, something productive to do with his time. Years ago, we started offering afternoon programs to any young ones who wanted to drop in. Crafts, music, dance. Educate them to their heritage, give them structure.
“Growing children are always hungry,” he said, smiling like the fond uncle. “To keep their strength up, we serve them snacks, too. Feed the body along with the spirit.
“We saw that some kids only came for the food. Charles Conklin was one of those-could not entice him away from the table. He got breakfast and lunch at school-and that’s all that kept him in school. What he ate here was all he would have for supper. When I learned that sometimes he did not have a safe place to sleep at night, I offered him sanctuary, as I later offered sanctuary to his son.”
“You saw something redeemable in Charles?” I asked.
“Charles?” Shabazz considered the question for a moment before he answered. “The little brother never had a chance, Miss MacGowen. The streets reached up and sucked him in, consumed him whole when he was still a baby because there was no one to hold him away. No one. Your question, did I see something worth redeeming in him? All of Allah’s children can find redemption. But a boy who would put a bullet in the back of a man’s head to steal his car for an hour’s ride, who would take his own girl child into his carnal bed, a boy like that was beyond my power to help.”