Robby spun in the seat. “This is going to be better than I thought. We just kicked over a hornet’s nest.”

“Man, let me out.” The Crip in the back said, “Doan take me in dere inta that.”

He knew in situations where deputies get in over their heads, the responding units don’t differentiate the good and bad and beat down anything that moves.

Robby reached over with his foot and slammed it down on top of mine holding it to the floor after I’d eased off a little. The car leapt out, grabbing asphalt faster and faster.

“It’s going to be crazy when we get there,” Robby said. “Here, take this.” He handed me his sheriff’s gold star on a chain and I put it around my neck. It felt strange, warm to the touch as if a religious medallion. I didn’t want it, not at all. There had been a time when I worshipped the fraternity. He was right though, without it I became fair game.

Ten years ago we would’ve just driven over the curb and into the projects. Nickerson was now surrounded by ten-foot wrought iron and could now only be accessed by a few streets.

I took a couple of fast corners, the tires squealing, the passengers inside getting batted around. It didn’t stop Robby, “Tell me who’s throwing gas and lightin’ up the people for initiation.”

“Man, what the fuck are you talkin’ about? Is this what all this shit’s about? You’re crazy. Swear to gawd, you’re off your rock.”

“Gimme something good and I’ll let you go. We know it’s Grape Street doin’ it.”

“Someone’s playin’ you a fool. You got it all wrong.”

Robby leaned over and punched the Crip right in the chest. The thump sounded hollow and followed by a long groan. The Crip lay across the backseat.

We were in the Nickerson driving west on 115th.

“There. There.” Robby yelled and pointed to a throng of blacks moving toward two deputies with their guns out, a suspect down at their feet. They stood back to back right in the center of a quad area. I went over the curb and headed right toward them, fishtailing, kicking up grass clods. Robby reached under his dash, down by my right leg, and hit the siren to disperse the crowd and to keep the deputies from misinterpreting who we were and opening up on us. A half-empty forty-ounce beer bottle bounced off our car. Yellow foam rolled down across the windshield.

Robby said, “This is going to get real shitty before it’s over.”

The crowd moved out of the way for us. The deputies held their guns at the ready. They would shoot into the crowd if it got any worse. I recognized Carter Bingham, a good old white boy transplanted from Tennessee who’d finally made it off of patrol and into the Gang Enforcement Team. They called him Pig Farmer because of his faint accent. He wouldn’t let the mob overrun them, not without taking a few with them.

The guy on the ground was shot in the back. He was dressed in denim pants and a Raiders jacket with a purple rag tied to his belt. He didn’t look too hurt the way he thrashed around in the handcuffs, screaming bloody murder how he was shot in the back and that he was going to sue.

Robby popped the trunk button, jumped out, pulled a riot gun from the back, and racked it. The loud, metallic noise made everyone in the crowd moving toward us freeze. “Get his ass in the car. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Half a red brick hit the windshield and shattered it. Red grit mixed with yellow beer foam and clung to the spiderweb damage. The Gang Enforcement Team deputies didn’t have to be told twice. They each grabbed an arm of their victim, drag-carried him over to the car, and threw him in on top of the other guy. Then Robby got in standing on the running board with his door open. The deputies followed suit in the back doors. I gunned it, spinning a brodie. The crowd took their cue. Rocks and bottles rained down. As we bounced back onto the street in our headlong flight, LAPD rolled in six cars deep. Behind them came all of Century Station Patrol, their heads large in the windshields from riot helmets. All of them braked, pulled U-turns, and exited. We met up in the shopping center parking lot on Wilmington where the ambulance came to tend to the wounded Crip gang member bleeding in the backseat. They put him on a gurney and rolled him out.

I stood by the car watching the other crook while Robby met with some of the Operation Safe Streets guys wearing jeans and green raid jackets. I was close enough to see the LAPD guys staring at Robby as he talked animatedly with his hands. I cringed at what they might be telling him and confirmed it when his hands froze in mid-explanation. He slowly turned to look over at me. OSS was a tough, well-organized group. They had their informants. They gleaned the intel fast, told Robby his info was bad. Robby figured it out, how I had stabbed him in the back, made him a horse’s ass in front of everyone. Mobilized half the department, got a gang member shot, and almost started a full-blown riot. I held his gaze until he broke and gave his men additional instructions. He would try to bolster his position, bully his way out of the embarrassing situation, insist he wasn’t wrong.

Other LAPD officers joined the group staring at Robby. Some pointed at him.

OSS and GET started to break up and head for their cars when a string of unmarked cars slid into the parking area. Unmarked with tinted windows. The way they rolled in told it all, the elite Violent Crimes Team. They pulled up in adjoining parking slots and stopped in unison, one after the other as if they had choreographed the maneuver. The men were the same from the other night at Mr. Cho’s. Mack, in Levi’s, t-shirt, his shoulder holster with a large-framed automatic, got out and swaggered over, not with the rest, but over to Robby who stood alone, not taking his eyes off of me, waiting. When he came in range, Robby made a quick-step over to Mack and with one hand grabbed him behind the neck and escorted him away from the others, away from their ears. Mack hunched his thick shoulders and knew better than to resist, even though Robby was no match for him. Mack, if he put his mind to it, could break off Robby’s arms one at a time and beat him senseless.

The throng of LAPD officers watched with an unusual intensity.

Mack finally had enough and shrugged Robby off. They were far enough away. Their words, though loud, were still indiscernible.

The urge to hop in Robby’s unmarked car with the Crip still in the back was almost too strong to suppress.

Robby pulled back to strike Mack. Mack brought his arm up to block. Robby stopped himself before he let the genie out of the bottle, one he could never put back. Not with all the LAPD witnesses. Robby and Mack both took some deep breaths and calmed down. More words were exchanged, Mack doing most of the listening. Then they turned, looked at me, and smiled.

Time to go. I turned to get in Robby’s car, make a wild dash for it, but had waited too long. My attention had been focused on Robby while the other members of the Violent Crimes Team casually, instinctively, deployed in easy striking range. They crowded all around, their arms folded across their chests, leaning up against both sides of the car where I stood.

Robby shook Mack’s hand. They both walked over, their path right by the LAPD officers who had just started to disband now that all the action was over. They stopped to take a close look at Robby. After Robby passed, they moved on, talking in low whispers, shaking their heads.

Robby stopped in front of me, his eyes angry. He didn’t take them off of me as Mack came around and took the crook out of the backseat, took the cuffs off, and let him go. The other members without prompting went back to their cars, got in, and left.

Robby and I were alone in the vacant parking lot. He continued to stare.

“What?” I said.

“This what you learn in the joint? How to fuck over your friend? A friend who has gone out of his way to help you?”