When we got back to the Gardens it looked like a fire ant nest someone had kicked open. People ran around or stood in groups, cars roaring every which way. An old white-haired black lady waved a meat cleaver, yelling. The Gardens had finally had enough.
A mob swirled to surround the car as we pulled up in front of Little Moe’s house. A low moan came from the milling crowd as we got out and Little Moe ran toward the open front door of his bungalow crying, “Mommy.”
His mother sprinted out the door panting and gasping; she scooped him up with a shriek, held him tight enough I was afraid for his health. They disappeared inside, no one following to intrude on their reunion.
Everyone headed toward the Gardens’ entrance, so Sam and I followed. I still leaned on his shoulder; my leg had stiffened up something awful.
“I am proud of you, son, proud of you for always standing up to me,” I said. “And I’ve admired all along how loyal you are to Karl. You should be; he was a hell of a man. You’re right that he did all the thinking for us back in the day.
“But I started thinking for myself the day I saw you in your Mom’s arms. And I’m not the man I was before I went to prison, please tell me you see that.
“You’re right, too, about us not having any history before – that was stolen from us, it’s not your fault nor mine. But now I know you some – I’ve gotten to see who you are a little bit. You rock, kid. You did one helluva good job tonight.”
“We can never replace what they took; it’s down the tubes.” I studied his face as we gimped along, ignoring the hustling mob around us. “We still got the future, though, don’t we, Sam? We still have time to make something.”
“Check this,” Sam said, jerking his chin toward our front.
I turned to follow Sam’s look. We were at the entrance to the Gardens, and every male of fighting age stood there in a silent throng; a lot of the women were there too. Everyone had weapons: guns and baseball bats; knives; straight razors.
The Hmong were off to one side, sticking to themselves as usual – an AK and a couple of M-16s leaned against the backs of their minivans, ready to grab. One of the Asians had a blanket-wrapped bundle at his feet that looked suspiciously like a rocket launcher.
The 18th Street Crips were in position, and they came up to join Sam and me. “They’re coming for us,” Big Moe said, voice breathless and eyes wide. “I just got the word from one of my contacts. They’re coming to clean us out all the way.”
I heard a lot of cars coming down the highway from the direction of town but couldn’t see anything for a moment for the trees. Then the first vehicle appeared on the ridgeline, its headlights panning over our faces as it turned down the access road and started around that big loop of road surrounding the empty lots.
Another vehicle came into view, and another and another, hundreds of them in a slow moving line – motorcycles and pickup trucks, cars and vans, even a couple of buses. Stagger Bay was coming to call on the Gardens, in force.