Chapter 38: Round and Round

Are you talking about Monterey Park, the same place where I slept on the streets for days as a homeless man? The place where I drove around on patrol every day? With all these gangs around here, how come I never saw any?
“How long have you even been a cop? What can you see during daytime patrols? Aren’t the Vietnamese basically gang members? Wasn’t your internal affairs inquiry because of a gang shootout?”
Oxy had no words—what you said actually made sense.
“Joining a gang is all about making money; no one’s in it for the love of fighting. Shootouts get people killed.”
“Then why did they start fighting this time, and go all the way?”
“There was a shooting not long ago—two Mexicans killed in Monterey Park. The investigation found they were connected to Barrett Street, in charge of stealing cars. Barrett Street would sell them off or use them for crimes.
Monterey Park belongs to Lomas 13. Barrett Street guys getting killed there stirred up a dispute between the two gangs. Looks like they couldn’t reach an agreement, so things escalated.”
Oxy scratched his head—it sounded familiar. Weren’t those the two Mexicans he killed?
Probably them. Oxy had thought the cops had dropped the case, that the matter was over. Never expected it would come back to him like this.
He laughed it off. “Well, they’re pretty straightforward—couldn’t settle things, so they pull out guns. That’s so American.”
“They were mortal enemies to begin with, and now this happened. If they don’t fight, they lose all respect.”
Carles explained further: this is Los Angeles, the city of sin. Every street here has an owner—either the rich or the gangs. No one can trespass on someone else’s turf without paying a price, or they’ll lose face and pay even more dearly in the end.
Lomas 13 and Barrett Street were sworn enemies anyway. In Lomas 13’s eyes, Barrett Street deliberately sent their guys onto their turf to steal cars—a direct provocation. Whether or not those killed were actually their own people didn’t matter; what mattered was the public narrative. When it came time to negotiate, they’d have to act tough and make all sorts of demands, just for the sake of pride.
Barrett Street probably sent their guys over to the enemy’s turf on purpose, just to stir up trouble. Realistically, stealing a car was doable—so many cars in the middle of the night, who’d notice if one went missing?
But as luck would have it, those two ran into Oxy, who beat them down and killed them both.
From Barrett Street’s perspective, their own guys went to steal cars, got caught by their mortal enemies, and were killed. In negotiations, the other side acted cocky, making demands. Their turf had already been encroached upon, and if they let this slide, swallowing their pride over the deaths of their own, the whole gang would fall apart.
Morale would collapse, the crew would scatter. Sure, they’d started the trouble, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Naturally, the negotiations fell apart.
As the stronger side, Lomas 13 had to respond. Your guys died, but I still have to show you who's boss—otherwise, everyone will think they can come steal cars on my turf. Only I get to steal cars here, not you. Try it, and I’ll break your hands.
The attack at the gas station was Lomas 13’s response. Carles’ explanation was perfectly reasonable; even Oxy believed it himself.
Exactly—what does any of this have to do with me? I’m just an honest, hardworking cop. What wrong have I done?
Thinking of it like that, maybe that SUV circling with the cops was just a distraction, deliberately meant to catch the police’s attention. They were just too dedicated, running the police car out of gas and, by coincidence, bumping into Oxy.
“So what should we do? Gangsters daring to open fire in public, causing multiple deaths and injuries—they must be struck down with thunderous force!” Oxy was eager for action, ready to charge out and take them down right then.
“Strike down who? We’re cops; what we want is order. How would taxpayers feel about gunfights every day on the streets? We’ll warn them—this ends here,” Carles corrected him. “And by ‘we,’ I mean us—not you. You’re on administrative leave.”
Oxy was stunned, having forgotten about that. He felt a bit unwilling. “How long do I have to be on leave? It won’t be a whole month, will it?”
“You’re asking me? Who am I supposed to ask? I’m just a lowly sergeant. But your last psychological evaluation came back with a good report.
If you can get another good assessment this time, it’ll definitely help you get back to the force sooner. Figure out a way to win Mary over.”
“How am I supposed to do that? Give her some money?”
Carles smacked him hard on the back. “Did I say to bribe her? Did I? I told you to seduce her! You’re so handsome—just win her over. Mary’s young and pretty, you’re not losing out, and then your reports will be whatever you say! Money, money, money—I’ve been your supervisor for a while now, why have you never thought of giving me money?”
“What do you want? I’ll give it to you.”
“I want nothing! Now get lost.” Carles roared.
Oxy hurried out, muttering just loud enough for Carles to hear, “There’s all sorts of people—some even want nothing.”
Muttering, Oxy strode out, leaving Carles shouting in the conference room. Already a sergeant, yet not a bit of composure.
Oxy changed clothes and hurried out of the station. At the entrance, he pulled out his phone to call a cab home.
“Hey!” Someone jumped up behind him and shouted.
“Shit!” Oxy jumped and swung his fist.

“Ah! What are you doing!” The person was knocked to the ground.
Oxy was confused—how was it a woman? He crouched down and brushed the hair from her face. “Zhuo Ning? Why is it you?”
“I came to deliver your car, wanted to surprise you, and you hit me!” Zhuo Ning’s tears fell like rain.
Oxy had only one thought: such a cute girl getting punched—she could cry for ages, no doubt about it.
She sobbed and sniffled for a long time before finally stopping, looking at Oxy with teary eyes like an abandoned puppy.
Oxy immediately felt he’d messed up—badly. He’d have to make it up with a meal.
Zhuo Ning stopped crying. “What are we eating?”
“Where are you from?”
“Hangzhou.”
“Hangzhou, nice—lots of beautiful women...” Seeing her face darken, Oxy quickly added, “I mean, we should eat something Hangzhou people like. Let’s go get some skewers.”
What’s the connection between Hangzhou people and grilled skewers?
Before Zhuo Ning could figure it out, Oxy had pulled her up and was ushering her away.
Did Oxy know where to find skewers? Not at all—but GPS and Chinese forums did.
He hustled Zhuo Ning along just to buy time to search. He quickly found a barbecue place—Meet PG, Shangchuan. The name sounded northeastern, at 708 E Las Tunas Dr #D, San Gabriel, CA 91776. (Found online, supposedly good, but not sure if it's still open after the pandemic.)
They drove over. The moment they stepped in, the familiar aroma hit them—wooden tables and chairs, a big upright fridge, and walls covered in kitschy ads: “Are you afraid to love me?” “They say you come for the beauties, but get hooked on the skewers,” “Yuanfang, what do you think? My lord, I’m eating skewers, no time to think.”
It felt like being back in a night-market food alley.