CHAPTER THREE. TROUBLE IN EAST LOS ANGELES

The next day after his drinking binge, Narvelle sipped a beer as he rested on the couch, half watching television, nearly asleep. Ditty-Bite was curled up in his dog bed next to him, talking in his sleep and passing gas. It was late Saturday morning, and he had just finished the slow arduous task of mowing the grass. Linda was grocery shopping and Olivia was next door playing with the neighbor girls, as usual. The phone rang off the wall for him, seven times, before he finally pulled himself erect and answered it.
“Hey, Johnny, whass up my man?” Narvelle puffed into the phone, out of breath.
“Listen brother, I got a new batch of good shit. It’s called Maui Wowie. If you want some, come on over and get yourself some, I’ll be home for the rest of the day.”
“O.K. that sounds good, I’ll be over in a few hours.”
A few minutes later Vel carefully wedged himself into his old station wagon and headed for John’s house in East Los Angeles, a dangerous part of town.
Johnny lived in a small well-kept house on the outskirts of a rough part of the big city. His property boasted a generous two car garage and a yard that was nicely fenced to keep his two dogs in. A few homes nearby were protected by metal bars on their windows. Some of the local stores had their names and wares written in Spanish only. Trash littered the sidewalks and curbs of some streets, not all. There were many small, well-kept homes, amidst the run-down homes that signaled his area as a place of transition. A few old cars had died in some of the yards and on the streets, never to be moved again.
He drove by John’s squared-away house at approximately 2:30 in the afternoon, then again ten minutes later to make sure that everything still looked calm. The street was lined with cars near John's place, no place to park close by, so he parked down the street about two blocks away, at a Seven-Eleven store. Narvelle figured that it was a safe place to park his wagon and that the walk to John's house would be good for him.
As he grudgingly lumbered up the sidewalk towards Johnny’s house, he passed four young Mexican men that were raising hell, in public. Cussing, laughing, and yelling. They were sitting in the bed of an old, beat up, dark green Chevrolet pickup truck. It was dressed up with beautiful expensive rims, and tires that had halibut-bone white writing on them. Their obvious partying was stoked by a large whiskey bottle being passed freely in broad daylight. Happy Mexican music boomed from the radio in their truck, clear as a bell.
Narvelle avoided looking at them as he passed by.
“Dude, look at that fat-bastard!” one of them yelled loud enough for him and all the neighbors to hear, nearby. They all laughed. Narvelle lowered his head and kept on walking as he pretended that he didn’t hear what was said. A few feet after he passed the truck, he heard the angry squeal of tires and the sudden roar of an engine. Then he heard the old familiar war sound of guns being fired rapidly, bang, bang, POW, zip, bang. Narvelle turned towards the street, as a bullet hit his stomach, and saw the light blue car that the bullet came from. Inside the car, through the windows, were the outlines of three young men, their pistols silhouetted by the sun, yelling as they drove off.
Narvelle had never been shot before, but he immediately knew it when it happened, for sure; the bullet broke apart inside his gut. It felt like a hot sharp dinner fork had been poked and twisted through his skin. His stomach felt overfull, like too much, all-you-can-eat, gut pain. How strange he thought, “It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.” He placed his hand over the small hole on the left side of his stomach, blood slowly oozed between his fingers. His head started to swim and he suddenly felt like he was going to throw up. Another pain began on the opposite side of his belly. Panic gripped his senses. Trying not to over-react, he took three slow deep breaths, they didn’t help, suddenly he started to sweat. His head began to swim as his vision blurred and tears welled up in his eyes, he could barely see.
“What the hell?” Narvelle tried to shout. “Somebody help me, I’ve been shot!”
He stopped walking as he tried to think clearly. Beads of sweat ran freely from his forehead, burning his blurred eyes, his hands were trembling.
“I can’t go to John’s house, the cops will come there, I’ve got to get back to my wagon and get to a hospital,” he thought out loud. Slowly, he turned around and headed for his car which suddenly seemed to be a mile away.
One of the young Mexicans was lying on his back on the sidewalk near him, shot in the eye. A trickle-river of blood was winding, snake-like, across the concrete. The other three Mexicans were screaming, yelling, and cussing loudly in Spanish. One of them had been shot in the leg and the crotch, his pants were covered with blood as he twisted about, moaning, in agony.
Within a minute, the street started to fill with curious children, women, and the sound of wailing voices. Then an old woman screamed and passed out in the middle of the street while a young Mexican girl ran to the house to call an ambulance.
Narvelle made it about 10 feet past the green pickup truck, there, he stopped to rest as blood ran through his fingers and down his shirt, on to his pants. His eyes darted around anxiously, looking for help but saw nothing. Then gray darkness overtook him. Soon he was out cold on the sidewalk, bleeding steadily, like a stuck pig.
Two ambulances screamed to the rescue a few minutes later. The young Mexican, shot in the eye, was on the ground, dead. The other gunshot victim was still alive, moaning loudly, from the bed of the truck, as he carefully cupped what was left of his privates.
A police car showed up just before a fire truck arrived. The street was mobbed by curious onlookers, a few minutes later a news truck appeared.