The Akashic Noir Series' forensic study of Southern California sharpens its focus on one of Los Angeles's most recognized neighborhoods.
Like “Hollywood,” the term “South Central” conjures up not a geographic location so much as specific imagery and impressions derived from the news and pop culture. Examples include Ice-T’s “6 in the Mornin’,”
In 2003, the Los Angeles City Council rechristened the whole of it “South LA” to blunt its infamous reputation — though they maintained a 2.25-square-mile area within its boundaries as “Historic South Central,” whatever that’s supposed to mean. Nonetheless, the South Central where I grew up remains a locale where the majority of the residents work hard and share many of the same concerns as those who reside in Westside neighborhoods. It’s a place where the demographics and physical characteristics have changed since my youth, where even gentrification has crept in.
This, then, is the backdrop to
The settings herein reflect South Central today or chronicle its colorful past, such as the days of the jazz joints along Central Avenue, venues like Jack’s Basket and the Club Alabam. The LAPD’s intelligence squad infiltrating left organizations is threaded in here, as well as what jumped off at Florence and Normandie that fateful day in April 1992, the flashpoint of the civil unrest that garnered world attention. Key landmarks also figure in these stories, such as the Watts Towers, the old Holiday Bowl on Crenshaw where people of various races used to congregate, and the Dunbar Hotel, built by Black folks to cater to people of color in a segregated city.
For the purposes of this collection, South Central is defined as roughly thirty-three square miles: Washington Boulevard to the north, Imperial Highway to the south, Alameda Boulevard to the east, and Crenshaw Boulevard to the west (bearing in mind that those boundaries are somewhat fluid). From South Park to East Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, from the borderlands of Watts to the one-time Southern Pacific railroad tracks paralleling Slauson Avenue, take a tour of a section of Los Angeles that may be unfamiliar to you but you will get to know, at least a little, by the time you finish reading this entertaining and engaging anthology.
The whole city was on fire — good, fuck them all — and Sang-woo sat in his car and smoked. He’d promised Hana he’d quit, but she was eleven, she didn’t make the rules. If her teacher told her to say no to cigarettes, that was fine — great, even — of course kids shouldn’t be smoking. But he was an adult, and he wasn’t about to rearrange his life just because his daughter asked.
The sky crackled, thick and burning. Night was here, the sun gone down, but Sang-woo didn’t see stars; he couldn’t even find the moon. Only the bright colors of arson wrapped in the gray pall of smoke and ash. It was really something. Sang-woo was born after the Korean War, and just late enough to avoid the Vietnam War too, where his older cousins fought with the South Korean military, committing war crimes and fathering war babies, for all anyone knew. People said South Central was a war zone. The men at church who avoided war, like him; them and their fearful wives. It was true, he got scared once in a while, but his customers knew him, his days were spent selling liquor and groceries, taking cash, counting out change. He kept a gun behind the register because it was stupid not to, but war? No, this place was something, but it wasn’t a war zone. At least not until now.
