and gas stations in black communities and not hiring blacks.
The besieged Koreans quickly armed themselves, gun-toting brigades patrolling the streets while others stood guard on the rooftops, cradling their carbines, watching and waiting for the invaders to return. But it was too late; the Koreans had already suffered nearly half the damage inflicted on the city during the riots.
Still, Marty was quick to see the series potential. Immediately after the riots, he developed a pilot entitled
LA Seoul
, about vigilante Koreans cleaning up the mean streets. It didn’t make the schedule, despite a last minute attempt to rework it for the Olsen twins. Instead, the network bought
Cross-Eyed
, a show about a born-again private eye taking cases from God.
The Koreans certainly hadn’t forgotten the riots and were probably back on the streets, armed against another incursion. Which meant the neighborhood might be safe from looters but teeming with trigger-happy vigilantes hostile to any strangers, even one who championed what could have been the first Korean cop show on primetime television.
Marty decided having Buck around might not be so bad after all, at least until he got to the Cahuenga Pass and was on his way into the valley. He folded up his map and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket.
“So, once we get to Hollywood, you’ll be home,” Marty said. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And we go our separate ways.”
“That’s a cliché,” Buck said. “Something that’s been said so many fucking times it means shit.”
“Yes, I know what a cliché is, thank you.” It was going to be a long walk to Hollywood.
5 :35 p.m. Tuesday
Marty and Buck were in a place where people worshipped wrought iron. It surrounded their properties, covered their windows, and barred their doors. It made them feel safe. Now, the wrought iron fences were all that was standing around their homes, which had crumbled like stale cake.
If only their homes had been made of wrought iron, Marty thought.
“The ones I hate are the pointy kind, the ones that seem to be going two different directions,” Buck said. “Like they’re trying to get the hell off her body or something.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Breasts,” Buck replied. “As in tits, jugs, and honkers.”
“Thanks for the clarification.”
“I changed the subject, like you asked. Try to keep up.”
And as Buck prattled on, Marty shifted his attention to the ruins around them.
They passed a large apartment building, its outer walls stripped away so it looked like the set of
The Hollywood Squares
. Except instead of seeing celebrities sitting behind desks, answering stupid questions, Marty saw unmade beds and overturned chairs, fallen pictures in shattered frames, kitchens splattered with broken dishware and spilled food.
The Korean tenants were scavenging what they could, despite the strong possibility the building could collapse right on top of them. Four bloodied tenants struggled to heft a dented Kenmore dishwasher out of a ground floor apartment. Other tenants carefully carted out computers, stereo systems, and TVs, gathering it all on the sidewalk under the guard of family members.
It didn’t matter that these goodies were useless to them now, that they wouldn’t keep them alive, warm, and healthy for another day. What was important is what they’d once cost. A can of corn and the water it was packed with was only worth sixty-five cents, a dishwasher was worth three hundred dollars. At that price, who cared if the machine worked or if you’d live to use it again?
Yet even as Marty watched them, shaking his head with disdain, he found himself wondering if Beth managed to retrieve his laptop and their new TiVo. Before he could berate himself, they reached Western Avenue, which looked like it had been plowed up the center by an enormous hoe. Cars, buses and telephone poles were scattered everywhere, overturned by the uplifted roadway.
The street was filled
The besieged Koreans quickly armed themselves, gun-toting brigades patrolling the streets while others stood guard on the rooftops, cradling their carbines, watching and waiting for the invaders to return. But it was too late; the Koreans had already suffered nearly half the damage inflicted on the city during the riots.
Still, Marty was quick to see the series potential. Immediately after the riots, he developed a pilot entitled
LA Seoul
, about vigilante Koreans cleaning up the mean streets. It didn’t make the schedule, despite a last minute attempt to rework it for the Olsen twins. Instead, the network bought
Cross-Eyed
, a show about a born-again private eye taking cases from God.
The Koreans certainly hadn’t forgotten the riots and were probably back on the streets, armed against another incursion. Which meant the neighborhood might be safe from looters but teeming with trigger-happy vigilantes hostile to any strangers, even one who championed what could have been the first Korean cop show on primetime television.
Marty decided having Buck around might not be so bad after all, at least until he got to the Cahuenga Pass and was on his way into the valley. He folded up his map and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket.
“So, once we get to Hollywood, you’ll be home,” Marty said. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And we go our separate ways.”
“That’s a cliché,” Buck said. “Something that’s been said so many fucking times it means shit.”
“Yes, I know what a cliché is, thank you.” It was going to be a long walk to Hollywood.
5 :35 p.m. Tuesday
Marty and Buck were in a place where people worshipped wrought iron. It surrounded their properties, covered their windows, and barred their doors. It made them feel safe. Now, the wrought iron fences were all that was standing around their homes, which had crumbled like stale cake.
If only their homes had been made of wrought iron, Marty thought.
“The ones I hate are the pointy kind, the ones that seem to be going two different directions,” Buck said. “Like they’re trying to get the hell off her body or something.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Breasts,” Buck replied. “As in tits, jugs, and honkers.”
“Thanks for the clarification.”
“I changed the subject, like you asked. Try to keep up.”
And as Buck prattled on, Marty shifted his attention to the ruins around them.
They passed a large apartment building, its outer walls stripped away so it looked like the set of
The Hollywood Squares
. Except instead of seeing celebrities sitting behind desks, answering stupid questions, Marty saw unmade beds and overturned chairs, fallen pictures in shattered frames, kitchens splattered with broken dishware and spilled food.
The Korean tenants were scavenging what they could, despite the strong possibility the building could collapse right on top of them. Four bloodied tenants struggled to heft a dented Kenmore dishwasher out of a ground floor apartment. Other tenants carefully carted out computers, stereo systems, and TVs, gathering it all on the sidewalk under the guard of family members.
It didn’t matter that these goodies were useless to them now, that they wouldn’t keep them alive, warm, and healthy for another day. What was important is what they’d once cost. A can of corn and the water it was packed with was only worth sixty-five cents, a dishwasher was worth three hundred dollars. At that price, who cared if the machine worked or if you’d live to use it again?
Yet even as Marty watched them, shaking his head with disdain, he found himself wondering if Beth managed to retrieve his laptop and their new TiVo. Before he could berate himself, they reached Western Avenue, which looked like it had been plowed up the center by an enormous hoe. Cars, buses and telephone poles were scattered everywhere, overturned by the uplifted roadway.
The street was filled
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