It was a quiet, working-class neighborhood in the shadow of the Hollywood Hills, just a few blocks from the Walk of Fame. Rumor has it that Charlie Chaplin slept in one of the turn-of-the- century wooden houses right down the street from the white bungalow that Al DeFrancisco had lived in for more than 30 years. But like a wrecking crew from hell, last January's Northridge earthquake changed all that. Almost all the 66 buildings on Carlton Way were damaged; 23 of them remain vacant today. DeFrancisco, a 76-year-old retired restaurateur, survived the 6.6-magnitude temblor but his 84-year-old home didn't: It jumped about 4 feet off its foundation and inspectors deemed it unsafe to enter.
No sooner had DeFrancisco moved out than legions of vagrants began moving in, taking over his house and those of his neighbors. Before long, prostitutes, drug addicts and runaways owned the neighborhood. To protect his property, DeFrancisco and his son took turns patrolling the area: One night,04he fired his gun in the air to scare04off a dozen or so squatters raising a ruck us in front of his collapsed porch.04
In Los Angeles these days, DeFrancisco's embattled post- quake neighborhood is known as a "ghost town," the official designation for the pockets of extreme damage scattered within an 18-mile radius of the quake's San Fernando Valley epicenter. L.A. housing officials have identified 17 ghost towns so far, with damage totaling over $140 million. "You kind of think that King Kong came here," says Elena Cielak, who runs the Jewish Montessori School of Hollywood, down the street from DeFrancisco's house.
It is anyone's guess when the rightful residents of such neighborhoods will be able to return -- if ever. Meanwhile, the empty buildings have given looters, drug addicts, hookers and homeless people a bonanza of free lodging, and they are taking full advantage. James, a 37-year-old former short-order cook, moved into a vacant house on Carlton Way two weeks after the quake, finding it still equipped with with lights, gas and a queen-sized bed. Three months later he was still there -- with 35 friends. "It was a real party," he recalls.
The threat that such encampments might become semipermanent has spurred city officials to take action. In recent months, the L.A. Housing Department has sealed off most of the more than 500 ghost town properties, including 17,000 residential units. They have also hired a private security company to keep order and to keep out the intruders. And a few months ago, police routed James and his companions, threatening them with jail if they did not leave.
So far, however, only a minority of ghost towns have been successfully reclaimed. A few weeks ago in Colbath, 10 miles from the epicenter, vagrants cooking breakfast started a huge blaze across from Karen Rubenstein's home. "It's still scary at night," she says. And long-dysfunctional communities like the San Fernando Valley's gang-infested North Hills ghost town are unlikely to stage a big recovery anytime soon. Indeed,04its rows of litter-strewn, vacant, quake-damaged apartment buildings, roaming street gangs and armed security guards conjure up scenes from Beirut or Blade Runner. One third of the property owners in ghost town areas have no apparent plans to rebuild. And of the remainder, 1 in 5 hasn't yet decided whether to try again.
Still, residents in most neighborhoods seem to be breathing easier as a result of the city's recent efforts. "Now, it's OK with the guards here," says Alex Sandobal, 65, who has rented the same place here for over three decades. DeFrancisco himself remains vigilant but hasn't had to fire his gun in months. "It's been quiet lately," he concedes. And most heartening, the Montessori school has now reopened and on a recent autumn day was filled with the sounds of children playing.
Yet this neighborhood, like much of the rest of Los Angeles, still has far to go, and the signs of just how far are easy to find: A few yards from the Montessori school, three would-be squatters stood beside their stolen shopping cart, waiting for the security guard to drive out of sight before making their move.
