Free L.A. Wars by Randy Wayne White

two dozen men and teenagers wearing blue bandannas and sleeveless T-shirts.
    They stood in serious conversation on a street corner. There were no jokes and little laughter.
    Several of them carried wicked-looking clubs. Others had heavy chains wrapped around their necks like necklaces.
    Something was up. Hawker recognized the signs. These guys were looking for a fight.
    Hawker decided he would give it to them.
    He hid himself behind a chimney, two stories above them. He crawled on his belly to the edge of the building and peered over.
    He could see and hear them plainly. Their voices were thick with anger—and fear.
    Hawker listened to the many voices, all trying to talk at once.
    â€œâ€¦ that’s what I think we ought to do.”
    â€œBullshit, man. I’ll tell you who hit Fat Albert and Spooky. It was them Satanás, man. And if you ask me—”
    â€œCat Man said it was a Casper , motherfucker. Said it was a white boy that wasted the brothers. Shot his fucking dick off, man, so he should know.”
    â€œYeah, and what about that weird drawing on the wall, man? Fucking big bird or somethin’. Revenge is what it said. This white dude be wanting revenge. Fucker’s nuts, man. Cat Man say he didn’t even blink before he hit ’em. Said he was cold as ice, man. Set it up so the cops think Cat Man did it—”
    â€œCat Man’s crazy, blood. He’s been doing his PCP thing too long. Don’t be believin’ that shit he talks. Razor the only man we listen to. The war council be meeting right now. So just hang loose. We got our leaders, man, and we follow our leaders. That the Panther way. Maybe you be a leader someday, little blood, then you know. Razor and Blade and Amin be deciding what we do. If they say we hit the Satanás, then we hit the Satanás. They say we go into Hillsboro and waste some Caspers, we do that, too.…”
    On and on it went. Hawker tried to note all the nicknames he heard. One of them he already recognized: “Razor.” The other two, “Blade” and “Amin,” were unfamiliar—but they sounded deadly.
    Hawker looked forward to meeting all three.
    The war party wasn’t long in forming. Directly beneath Hawker cement steps led down into a basement stronghold.
    Hawker guessed it was the Panthers’ headquarters.
    He heard a door swing open, then clank shut: a metal door.
    Three men came out in single file. At first Hawker could only see the tops of their heads, then the backs of their heads. They wore jean jackets with the sleeves cut off, and blue bandannas tied around their necks. Hawker didn’t have to guess at their nicknames. They were embroidered on the backs of their jackets.
    Amin was well named. He had the black, fat gorilla face of the infamous dictator, Idi Amin. Hawker guessed him at six feet tall, close to three hundred pounds. He wore glistening black boots, and a chrome chain for a belt. His head was completely shaved. The glistening sweat on his face and head gave Amin the appearance of some massive creature who has just climbed out of a tar pit.
    The gang leader named Blade was Amin’s antithesis. Blade was small and wiry with a bushy black Afro, and the chilling grin of a man-child who is stunted emotionally and intellectually, frozen in the black-and-white world of childhood.
    But there was nothing innocent about Blade’s strange grin. It was the wolfish smile of a killer.
    Of the three Razor was the most striking, the most impressive. He was tall and lithe, with something of a jungle cat in him. His movements were fluid and sure. His manner, perfunctory.
    He was the man in charge. He knew it. They knew it. He had a strong, coffee-colored face and tiny piggish eyes. Hawker put him at six two, and maybe two hundred pounds of pure, corded muscle. His biceps rippled in the sleeveless jean jacket. The harsh vapor streetlights glinted off the rings on his fingers and the lone jeweled