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He nodded at Joker. “You clean, homes?”
    “Clean as the day I was born, homie!” Joker said, spreading his hands out and grinning.
    “We clean,” Doc said. He was grinning, his gaze centered on Sparky. “Don’t worry about those two cops. This won’t take long.”
    Sparky nodded.
    “Tonight, Gardena, Avalon and One Hundred and Sixty Fifth Street. Eighty Seven is the address.”
    Sparky frowned. “That’s Gardena Trese’s turf.”
    “Yeah, and you been a resident of Arizona state for how long now? Twelve years?”
    “Don’t rub it in,” Sparky said. He cast a quick glance down the strand at the cops. They were talking to a couple of girls in skimpy bikinis.
    “Yeah, but you hear stuff inside,” Doc said. “Or so I heard.”
    “How does a guy like you never wind up serving time?” Sparky asked Doc. “You must be one lucky sonofabitch!”
    Doc grinned. “That’s why I’m the Doctor. I know how to play the system, and I know how to play people. I watch. I observe. I form alliances. And I do this for our people. I do this for you , my man.”
    “Why couldn’t you pull some strings for me when it went down, then? That was some fucked up shit, homes.”
    “I’m not here to relive old days, homie,” Doc said. “I’m just the messenger today. Eighty Seven, at One-Sixty Fifth Street. Gardena. Eight o’clock.”
    “You gonna be there?”
    “Joker’s going with you.” Doc said. “He’s my ambassador .”
    Joker grinned. One of his teeth was silver. It gleamed in the sunlight.
    Sparky turned to Doc, his voice lower. “So, is that shit true then? Did they…you know…did MM really call for this?”
    “That’s affirmative.”
    “And is it true about the clean-up?” Sparky had heard the stories while serving time. Rumor had it that the Mexican Mafia had sent down a directive to all the Latino street gangs in Los Angeles to eliminate the strong-holds the Black gangs had taken in the drug trade. In years past, the Blood and the Crips had controlled areas of their turf and had not crossed borders into the territories of the Latino street gangs. Unlike the Latino street gangs, the Black street gangs were more industrious; they sought wider distribution networks and had grown nationwide in the 1990’s. It had caused friction with old time gangsters in other distribution centers in Chicago, along the eastern seaboard, especially with the Italian mob in those areas. While some Latino street gangs had followed suit, most noticeably 18th Street, the Bloods and the Crips had a distinct advantage. They had successfully tapped a market not even the Latino street gangs could capture—they were selling to the average man on the street, the corporate CEOs, the A-list entertainers. The Mexican Mafia saw that as a threat. While in days past, Latino and Black street gangs could pass each other on the street without malice, the situation was different now. The Mexican Mafia’s directive had shaken things up. In the past five years, almost a thousand young Black men had been killed in violent street wars all perpetrated by Mexican Mafia soldiers from various Latino street gangs. The bloodshed had claimed the lives of innocent Black men. For the first time ever in the history of Los Angeles, Black men were dying at the hands of not just their own people from rival Crip and Blood factions or racist cops, but Latino gang members who had never posed a threat even in the glory days of the 70’s and 80’s. Indeed, Sparky remembered hearing stories from his uncles and aunts about parties and picnics in the park, how various Crip factions would attend and kick back with his Venice homies, sharing a brew or a blunt. That sense of camaraderie was gone now.
    “It’s as true as night and day, my man,” Doc said.
    Sparky nodded. He’d only been out of prison since April. In that time, he’d laid low at his uncle Ernie’s place watching soap operas and visiting his PO. He was prohibited from associating with known