"Not good enough. I want him hittin' rock bottom. I want to see puppy-dog tears! I want him to call his black momma and whine: "I'm kicked out. No Car. No money. No girlfriend. Help me mom. 'No nigga.' Mika ain't no joke."

O'Ryan dialed Baxter. "Hit ‘em. Take his car. That's an order."

-

Carl parked in lot 211 in Chinatown L.A. He paid the attendant and was assured he wouldn’t be towed. He rounded a corner and took a picture at the flower stand. Twenty-five-feet later his crisis sensor activated. He looked at his chest. Where were his keys? He fought back an anxiety attack. Patted himself. Then he double backed; scanning the sidewalk and gutter. He asked everyone in the area. No one saw his keys. They vanished.

-

O’Ryan answered his line. "What's the news?"

"Easy as taking keys from a goofy photographer. But he called a locksmith. Paid $300 for a new key."

“That cheap? Who did that?”

"Muslims."

"Better be. I'll jump a white man's ass helping that n!%%3r."

-

It was New Years and noon. Carl lay sick and tired. The locksmith took Carl's last. He pawned his camera and has been living off local fruit trees. As expected, the mag didn't sell.

As expected, Mrs. Lee walked through the door. She spoke loudly in Chinese, which meant she brought her husband.

Carl hauled himself out of his room. The Lees stared at him through slanted but wide eyes. They knew something went wrong.

"I lost my job. I had an emergency. I don't have rent right now. But check back in two weeks please?"

Mrs. Lee translated Carl's message for Mr. Lee who sent Carl a message: "MOVE OUT! NOW!"

Carl fell to one knee. "Please no. I don't have anywhere to go. I've been fired and robbed. I'm hungry with nowhere to go."

Mr. Lee granted him three days. Mrs. Lee left him a Chinese snack, cooked dough with meat.

Carl's car teemed with his stuff. It was like when he started Cal State Fullerton ten years ago – finding somewhere to live on the street. He was on E. He had to make a move. He drove to his mother's house in Long Beach.

He pulled up at 11 p.m. This was the only suburb in Long Beach. Her house resembled the “Gingerbread House.” He didn't dare knock. He'd wait. See if she’d show compassion. Then he passed out.

He awoke in a panic. A car wash?! Couldn’t be. Was the car was on fire! The pressure spray slammed the driver's side window.

He looked around in a panic. His memory returned in a flash. Was moms hosing the dirty ride? Does she know it's me?

He pulled the latch and the door clicked. He pushed. The pressure spray pushed back. The door slammed shut. He fired his engine and sped off.

Detective Lee, Carl's landlord's husband's brother, sat in a triple black SUV that screamed feds. He watched Carl from across the parking lot.

"If anyone can help a college grad, journalism, get a job, and place to live, contact me," he typed into the National Police Departments Intranet. "He owns a Rap magazine. Website is elitemensmag.com. If someone would advertise? If someone would marry him? Adopt him? I'm watching him suffer on the streets."

Officer Richfield was a rookie to the LAPD. He had a homeless cousin. He empathized with Carl. Richfield clicked through the elite website. He was impressed. His baby-momma was in advertising. A real player too. But she was Chinese. Things were complicated.

His son, Man, was 5. He already owned an iPhone. Richfield called him.

"Hi daddy!"

"Lemme speak to yo momma," Richfield said in a slow and deep voice.

His son murmured something in confusion. Then he spoke in Chinese. Lin took the phone.

“Hello?”

"Lin. Hi. I love you. And I miss you."

She gasped. “Shouldn’t you talk to your son? He’s almost six. Time to learn the family business: High-paid bootstrap thug.”

“Lin. Please. I need a favor. A favor for a friend.”