1991 Honda Civic. The undisputed king of the road. Sure, the Russians in West Hollywood would usually be seen in a Mercedes-Benz, the Sureños their jacked lowriders, the Mongols MC their chopped Harleys. Even the Italians, still somehow hanging on this city, kept their image of “men of respect” by sticking almost exclusively to Cadillacs. But the Civic had none of the flash of these other cars. It was quiet, it was anonymous, it was nearly invisible. It was a car you didn't see coming until it was already too late. And that, George Choi felt, made it the perfect car for the Korean Mob right now. Maybe in a couple years he'd spend the money on a fancy BMW or Audi. Maybe that new Hyundai Tiburon, send some money back to the old country- that might be a better look. 

As they cruised north up Normandie, they hit yet another pothole. Choi grimaced in annoyance, looked down to make sure he still had the Colt Trooper sitting in his lap. The .357 was a heavy gun for a smaller man, but he knew a single bullet would be enough to take someone off their feet, unless they were covered in armor like those freaks in North Hollywood a few months back. He looked at the driver of the Civic, a longtime soldier named Harold Kim, nodded when he saw the Ruger P90 wedged into a cupholder- easy access when it was needed but not sitting in plain sight. Kim knew what he was doing. Choi turned around to look at the man in the backseat, Ho-Seop Jeong. One of the new recruits, only in America for close to two years now, still struggling to learn English. And a former infantryman in the Republic of Korea Army, which was the main reason Choi had felt comfortable putting a Type 56 rifle in his hands. The Chinese copy of the legendary AK-47 was rugged, reliable, and durable, just like Jeong. They were ready for anything.

“I don't know about this, boss,” Kim said. His voice betrayed no nervousness but under his sunglasses his eyes darted back and forth. “We're getting into Little Armenia. That's AP's home turf. You know how those guys love drivebys.” The conversation flowed freely between English and Korean.

Choi clicked his tongue. “If we want to expand, we need to figure out what can be given and what can be taken away. This is going to be prime territory for that new thing we're working on, the crystals.”

“They're not just going to let us into their home,” Kim pointed out.

“I seem to remember the other day I came over to your apartment, we went inside and had a few beers. Your wife made kimchi.” 

“That's different, you're my friend.”

“That's right, Kim. You let friends into your home.”

Kim shook his head, still keeping a wary eye out as they idled at a stoplight. “We don't have that kind of relationship with the Armenians.”

Choi shrugged. “We don't have beef, either. And neither of us like the Bloods. We've always been respectful neighbors, I think it's time we start being friends. They'll get distribution rights in their own territory, we get 20%. We lend each other muscle if need be,” he said with a grin to Jeong in the back seat. “Everybody wins.”

“Unless the Armenians say no.”

“They're not the only game in town. If they're not interested in a partnership, fuck 'em.” Choi leaned back. “We'll get Normandie Avenue one way or the other. If they don't like an olive branch maybe next time we come with a bat instead.” They stopped at the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard. “We're getting into Thai Town. That's thinking too far ahead. Turn around, Kim, let's keep scouting Little Armenia. We need to know the lay of the land before getting a sitdown with the Armenian leadership.”

The Civic pulled a U-turn, and the three men continued south down Normandie, looking for where to begin their chapter in the long history of gangs of Los Angeles.