Free Southside (9781608090563) by Michael Krikorian

even heavier as the Vasquez Rocks slipped by on the left. The Ford hit 105. “Slow it down, A.J.,” Sal said. “Funeral ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
    â€œAll right. I don’t know. What is it?”
    â€œCapital of Madagascar is Antananarivo. Pay up.”
    â€œFirst of all, even if that is right, this isn’t a sudden-death game. It’s just one strike.”
    â€œYou didn’t say that.”
    â€œI’m saying it now. No game ends with one strike. We are doing three strikes, then you’re out.”
    â€œFigured you like that three strikes rule. I got a homie in Pelican Bay on three strikes doing life because he swiped some lasagna. Believe that shit? Your whole life for some lasagna. Three strikes sucks.”
    â€œWell,” said Hart, “Here’s your first strike. Liberia.”
    Mayhem crossed his thin, but hard arms, sat down lower in the seat, and smugly said, “Monrovia. Named after President James Monroe. Just happens to be the only non-American capital city named after a U.S. President. How’s that for a dummy from the Southside? And for you, my cop, I wonder if you know the cap of Pakistan.”
    Hart, after some serious brain searching, got Islamabad, but he stumbled soon after losing on Mongolia—Ulan Bator—and North Korea—Pyongyang—while Mayhem scored with correct answers to Finland—Helsinki—and Uruguay—Montevideo.
    â€œFuck,” said Hart.
    Li’l Mayhem silently stuck his hand toward Sal who handed him his fifty back. Hart handed over fifty. “Don’t say a word, scum. I’ll pull this car off this lonely desert road here. Got me a shovel in the trunk. You’ll never be found.”
    Mayhem didn’t say a word, probably figuring that was not out of the question. They sped in silence out of the craggy hills and into the suburban desert pot marked with cookie-cutter homes. This was once considered the promised land for middle- and lower-middle-class whites and blacks, a place where you could get away fromcrime and smog. But some of Utopia had turned into a desert nightmare. Sections of it were a lightweight version of Los Angeles, complete with gangs and drugs and bored teenagers whose virginity was long gone by fourteen.
    â€œTake that next off ramp. Freeman Street,” Mayhem said. “Then go left like two miles and turn right on Daisy Hill Lane. That’s where he lives. I forgot the number, but I know the house.”
    â€œDaisy Hill Lane?” said Hart, breaking his silence. “What a fuckin’ pussy name for a street. Why don’t they just call it Pussy Street? His wife must be in charge. I always knew he was a punk. How else would a man live on Daisy Mae Lane?”
    â€œDaisy Hill Lane.”
    â€œDaisy Hill. Daisy Mae. Same thing. You think this asshole who used to shout ‘I’m from Hoover Street, this is Hoover here.’ You think he’s bragging, claiming ‘I’m from Daisy Mae Lane.’”
    Mayhem knew better than to correct. A minute later they turned into King Funeral’s driveway.

CHAPTER 13
    Detective Sal LaBarbera, the purported inventor of the “One Knock” policy, rapped his punched-through-many-a-wall knuckles on the black metal security door, rattling it like a gigantic tuning fork. Five seconds later, King Funeral, all 220 rock-hard pounds of him, opened the door and shook his shaved head. “I’d know that knock anywhere.”
    â€œDamn, Fune, I figured you’d have a butler opening and slamming doors for you by now.”
    â€œCut the shit, Sal. You know I can’t trust no one. No one but the police and my rivals. One to lock me up, one to shoot me. Least I know where they coming from. Everyone else, you gotta be leery.”
    â€œThomas, we ain’t coming to lock you up,” said Hart. “Been there often, often done that.”
    â€œDon’t remind me. C’mon,