Which meant it was ideal for Remo’s purpose.
He wasn’t an urban vigilante, didn’t even like the Death Wish movies after they went overboard and cast Charlie Bronson as a one-man army, toting .30-caliber machine guns through the ghetto unopposed and mowing down a hundred punk-rock psychos at a time. The violence didn’t bother Remo, but he shied away from fairy tales that lost touch with reality.
If Bronson’s character had been a Master of Sinanju, perhaps…
The very notion made him smile as he approached the center of the park. It was easy to get lost in here by daylight, much less after dark, but Remo had a keen sense of direction. He could chart a course by starlight, if it came to that, but there was no need to play Daniel Boone this evening. Alondra lay due east of the park’s center, just an easy stroll. He still had half an hour left to kill.
His intentions had changed since coming in here. Now he wanted to be attacked. The desire increased as the time elapsed. There was an urgency now that had not been there before.
No luck so far in his attempt to make himself look easy. Two panhandlers had approached him near a rotted bench, but aside from cursing Remo when he failed to ante up, they let him be. It would require a more aggressive goon to offer him the workout he was suddenly craving. If he didn’t find a likely subject soon…
The sudden, high-pitched scream was music to his ears. He smiled and homed in on the sound a shadow merging with the darker shades of night.
“Somebody comin’,” Zero said, his pimply features broken by a crooked smile.
“Y’alls be ready,” Monster told his crew. The others mumbled back at him, a silly giggle out of Squealer, showing they were set.
The past four years he had been Baby Monster, but the world turns sometimes and his luck had changed two months ago on Gage Avenue with a drive-by shooting in Florence that took out Monster Cody and a couple of his homies, thereby elevating Baby Monster to the status of a full-fledged, grownup gangsta.
He was all of seventeen, and he was Bad. Eight felony arrests behind him, and the Man had never made one of them stick. No reason to believe he ever would.
Once a week, on average, Monster and his homies rode the bus from Florence into Compton, piled out in the middle of town, grabbed a bite to eat somewhere and then walked over to the park. That would be after dark, of course, when all the cops had gone home for the day, a little time for fun and games.
They used to call it “wilding,” back when he was still Baby Monster, till the press picked up the term and started using it like they knew shit about life on the streets. These days the homies called it “creeping,” and Monster liked it better that way. Had a better ring to it, more sinister, like he was pulling off some kind of slick guerrilla raid against the Man.
They didn’t hassle cops, of course. Not much. There was no profit in a game like that, and the risk of getting wasted for your trouble was extreme. The very least, some pig would go upside your head and drop you in the ER with your wrist cuffed to a bed rail—that’s if he was feeling sociable. More likely he would come out shooting, since no grand jury and no one in the D.A.’s office would be too upset about another teenage gangsta going down. It was like open season nowadays, even in the hood. Old people packing heat and scribbling on petitions like they figured it would do some good, clean up the streets.
Dream on.
“Looks like a bitch,” said Zero, putting on that crazy smile he always wore when he thought he was getting some.
With a man, they could have worked him over, stole his cash and plastic, maybe cut him up if he got lippy or resisted. With a bitch, though, you were talking entertainment of the finest kind.
A murmur rose from the homies, who were looking forward to a little action, and he pinned them with a glare. “Be cool,” said Monster, glowering. “Jus’ do your part and don’t be trippin’, unnerstan’?”
They nodded like a bunch of little monkeys, all except for Squealer, who was giggling like a bitch himself. The boy had problems, absolutely, but he still held up his end when they were banging, whether it was on a drive-by or a straight-up rumble in the street.
They heard the jogger now, her sneakers slapping on the pavement. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap. Getting closer all the time. A few more seconds. Monster told himself, and she would have herself a sweet surprise.
“Suppose she be a pig?” asked Jumbo, out of nowhere.
“Hush yo’ face, goddammit!”
It was something to consider, though. The pigs were not above impersonating joggers, lovers, old folks—anything at all, in fact, to try to sweep up riffraff in the park. They called it “stinging,” and they liked to brag about it in the papers, come the morning after. Only if they pulled it off, though. When they blew it, they would keep it to themselves.
Most of the crew had been arrested—all but Fly, who had some kind of lucky streak in progress, going on sixteen years old and never busted. Two or three of them had gone away on charges that would mean a lot more to adults, but none were scared of going back. It was a part of living in the city with a gangsta rep and taking care of business every day. The juvey courts were overcrowded, predisposed to leniency, and you could almost always cut a deal—agree to bullshit therapy, community work, just to skate and get back to the hood.
But Monster didn’t want to think about the Man right now. His mind was on the bitch and bumping uglies.
It was party-time.
They had it set up so the bitch would pass them by, proceed a few yards down the. path, before a whistle brought Godzilla out to intercept her. Probably she would try to turn and split, at which time she would find the path blocked off by Monster and his homies, closing in.
The one time it had failed, this Puerto Rican broad had come out with a .38 and started busting caps before they ever laid a hand on her. She got away, and Monster knew it was a miracle that no one stopped a slug.
You had to watch those fiery-tempered Latin types.
But this bitch was an Anglo, plain and simple, blond hair flying out behind her in a ponytail. She wore designer sweats, cut special so they wouldn’t hide the goodies altogether when she went out jogging, just in case she might bump into Mr. Right.
Tonight she had a date with Mr. Wrong, times seven, but she didn’t know it yet. Her own damn fault, if she had no more sense than running in Compton after nightfall. Probably some college type whose do-gooder liberal tendencies refused to let her. see the danger of the area.
Monster put two fingers in his mouth and whistled in the darkness, saw Godzilla jump out in the middle of the path and spread his arms like he was trying for a spot on big-time wrestling. He was six foot one, 220 pounds of malice on the hoof, and the very sight of him was enough to stop the bitch cold in her tracks and force a little squeak out of her throat.
“Le’s go!”
They piled out of the bushes, twenty feet behind her, Monster in the lead, and formed a skirmish line across the path. To dodge them now, the bitch would have to go off-road, and that was bound to slow her down so much she wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance. Instead of running, though, she stood there panting, looking scared, her titties jiggling up and down with every breath.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice all quavery.
Dumb bitch.
“We’s gonna have a party, mama,” Monster said, “an’ you’s the en’ertainment.”
In a flash, she saw her future, understood that there was no use pleading with the likes of Monster and his homies. When she broke and ran, the thugs saw it coming, telegraphed beforehand by a nervous flicker of her eyes. Squealer got there first, a flying tackle from behind that sent her sprawling.