L.A. Wars Read Free

section, where he had grown up.
    â€œExactly. And just about the same thing happened. As the houses on the outskirts of Starnsdale aged, the wrong kind of people started moving in. It got worse and worse. The community began to rot at the edges. Soon they became full-fledged ghettos.”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œNow Starnsdale has one little strip of area, known as Hillsboro, which hasn’t been taken over yet. The people in Hillsboro are the last holdouts. But they live in absolute terror. Within a ten-mile radius of Starnsdale there are fifty-seven different black and Hispanic gangs. It’s been estimated they are responsible for nearly five hundred murders a year—half of those through gang warfare. They roam the streets at night like wolves. No one and nothing is safe in their path.”
    â€œI’m surprised the people who live there haven’t sold their homes and moved.”
    â€œWould you buy a house in a place like Hillsboro? No. No sane person would. They can’t move because they can’t sell. These people are trapped, James. They live on a narrow peninsula of sanity surrounded by violence. But they want to fight back.
    â€œLast year they organized a neighborhood watch program. But they were poorly equipped and poorly trained. They had a couple of minor confrontations with the two toughest gangs in the area and fared disastrously. In fact the gangs were so enraged by the confrontations, they’ve been systematically taking revenge on the neighborhood watch members ever since.”
    Hayes leaned forward slightly, his big hands braced on the arms of the chair. “I want you to stop it, James. I want you to fly to L.A. and help the people of Hillsboro. The police have tried, but, as you well know, manpower and resources are never sufficient in a large city. Plus, you will have the advantage of being able to work outside the legal system. These gang members are brutal, James, and brutal methods will have to be used.”
    â€œIt’s a double-edged sword,” said Hawker. “The gang members will be after me from one side, the cops from the other.”
    â€œThere are names of people to contact in the file.” Jacob Montgomery Hayes stood and held out his hand. “As before, I will supply whatever you need for the job. Except safety. I can’t provide that. Be careful, James. Don’t get caught. You understand my meaning?”
    â€œAh,” said James Hawker. “I do.”
    Three days later Hawker descended through the clouds of the San Gabriel Mountains, and then the smog of L.A., landing at Los Angeles International Airport.
    From the air the city spread away like a Monopoly board ablaze. He had never seen so many cars in such frantic motion.
    Hawker rented a new Cutlass at the Hertz desk and used his pocket road-map to spirit him through the traffic jams and bustle to the San Diego Freeway—where there was an even worse traffic jam, and more bustle.
    The air was like acid. The sun glimmered through the carbon monoxide fumes like a yellow light bulb. People screamed at each other from convertibles and flipped hand signs from low-slung Mercedes.
    At the Manhattan Beach exit Hawker got off and headed east along Route 91, through the Quick Shop, topless bar and dimestore clutter of Torrance and Carson.
    The ghettos began in Compton: broken windows, junked cars, and winos.
    The few businesses that remained open were barred and locked like penal institutions.
    It didn’t get any better when he crossed into the corporate limits of Starnsdale. Bands of men and women roamed the streets in sweat-stained clothes, carrying bottles in brown bags. The streets were littered with trash. Emaciated dogs slept in the sun while winos curled up in the shade.
    Two words were repeated over and over in the street graffiti: PANTHERS and SATANÁS.
    The words were splashed on everything. Building walls. Stop signs. Cars and windows.
    Panthers was always