Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [39]
Jack grinned. “Neither will the gangstas in Sunnydale.”
* * *
It was less than half an hour before sunset when Max turned onto Sunnydale Avenue. Jack immediately understood her trepidation and started having second thoughts about asking her to come along.
The place was a lot worse than he had expected.
The Sunnydale Projects were built during the Second World War as military housing—a square mile of sturdy new cinder-block buildings sandwiched between the McLaren Park golf course and the Cow Palace, home to the Grand National Rodeo.
The place was turned into low-income housing in the 1970s, but the buildings were never renovated. By the time Max was born, what was left were several blocks full of decrepit, tumbledown hovels with peeling paint, bad plumbing, worse electricity, and enough rats and roaches to keep a fleet of exterminators busy for a dozen years.
Now, despite promises by government officials to clean the place up, the Dale was considered one of the top ten areas to avoid in the city, where murders were frequent and muggings were an everyday occurrence. Over sixteen hundred people were crammed into these neighborhoods, many of them for generations. And most of them wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.
By day the place was pretty much a typical ghetto, with mothers or grandparents watching young children who amused themselves with whatever was handy, younger teens hanging out against cars or on stoops after school; by night it was hell on earth. Bus drivers and cabbies routinely avoided it, and even the cops were scarce.
Jack suddenly understood why.
The moment they made the turn he felt tension in the air—a lot of it coming from Max herself, whose body seemed to have stiffened as she gripped the wheel.
He knew her mind was flooding with bad memories.
“I must be outta my head,” she muttered, her tone different now. The reality of the place weighed her down.
Jack looked out at the rows of dilapidated buildings, the graffiti, the bars on the windows, the laundry hanging in the yards, the sidewalks and streets eerily empty.
No kids. No couples out for an evening stroll. Even the dogs had stayed inside.
The only sign of life was a handful of teens clustered around a muscle car in a distant parking lot, their gazes on the street, as if keeping watch over their territory. This was a neighborhood under siege.
“You’re right,” Jack said. “I never should’ve asked you to come along. If you want to turn around I won’t hold it against you.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“I mean it, Max. Turn the car around. I’ll do this alone.”
“You really are on crack. You go in by yourself, you might not walk out.”
“It’s gotta be done,” he said.
“Why? Is talking to this kid really that important?”
“I told you, I need to know exactly what he saw.” He gestured. “If I can’t get you to turn around, at least pull over and I’ll walk from here. And if I’m not back in twenty minutes, or you run into any trouble, get to safer ground and call the cavalry.”
“You’re assuming they’d come,” Max said.
She pulled to the curb across from the Little Village Market and let the engine idle, glancing at that cluster of gangbangers, who were now less than a block away.
“I can’t let you do this, Jack. It’s not worth it.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I brought protection.”
Lifting his shirt, he reached to the holster resting against his right hip and pulled out a Smith & Wesson Magnum .357 AirLite. Because he was a celebrity who was known to have fielded a substantial number of death threats, he’d long ago been granted a conceal and carry permit by the Marin County sheriff.
The AirLite was compact yet deadly.
Max’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of it. “Just because you spend time at a shooting range, doesn’t mean you’re a badass. You pull that thing, you better be ready to use it or you’re likely to get five more stuck in your face. These boys don’t fool