[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [i]South Central L.A. It’s know the world over as a modern day wild west. That’s a bit overblown to be sure, but it sure as shit ain’t Mayberry. It’s story is like a lot of other places. Used to be a nice working class area, then the jobs dried up and poverty rose. Those that could afford to get out didn’t look back and left behind the poor and the desperate. Then crack came and hit the entire neighborhood like a fucking atom bomb. I’ve seen it happen with me own eyes. I grew up in Liverpool during the halcyon days of Skag City. Saw how drugs tear apart communities, friendships, and families. How in the hell could South Central take a punch like that and keep going? It’s no wonder the gangs that dealt crack got powerful. A kid living in a hellhole, a place where the Old Bill only shows up to knock you in the head and bang you up, you see the gangs as the only source of power and protection in the neighborhood. It’s an organization where you can join and belong and dress in matching colors. Kind of like the Boy Scouts, only with more drugs and less sex. With gang life flourishing, there had to be those that glorified it. Enter gangsta rap. Led by a bunch of lads with one foot in the life, they told the tale of what it meant to be young, black and disgruntled in Reagan and Bush’s America. Using words I’m too white to even attempt to use, they ignited the imagination of the public and sent suburban America into a panic. Calls for social reform dressed up around stories of drug dealers and corrupt cops. They tried to warn L.A. about police brutality years before anyone had even heard of the name Rodney King. When the city burned in ‘92, they were seen as more Cassandra than anything, screaming and rapping to deaf ears. And like those that didn’t listen, some of them paid the price. There’s a writer, an American, I’m rather fond of that once said “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.” And that’s what happened to these blokes. They pretended to live the life, they carried out coastal feuds and swore bloody vengeance on their rivals. Got so caught up that the lines blurred and shit got real. They acted like gangsters and were gunned down like gangsters. Those that survived moved on. You’ll see them now in PG comedies or baking cakes with Martha bloody Stewart on telly. They were the smart ones. They got close to the abyss and were able to pull away. Unfortunately, not all of them can be that lucky.[/i] --- [b]Crenshaw Boulevard 1:23 AM[/b] To Detective Charlie Rembrandt, this stretch of Crenshaw was on fire. Ash gray flames rose up off buildings and roared intensely. He knew the fire wasn’t real. What he was seeing was part of the shadow world of Los Angeles, ghost images that had been imprinted by the riots twenty-six years ago. He was surprised there wasn’t more scars from the riots. This part of the city went up in flames during those six days of anarchy, and helicopters hovered above it all to broadcast the damage to the world. He’d seen ghosts on Florence and Normandie pulling a spectral truck driver from his semi and bash his head in with a brick. It played on a continuous loop as Charlie passed by in his unmarked squad car. “You okay, Charlie?” He looked over at his partner Bonnie, watching him curiously from the passenger seat. Rembrandt looked back at the road and the ghost flames licking the side of buildings. “I’m fine.” “Bullshit,” said Bonnie. “You haven’t been acting right since we had that weird ass case at Wilshire Division.” “You know I am,” Charlie said with a shrug. “I hate giving up on a case and that one is pretty much unsolvable.” He could feel Bonnie sizing him up out the corner of his eye. She wasn’t a dummy. Unlike the majority of detectives who worked LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide Division, Bonnie both gave a fuck about her job and was competent. Like Rembrandt she was newest edition to the squad, the reason they were on the late shift, which meant she was among the sharpest detectives with the most to prove. “Whatever’s going on, you can tell me,” she finally said. Charlie laughed to himself. How do you explain you’ve been cursed with the ability to see dead people, psychic energy, and ghosts? He was still trying to explain it to himself. He'd gone fifty years thinking the world was one way, only to have the rug pulled out from under him and told he was completely wrong in every single way. “Thanks,” Charlie finally said. “I’ll keep a note of that when something’s bothering me.” “Okay, asshole. Keep it to yourself.” Rembrandt laughed again, this time aloud, as he turned the corner and saw blue lights at the end of the block. Patrol cars and unmarked units from 77th Street Division were parked outside a nightclub, a cordon drawn up that sealed off half the block. He found parking at the edge of the block that forced him and Bonnie to walk in. The uniformed officer standing sentry let them through when they flashed their badges. A small smile found its way to his lips. “What do you know about rap?” he asked as they passed. “Just limited to those that were anti-cop,” said Rembrandt. “N.W.A. and Ice Cube and a few others.” “My kids listen to Drake,” said Bonnie. “Heh,” the uniform chuckled. “The two of you are gonna learn today.” They walked towards the nightclub entrance where another plainclothes cop met them. He wore a badge around his neck and reading glasses on the tip of his nose. “You the RHD guys?” “Young and Rembrandt,” said Bonnie. “What’s going on here?” “Nightclub shooting,” said the cop. “I’m Ben Baker, by the way, D3 out of 77th Street Homicide Table.” “Sounds pretty straight forward,” said Rembrandt, looking around the area. “Why'd they call out RHD?” "It’s because of the victim.” Baker waved for them to follow him as they entered the club. All the lights were on, making the place look washed out and sad. Nightclubs were meant to be cast in shadow. It was unnatural to see it like this. Crime techs were busy taking photos of a body prone on the dance floor. “The departed is K2, either of your familiar with him?” After negatives from both Rembrandt and Bonnie, Baker nodded and pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Neither am I. Real name is Kirsnick Kemp, twenty-three years old. South L.A. native and rap star.” Bonnie was busy taking notes as Baker reeled them off to her. Charlie was distracted by something else entirely. He already knew he was out of his depth when he saw it mulling around by the crime techs with a confused look on its face. He resisted the urge to swear at the sight of it. He was going to need help, and there was only one man for the job. --- [b]East L.A. 2:34 AM[/b] “¿Es esta tu carta?” John Constantine asked in clunky Spanish. The cholos gathered around him applauded wildly as he held up the ace of spades for them all to see. His trench coat had been jettisoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his tie unknotted. It hadn’t been his intention to join their late night barbecue, but they were set up in the backyard of the apartment complex he lived in and John was invited. Far be it for him to turn down a generous offer of ribs and booze. “Thank you, thank you,” John said with a grin. With the flick of his wrists, the card disappeared. A shot glass filled with tequila replaced it. “For my next trick, watch as I make this shot disappear.” They cheered again as he downed the drink quickly. Drinks were passed around along with plates of food. Morrissey wailed [i]"Irish Blood, English Heart"[/i] on a bluetooth speaker somewhere. John traded dirty jokes with a heavily tattooed Chicano man with multiple tear drop tattoos under both his eyes. Almost everyone at the barbecue was in the Life, always with a capital L. They were part of PBS13, loyal to the Mexican Mafia and owners of this part of East LA. They were criminals and gangsters, proud cholo warriors who ran guns and drugs and whores. In short, John’s kind of people. John looked up from his food when he sensed the mood had changed. It suddenly became very tense and the sounds of Moz were cut short, leaving an uncomfortable silence. All eyes were looking towards the entrance of the apartment building where a man stood in the shadows. He stepped forward, Charlie Rembrandt and his rumpled suit coming into the light. The looks shifted from Rembrandt to John. Swallowing his mouthful of rib meat, John stood up and cursed. The cholos knew Rembrandt was a cop without having to ask. There was an invisible barrier between them that both sides could easily see. The fact that a cop was here to see him ended his party with the group. Anybody else they would have beaten or killed for associating with [i]policia[/i]. But not John. He had a reputation in the neighborhood, one that scared off the superstitious gangbangers from trying anything serious. No matter how hard a cholo might be, he knew better than to fuck with [i]El Mago[/i]. “What’s going on, Charlie?” John asked once they were out front by Rembrandt’s car. John could make out the silhouette of a person in the back of the car. “Must be a bloody emergency for you to barge in on me and my mates like that.” “I got called in to a murder tonight,” Rembrandt said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in John’s breast pocket. “Whatever’s been happening has been fucking with me, but this is something new.” “Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on,” said John. “The victim was a rap star by the name of K2,” said Rembrandt, the unlit cigarette in his mouth as he rapped on the window of the car's passenger seat. “Meet the best witness I have.” Out of the car came a tall black man wearing blood spattered clothes. He didn't open the door, more like he phased through the hard metal and plastic until he stood on the sidewalk. John could make bullet holes amidst the blood on his chest. Six or seven at the very least. “This is K2,” said Rembrandt. “Or at least his ghost or soul or whatever.” “I don’t know who the fuck you are,” K2 said, looking at John. “But I know who killed me and why.”