L.A. Blues III Read Online Free Page B

Romero’s baby. He doesn’t look anything like him—I don’t care if he is dead!” Oh, Lord! And Romero came from a crime family background, too.
    My mind wouldn’t rest. I couldn’t stop thinking about this pregnancy. To take my mind off my dilemma, I thought about my sister, Ry-chee, aka Rachel. I had told her I would call her back at 9:00 P.M. It was only 6:00. I had time to make an hour AA meeting in the hood.
    I was so excited about going home to sit down and really talk to my baby sister, I wasn’t as conscious as I usually am. Wahoo-wahoo. Suddenly the wail of numerous sirens swooped down into my consciousness. Loud sirens blared around me, and a cordon of police cruisers were zooming down on me. My heart catapulted in my chest.
    For a moment, I thought the law was after me for disposing of Tank’s head. Were these the two agents who came to me with the proposition in the first place? Had my blackmailers turned me in since I hadn’t gotten them any money?
    I held my breath, waiting for the squad cars to stop and pull me over. Instead, the black-and-white squad cars whizzed by me in a blur, sirens screaming, horns blaring, tires screeching. I drew a deep sigh of relief.
    Oh, Lord, somebody was going to pay for the mess they made of my life.
    Then, out of nowhere, I saw what looked like green leaves filling the air. I thought it was some type of green snowfall, which, either way, would have been strange in L.A.
    Everything seemed surreal. I could see greenery floating in the air, a whirlwind of verdant-looking leaves. Onlookers rubbernecked and came out to see what was going on. People swarmed out into the streets, screaming, dancing, hollering, jumping, leaping, as if they had the Holy Ghost.
    What’s going on? I wondered, regarding the commotion. People, bent over like cotton pickers, lifted what appeared to be leaves up off the street. The total bedlam reminded me of the 1992 L.A. riots. Was the sky raining leaves? Then it occurred to me. This was money! This was more absurd. The sky was raining money!
    A police on a bullhorn barked, “People, put that money down. We have you on tape. You will be arrested for obstructing a police investigation. These men are armed, reckless, and considered dangerous.”
    As they gathered up the money, people were oblivious to the police orders. More trails of people came flooding from their houses to pick up the dollar bills. Cars stopped while the drivers and riders craned their necks out the window to see what was going on. A throng of young men wearing hoodies in honor of the murdered black teen Trayvon Martin had gathered in the street and was picking up money. Pandemonium reigned and everything seemed bizarre.
    The police continued to roar in a stentorian tone over a horn. “People, go in your house. You are obstructing a police pursuit. Get out the way! We have you on camera! If you pick up any of this contraband, you will be arrested.”
    I could see all this purloined loot being picked up, and, oddly, I felt a strange sense of exhilaration. A sense of justice. As if somehow a wrong was being righted. I knew I’d never do it, but for a mother with five kids to feed, no job, and no food, maybe this was moral. Right and wrong sometimes shifted in the kaleidoscope of harsh reality.
    â€œMoney, money, money,” people chanted, dancing wildly up and down the curb and onto the sidewalk. “It’s raining money!” Some threw the money in the air.
    In the manner of the old Martha Reeves and the Vandellas song, people were literally dancing in the street. Several people threw up their fingers in gang signs. Some were doing the Crip walk to a rhythm with a made-up song that went something like, “Kiss my ass, popo!”
    â€œFuck you, pigs!”
    â€œGo to hell, motherfuckers!”
    I kind of figured out what was going on, and there was a side of me that cheered the robbers on. I know it was wrong, but