“Slow down!” I yelled at Tamu as she zoomed through traffic, dodging and darting between trucks and cars. I had been confined for three years and had lived practically at a standstill, moving from place to place inside the institution only by foot. Even then my stroll was slow and cool with an obvious sway of gang culture. But now here I was, stuffed into the back seat of this red Toyota Tercel with Tamu and Mom sitting up front, chatting away, flying along the Pomona Freeway headed for Los Angeles.
“Tamu, did you hear me? Slow this damn thang down!” I shouted, holding the seat for leverage.
“Babes,” she said, almost turning completely around in her seat.
“Don’t turn around, watch the road!”
“I’m only doing fifty-five. It’s the regular speed limit.”
“Why it seem like we doin’ two hundred, then?”
“’Cause you ain’t been in no car in years, babes.”
“I ain’t gonna never make it home, you keep drivin’ like this.”
“Oh, boy, relax,” Mom said. “You picked a fine time to be scared of something.”
“I ain’t scared, I just—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tamu said, giving Mom a we-really-know look.
I tried to relax, but I couldn’t shake the excitement of being out. The last thing I wanted was to crash on the way home and fail the mission of coming back. Besides, this damn Toyota was awfully small for me. I was huge, muscles bulging from everywhere. Tamu and I kept making eye contact in the mirror, both our gazes dripping with lust. What would it be like to be with her again, I wondered? Even that seemed a bit frightening.
Cars zoomed past, irate drivers flipping fuck-you signs in our direction. I looked over Tamu’s shoulder at the speedometer: fifty miles per hour. She had slowed down, but still we seemed to be moving at an alarming pace. Of all things to die from, I didn’t want to go out in a traffic accident.
We swooped through downtown and up and over into South Central. It was dusk, and the sun lay somewhere out beyond Venice Beach, slipping into the water and bringing the deadly night to Los Angeles. To my right I saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp hovering over the Coliseum. Perhaps there was some function there. It always amazed me to see that huge football-shaped airship floating effortlessly through the air, displaying an unspoken peace of nongravitational bliss. Over to my left I saw two helicopters dipping, dodging, and cutting through the air in violent twists that telegraphed their aerial pursuit of someone. One helicopter was labeled POLICE, the other SHERIFF. Peace in the air to my right and war above to my left. Good old South Central: nothing really changed.
When we got on Normandie I started reading the walls. The Brims, it seemed, had resurfaced with a little force. Once we passed Gage and moved into our ’hood, the writing became more pronounced, more violently scrawled on things, no doubt the sign of a neighborhood at war. Graffiti, although mainly used for advertising, can also function as messages to enemies—evil spirits—that “this territory is protected and it’s not like we didn’t give you fair warning.” BEWARE OF EIGHT TRAYS was written in several places along Normandie Avenue. I found that amusing. Turning onto Sixty-ninth Street, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the block, my stomping grounds—my space.
As we pulled into the driveway I felt a stab of pain and a sense of loss. None of the homies from my combat unit was there. No one. Although there were at least twelve people from the set, they were not of my clique. Tray Ball was dead, Crazy De was in prison, and Diamond, who I had seen go home from Y.T.S., was already back in for murder. Tray Stone was dead, and my li’l brother was still in Youth Authority. But I did see Joker and Li’l Crazy De, which made it a bit easier to deal with the group. A few people I didn’t know at all.
When Mom opened her car door, a horde of homies rushed to help her out. Someone held the front seat up so I could lumber out of the constricting back seat. Once I had gotten out and stood to my full height, the comments from the homies fell from everywhere.
“Goddamn, cuz, you swoll like a muthafucka!”
“Damn, check dis nigga out.”
“Cuz’ arms big as my head.”
“What was they feedin’ you, Monsta, weights?”
I stayed out front a while, answering some of their questions and asking some of my own. Once this grew tiresome I shifted and asked to speak to Li’l Crazy De and Joker alone. We went into the backyard and left the others to mingle out front.
“Cuz,” I began, “I need a gat.”
“Yeah,” responded Joker, “we got some shit for you.”
“Right, right.”
“So, what’s up with them niggas across the way? Y’all been droppin’ bodies or what?”
“Aw, nigga, I thought you knew!” said Li’l Crazy De. “Tell him, Joker.”
“Monsta, we caught this fool the other night in the ’hood writin’ on the wall. Cuz, in the ’hood! Can you believe that shit? Anyway, we roll up on boy and ask him, ?ο, what the fuck you doin’?’ Boy breaks and runs and—”
“I cut his ass down wit’ a thirty-oh-six wit’ a infrared scope!” interrupted Li’l De. “Aw, Monsta, I fucked cuz up! He was like all squirmin’ and shit, sufferin’ and stuff, so—”
“I put this,” Joker said, pulling out a Colt .45 from his waistband, “and KABOOM! To the brain, you know. Couldn’t stand to see the bitch-made muthafucka sufferin’ and shit.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Shit, we ain’t heard yet, but he was probably one of they Baby Locs, ’cause he looked young, you know?”
“Have they rode back?”
“Naw, not that we know of. Most of they shooters in jail like ours.”
“Who killed Opie?”
“Word is that Sissy Keitarock did it. Anyway, cuz in jail fo’ it.”
“Oh, but De, tell cuz how we to’ shit up fo’ Opie,” said Joker excitedly.
“Aw, cuz, we shot so many—”
“Cuz, I need a gat,” I said, trying to insinuate to Li’l De that I wasn’t really interested in his war stories.
“Don’t sweat it, big homie, we got some shit fo’ you, cuz.”
“Anyway—” Li’l De tried to continue.
“When y’all get the gat for me come back. But like, right now, I want some pussy and some food. Now if either of y’all got some of that I’ll stay back here with you, but if not, I’m goin’ in the pad to get some,” I said, smiling.
“Aw, man, fuck you, cuz, we gone.”
“Oh, but Monsta, we be back in three minutes, awright?” Joker said over his shoulder.
“Yeah, but if I ain’t here leave the gat in them bushes right there, okay?”
“All day.”
“Righteous.”
I went in the house through the back door and made my way through the kitchen. I watched as Joker and Li’l De told the other homies that I’d be out later. The small crowd went one way and Joker and Li’l De went the other. Joker had the big .45 in his waistband, so I didn’t worry about them out in the street.
I had brought a collection of my best tapes home: Jimmy Reed, Otis Redding, the Temprees, Barbara Mason, and Sam Cook. I went into the den and put on Jimmy Reed. When it came out over the speaker it sounded foreign to me. Jimmy didn’t fit home like he fit jail. I couldn’t rightly put my finger on it, but I knew that I wasn’t going to be listening to too much Jimmy Reed out here. When I came back into the living room, Tamu was sitting there looking through my photo album. I sat next to her and played with her hair.
“Kody, let’s leave. Let’s go and be alone,” she said, never taking her eyes off the photo album.
“Awright, but let me eat somethin’.”
“I want to take you to dinner. I know a nice little place you’d like.”
“Okay, let me tell Mom we’re leaving.”
“She already knows,” Tamu said, looking up at me seductively.
“Well, well, what is this, a conspiracy?”
“No, babes, just natural instincts.”
“And what about this?” I said and fell hard upon her, crushing the photo album between us.
“That is called smashing your girlfriend.”
“And this?” I kissed her full on the lips, my tongue darting in and out of her mouth.
“That,” she said between kisses, “is called animal instinct.”
“Well call me King of the Jun—”
“Kody?” Mom interrupted, appearing in the doorway.
“Huh? Oh, Mom, yeah?” I stammered, struggling to get off Tamu.
“I’m going to lie down. If you leave, lock the house up, okay?”
“All da… I mean, yeah, sure Mom.”
I had been so used to our natural response to “okay”—meaning Sixty-Ninety killer—which would be “All day,” that it just came out.
Mom looked at me then turned on down the hallway.
“Let’s go,” I told Tamu, and we left.
She took me to a small restaurant on Crenshaw Boulevard called Aunt Fish. We could sit in the window and look across Crenshaw and watch the D.J. spin records at Stevie Wonder’s radio station, KJLH. We ordered jumbo shrimp and red snapper. Tamu, who ate like a horse, matched my appetite, and we tore that food up. The entire time I was eating, the woman at the cash register kept making hardcore eye contact with me. Naturally I flirted back, though only when Tamu wasn’t looking. We kept eating and the woman and I kept flirting, right up until it was time to pay the tab. The bill was forty-nine dollars. When Tamu went to pay she found that she was short ten dollars. The woman at the register gave me a look that clearly said “Help her,” but I didn’t have a dime. I was so embarrassed, as I’m sure Tamu was. But it was especially difficult for me because it became a “man thang” when I couldn’t help pay the tab. It took all the strength I had not to shout “I JUST GOT OUT OF JAIL!!”
Surprisingly, the woman offered to pay as long as Tamu promised to return with her money. Tamu thanked her and turned to exit. As I turned to follow Tamu, the woman cleared her throat to get my attention. When I looked, she handed me a restaurant business card with her name, phone number, and address on the back side. I put the card in my pocket and followed Tamu out to the car.
In the car I tried to console Tamu, who was really bent out of shape about not having the money to pay the bill. I almost told her about the flirting and of the woman giving me her card, but decided against it. We went to Tamu’s house and retrieved the needed money and drove back to Aunt Fish.
After paying the woman we went straight to the Mustang Motel on Western Avenue. From the moment I left the car I had a raging erection that threatened to tear a hole in the front of my pants. We hurried like eager children up to our room. Once behind the door we literally tore our clothes off. To my surprise, Tamu had on black stockings and garters. She knew I had developed a liking for such things while in Youth Authority. We wasted no time as we fell into one another immediately. We sinned for most of the night, taking occasional breaks to smoke pot, laugh, and joke. We really had a good time. By the time we were buzzed to leave we both were spent, and it was another day when we emerged from the room.
“You know, Kody,” Tamu began, talking in measured tones as she drove down Western Avenue, “I want to get an apartment together, for us. You, me, Keonda. But you have to get a job, babes.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, but I really had no intention of getting a job. Hell, I was going to do like Joker and Li’l De said they were doing: sell cocaine. Whiteboy Eric, who was like a cousin to me (we told everybody we were cousins) was already heavily into it. I knew he’d kick me down, but I didn’t want to tell Tamu that.
“’Cause, babes,” she continued, “with your job and my doing hair, we could get a nice little place somewhere.”
“That’s right, babes,” I said, not really paying much attention anymore, as I was now watching a familiar face in the car next to us watch me. The man slowly began to roll down his window, so I started rolling down mine, all the while cursing myself for not getting the .45 from Joker.
“Hey,” he hollered to me, “ain’t yo’ name Kody?” He didn’t seem to have any venom in his voice, but it could be a ploy.
“Yeah, wha’s up?” I said skeptically.
“Aw, nigga, you don’t ’member me from Horace Mann, Terry Heron?”
Terry Heron, Terry Heron… I turned the name over several times before it caught, and when it did it was too late. Enemy Sixty!
He recognized the stages of change in my face and knew I had computed him amongst the damned. Not only had I fought him in school long before the Sixties—Eight Tray conflict, but during the conflict I had shot him. Luckily for him I was unarmed, because I had ample time after the recognition to aim and fire. But to my surprise he was making no threatening moves.
“Aw, Kody, man,” he said as we drove along, “I ain’t in that bangin’ shit no mo’. It’s all about that money now. Nigga, you betta get wit’ it.”
“Awright then,” I said with a slight hand wave, more relieved than anything. Shit, I needed a gun. He turned right on Sixty-seventh Street and into his ’hood, and we drove two more blocks and turned left into our ’hood.
Tamu dropped me off and we made plans for later. It felt like my second day on a new planet.
The phone rang. It was Li’l Crazy De asking me if I had gotten the strap.
“Naw,” I said, “where was it?”
“In the bushes where you told me to leave it.”
I told him to hold on and went out back to retrieve the weapon—a .38 Browning semiautomatic pistol. I came back to the phone and told him I’d found it and asked how many hot ones—murders—it had on it.
“Oh, three or four,” Li’l De replied, “but don’t sweat it, ’cause you was locked down when they happened, you know?”
“Righteous,” I said and spaced the line.
I checked the weapon for rounds and went into the den to jam some sounds. I took Jimmy Reed out of the tape deck and put in a tape my brother Kerwin had lying around. “The Big Payback” by James Brown came roaring out:
I can do wheelin’, I can do the dealin’,
but I don’t do no damn squealin’.
I can dig rappin’, I’m ready, I can dig rappin’
But I cant dig that back stabbin.’
To me, “The Big Payback” was always the Crip theme song. I remember going up to Tookie’s house—he was the West Side Regional Commander of the Crips—to watch him lift weights and to hear the original Crip war stories. I couldn’t have been any older than twelve when I’d eagerly get dressed and scurry up to Tookie’s to hold audience with the general. A lot of us used to go to his house to get firsthand knowledge of Cripism.
Tookie was a Crip through and through—walk, talk, and attitude. He gave the name Crip a certain majesty and was a magnificent storyteller. For hours at a time he’d give us blow-by-blow rundowns on the old Tom Cross record hops at Sportsman’s Park. Or he’d tell about slain members who would have loved meeting us, cats like Buddha, Li’l Rock, and Moe, to name a few. He had a Cadillac and never drove it, preferring to walk everywhere. And if the walk was too long, he’d call up one of his drivers. His entire living room was filled with weights. No furniture whatsoever, just pig iron. Tookie was huge, beyond belief at that time: twenty-two-inch arms, fifty-eight-inch chest, and huge tree-trunk legs. And he was dark, Marcus Garvey dark, shiny, slick, and strong. He had the physique, complexion, and attitude that intimidated most American people.
I met the Original Crips at Tookie’s house: Monkey Man, Bogart, Godfather, Maddog, Big Jack, and Raymond Washington. I was a student of Crip, and Tookie liked me more than the others, as he saw that I was a serious soldier.
Every summer the city of Los Angeles held a Festival in Black at MacArthur Park and most everybody from everywhere would attend. Tookie and Jamael—who started the Avalon Garden Crips—would go to all the functions, concerts, parties, and parks and peel out of their shirts, amazing everyone with their size. Jamael’s light skin contrasted hard with Tookie’s dark complexion and made them look even bigger, like two gargant-uans. During the festivals in Black, Rennis and I would be designated by Tookie to carry the straps, which was more than cool with me.
Another time Tookie and I walked from Sixty-ninth Street to 107th Street so he could retrieve his shotgun. Eight Ball had been lent the gauge to bust on some Brims but had never returned it. So Tookie and I started walking to Eight Ball’s, but before we got there we went around to a homie’s house whose mother was selling angel dust—PCP. Tookie got two seams (a seam was a ten-dollar package in tin foil) on credit. He rolled each seam into a joint and we got high as we walked. By the time we reached the Nineties we were both whacked out of our brains. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, blurry and dark. When Took got high he walked like a cowboy in a High Noon duel.
When we got to 107th Street we ran into some Original Hoovers: Sam, Jughead, Andre Jones, Jinks, and Cobra. They talked with Tookie for a while and mostly ignored me. (Later on they would come to know me.) Took got his hair braided by a Cripalette—a female Crip—and we made our way over to Ball’s house. I went to the door and got him.
“Cuz,” Took said, “where’s my gauge?”
“I put it under the mattress in the back where Bitch sleep.” Bitch was Tookie’s pit bull.
“You should’ve told me… ”
“I knocked, but there wasn’t no answer.”
“If my gauge ain’t there, I’m gonna kill yo’ mama.”
“It’s there—”
“It betta be!”
And we left.
Although Eight Ball was my homie, Took was the general. On our way back down Normandie, the police stopped us. Automatically they handcuffed Took.
“What’s his name?” the police asked me.
“Tookie,” I said, like don’t-you-know?
“No, his real name.”
Now, I knew his first name was Stanley, because he told us that before he got the nickname Tookie. They used to call him Stanley Livingston. I also knew that his brother, Li’l Tookie, was Wayne. Wayne Holloway. So I took it for granted that because they were brothers, Took’s last name was also Holloway.
“Stanley Holloway,” I said.
The police came back over to me and said, “Hmm, that’s funny. He says his name is Stanley Williams. Somebody’s lying.”
“Maybe I got it wrong, I just—”
“Why are you with this scumbag anyway, huh?” asked the officer, cocking his head.
“Well, he’s… uhm… my friend,” I said, but it didn’t sound right.
“Bull-fuckin’-shit! Who you think you talking to? Huh?” he said, grabbing me by the collar.
“But he—”
“ ‘But’ my fuckin’ ass. He is going to have you shooting up every goddamn Brim in L.A. He don’t give a shit about you. He just wants to make you a Crip, one of his soldiers. Wise up, boy, you’re still young.”
So he did know who Tookie was. They uncuffed Took and we began walking off. Took asked what I told them his name was and I replied Stanley Holloway. He slapped me hard across the back of the head.
“Williams, dumb ass, Williams!”
“Awright, awright, I got it,” I said, rubbing the back of my head, which was stinging like crazy.
The payback song reminded me of Tookie. That’s all he played over and over as he lifted weights. He and Big Jack, his roommate, had an old eight-track rigged up to a speaker in a milk crate. On one tape he had four songs: “Payback,” “Girl Calling,” “Happy Feelings,” and “Reach for It.” I learned a lot of Crip etiquette from Tookie.
Most Crips have not had the opportunity to meet him, or any other founders, so they tend to believe that they “created the wheel.” No history whatsoever is attached to their banging. In early ’79, Tookie and two other Crips, who subsequently gave him up, were captured for four murders. In 1981 he was given the death penalty, and he now resides on death row in San Quentin.
As the Payback song played on, I found it hard to shake my trancelike thoughts about the old days. I soon became depressed. I wanted to sleep, to dream, to escape. For the first time I felt South Central choking me. I didn’t want to die without having made any substantial contribution to something. But what? Where was I taking this?
I slept as much as I could. That night the homegirls came by to see me. Spooney, who had a baby by Tray Stone; Bam, who was pregnant by Diamond; Prena, Crazy De’s sister; and Sharon and China were all there. The first thing Spooney said was, “Monster, don’t die on us!”
I promised her I wouldn’t.
“Why would you say that?” I said.
“Because,” she explained, “everybody seems to be doing it, like it’s cool or something. Monster, just be careful, okay?”
“All day!”
“We know that, just be careful, all right?” Bam pleaded.
We talked late into the night. Bam kept asking me if I had fucked any dudes in the ass while I was in prison. I assured her that I hadn’t, which I doubt she believed. The fire between China and I had died. It seemed that our only union gravitated around banging and it was quite apparent from our conversations that both of us had grown up and a little out of the banging circle. She even had a job.
“Where’s your daughter?” Prena asked.
“Over her godparents’ house. She’ll be here tomorrow if you want to see her.”
“I do,” said Sharon. China just looked away. I saw a glimmer of pain in her eyes. It still affected her.
When they finally left it was three in the morning. It felt good to see them. I called Tamu and we talked until the sun came up.
That afternoon Tamu brought Keonda to see me. She was three years old and I was scared to death of her! She looked just like me. We played and rolled around on the carpet together and bonded. Still, the responsibility of being a father hadn’t sunk in. How could it have? Mom was still taking care of me. Tamu was still living at home, too. We both were young, but I knew I had to do something to generate revenue to provide for Keonda.
One day while I was still on the Rock in Y.T.S., I wrote to Mom in one of my militant moods, stressing as best I could the dominance of the white power structure over us as a people, something I had learned from reading Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver. She had shown the letter to a Muslim friend of hers who, she said, wanted to meet me. She told me that when I got out he would give me a job. After seeing and being with Keonda I figured what the hell, let me see what this cat is talking about. Tamu had taught me to drive a stick shift so I would have access to her car whenever I wanted, which gave me the freedom to go see him.
The following Monday I drove over to his office. I felt awkward, because applying for a job just wasn’t the gangsterish thing to do. You either jacked for money or you sold dope. Working was considered weak.
The business was a computer school called Trans-Western Institute. The position I applied for was recruiter, which meant I would be sent to designated areas to recruit students for the school. Students were eligible for government grants, student loans, and other financial help. For every student I recruited I would be given a fifty-dollar commission.
The first place they sent me was the unemployment office downtown, which was cool because I wasn’t in danger of being recognized. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me with a job and I surely didn’t want to be caught by some enemies while recruiting.
My first day I didn’t try to recruit anyone, I simply walked around, amazed at the unemployment lines snaking around inside the tiny building. Hordes of people, mostly Chicano and New Afrikan, stood around, shifting from foot to foot, waiting, hoping, trying to find something to do. Utter despair was marked like tattoos on most of their faces. I guess this was the look that people said Reaganomics caused, but I doubted the truth of that, because as long as I could remember I had seen Mom wear that same fixed expression of hopelessness. The striking thing here was that there were so many of these expressions together in one room. Certainly the pain in those faces was not the result of just four years of Reagan, nor could the sudden shift to conservative economics be the result of one bad man in office. I sat back on a dirty bench and watched until it was time for lunch, at which point I went home.
The next day they sent me to Garfield High School in East L.A. I never went. The following day I didn’t show up at all, and I never returned again.
Instead I went to Whiteboy Eric. He gave me some drugs to sell. The first thing I bought with the proceeds was a ’68 Chevy and some sounds. Then Tamu and I got an apartment on Eighty-fourth Place and Western Avenue. After being out of Y.T.S. for only three months things were smooth.
Since I had no comrades from my unit out in the field, I bonded with those whom I had the most in common: Gangster Brown and Tracc. Both Brown and Tracc were still heavily into PCP, so as a social link I too fell heavily into it. For almost two months straight we’d smoke whole Sherman cigarettes dipped in PCP every day, sometimes two and three times a day. I had gotten a blue flag from downtown that was as big as a bed sheet. Oftentimes while I was high on PCP I’d arrange the huge blue flag on my head in Arab fashion, secured by a black stretch belt. I’d put on my Locs, roll down all the windows in my car, and fly around the city looking stone-crazy! Everyone thought I was a nut.
That summer we all got skinheads. We’d pile into my car four deep, bald-headed with dark shades on, and ride around L.A. We’d never smile. We actually had a good time, though we were heavily armed. After all, you can only play so much in L.A.
Finally Stagalee got out of prison and I was grateful, as the Sherm was starting to take a toll on me. Stag and I subsequently became road dogs. He was at least four years younger than me, and I found myself in almost the same role with him as Tray Ball had been with me. Although Stag had been with the set before he and I met in Y.T.S., his clique was a noncombative unit of wannabees. By hanging with me, he got turned onto some righteous soldiers. He was a tragedy waiting to happen. Like Tray Stone, he was a sleeper who just needed someone to coach that ruthlessness out of him. Once I’d tapped into it, he roared to life like an age-old volcano. I knew we’d be good friends.
One afternoon, much to my surprise, Muhammad came by my mom’s house and he and I rapped awhile about the circumstances surrounding his suspension from Y.T.S. He also showed me a letter he’d received from Warith D. Muhammad that forbade him further entry into prisons in the capacity of an imam. The letter said, “You are teaching hatred and breeding terrorists.”
Muhammad asked if I would attend Salat with him the following day. I agreed. He left me with two books—Black Panther Leaders Speak and The Autobiography of Malcolm X. I went in the pad to look over the material.
“Who was that?” Mom asked as I entered the house.
“Oh, that’s Muhammad. He used to teach us at Y.T.S. Remember I told you about him?”
“Uhm, I’m not sure. You got so many friends. What’s that he gave you?” she asked, reaching for the books.
“Books on us, black people. Mom, you should hear him talk. He can get off!”
“Yeah, well he needs to take that turban off before someone mistakes him for the Shah of Iran.”
“Naw, Mom, the Shah of Iran was a U.S. puppet. You mean the Ayatollah.”
“Well, whoever, shit,” Mom said and handed me back the books.
I had surprised myself by remembering what Muhammad had told us so long ago about the Shah being a U.S. puppet, but as soon as it was fitting to speak on it, it just came out. Muhammad was always able to bring out the sharpness in me.
The following day we went to the Islamic Center on Fourth Street and Vermont Avenue and I totally tripped out. I saw Muslims from all over the world. Sisters my age—nineteen—wore traditional Afrikan dress from the continent. There were Iranians, Saudis, and Libyans, too. I saw flowing thobes of various colors, turbans, jewelry, and manners unlike any I’d ever seen or known. I was standing there in 50Is, Puma tennis shoes, a Polo shirt, and a Raiders cap and felt like a damn fool! I got a few looks that today I would define as Third World people seeing me as a benefactor in their oppression, but at that time I thought they were just curious about my dress code.
Muhammad went in and did Salat and I milled around by the shoes. The women and girls went to another part of the center to pray.
“You know,” Muhammad began as we walked out into the noonday sun, toward the car, “Al-Islam is not compulsive. Allah will raise up those he sees fit. Insha Allah, you have a mission.”
“I always thought that only actors in Hollywood wore those geni shoes that curled up in the front.”
“Brotha, the European has twisted and turned everything to fit his warped way of thinking. He has made himself the center of the world, indeed of the universe. Have you ever heard the words Oriental and Occidental?”
“I heard of Oriental. Don’t that mean Jap?”
“No, now listen,” he said, with a precautionary finger up. “Orient means East and Occident means West. Now here’s the twist. Europe, as put forth by the European, is the center of the world. Therefore, anything to its east is Oriental, while anything to its west is Occidental. This is what is meant by Eurocentric.”
“Yeah, but if Europe is not the center of the world, then what is?”
“Check this out. When a baby is born what is the most essential thing needed for its survival?”
“Uhm, food?”
“Food! Right. And where does that food come from?”
“The mother, or the doctor.”
“All right, therefore what’s central to the baby?”
“The mother?”
“Right. The cradle of civilization is Afrika. Afrika is the motherland. Therefore, Afrika is central to all of humanity.”
“But—”
“Wait, wait, let me explain this. Now those whom we know today as Europeans are actually mutants who left the safe confines of the Motherland and evolved in Europe. Their food for survival was doctored by an unnatural mother. The side effects of their development outside of the natural womb has been albinism, aggression, and universal weakness predicated on their minority status in the world.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why don’t we just tell everybody what’s really going on?”
“I wish it were that simple. Hey, ever heard the words mankind and human?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard ’em.”
“Do you know what hue is?” he asked, looking at me now over the top of the car.
“Hue? No, don’t know what it means.”
“Color, it means color!”
“And?”
“And? Bro, can’t you see it? Look… human… hue-man.”
“Oh,” I said with a big grin of recognition, “color-man, man of color, right?”
“Right! Now, that means humans are people of color, all people of color. Brown, red, yellow, et cetera, dig?”
“Yeah.”
“And melanin is the ingredient that produces skin color. Europeans, mutants—”
“What’s a mutant?”
“Something produced from… or an out-growth of… Anyway, these mutants don’t have any melanin, therefore they are colorless.”
“White,” I said.
“Right, white is colorless. And to be without color is to be abnormal because the majority of the world’s people are hue-man.”
“Colored!”
“Right! So it’s normal to be of color. Which means they are, as mutants, a kind of man, therefore mankind, you dig?”
“Damn, that’s heavy!” I felt stuck on stupid.
“Brotha, we as Afrikan people are weak because mankind has cut off our nutrition from the Motherland. He has twisted the world so that Europe, the Mad Doctor, looks like the center. And we look abnormal. Oh, it’s deep.”
“That’s a trip.”
“You’ll learn, Brotha. Insha Allah, you’ll learn.”
We drove back through South Central with Muhammad speaking on other issues; he always inspired me to search for the truth. When we got to Mom’s house he asked if I had started on either one of the books he had given me the day before. I told him that I hadn’t, but that I intended to. He said I should start with Fred Hampton in the Black Panther book. I said “Cool” and closed the car door. Muhammad asked through the open window if I wanted to go with him to a seminar the following week and I said yes, that I’d be glad to. “Righteous,” he said, and drove away.
I just stood there looking at the back of Muhammad’s car thinking about what he had said. Actually, I was trying to get it right so I could tell Mom. I never heard the car roll up.
“Yo’, what up, muthafucka?”
Damn, I knew that voice but was reluctant to turn and see who it was. Just shoot me in the back, I said to myself, but I turned around and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t Huckabuck.
“Cuz, what’s up?” I said. “Get yo’ black ass out the hoop. Park that piece of shit. Uhh-uhh, not here in front of Mom’s pad ’cause I know that muthafucka’s stolen.”
“Nigga, this my shit, it ain’t stolen!”
“Well how I’m s’posed to know that?”
I hadn’t seen Huck in years, and it was like seeing a long-lost brother. He was missing all of his top teeth, a result of a high-speed chase with the police in which his car flipped completely over. He said that Fly and Lep had been in the car, as well. Lep broke his arm, and Fly escaped with minor abrasions. I asked where Fly and Lep were now, hoping to get a reunion going, which seemed like a great idea in the light of what had happened in the past nine years, since my recruitment. Huck said that Fly had dropped out of sight, though his baby brother had joined up with the ’hood. Lep had fallen victim to the new enemy—crack—and was doing everything and anything to get a blast.
Huck and I kicked it about Tray Ball’s death and G.C.’s life term. Things were developing every which way. Who was to say that because we were still here we were any better off than Tray Ball or G.C.? We talked about the successful double murder of two Sixties that Slowpoke, Fish Bone, and Football—Damian “Football” Williams’ older brother—put down recently, which stunned me. The obvious karma of it was startling.
Two Sixties—Kenbone and Kid—had come into our ’hood prowling for a victim and run across Li’l Frogg at the gangster store on Florence and Normandie. They’d stood outside and demanded that Li’l Frogg “bring his tramp ass out.” Of course Li’l Frogg refused, knowing that any enemy on Florence and Normandie had to be well armed. Unfortunately for Li’l Frogg, some of our homegirls were in the store, which made it a “man thang,” so he had to go face the music. And he knew the tune would not be nice. To his surprise he got hold of Kid and beat him before Kenbone could shoot him five times. Once Li’l Frogg lay wounded, the two fled.
The next day at approximately the same time a Search and Destroy team spied both Kenbone and Kid exiting the Taco Bell on Sixtieth and Crenshaw, rolled up on the unwitting pair, and shot each sixteen times with .22 rifles. Now that was something.
“So what else is up wit’ you?” Huck asked.
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.”
“You seemed to have slowed down some,” Huck said with a look of “I told you so” on his dark face.
“Yeah, a bit. Shit, really ain’t nobody out here to kick it with. I was kickin’ it with Brown and Tracc, but cuz, them be havin’ me smokin’ that Sherm and that shit make me crazy.”
“They still doin’ that shit?”
“Every day. I be kickin’ it with Stagalee now, though.”
“Who?”
“Stagalee.”
“Oh, cuz that stay over on Sixty-sixth?”
“Yep, he straight down, too. Last week we went up to Fat Burger on Crenshaw to try and catch some Sissies and cuz almost blasted some Main Streets. Droopy and them was out there, too. If I hadn’t known cuz, they would have got blasted!”
“Where Li’l Monster? Still locked down?”
“Yeah, he in Y.T.S.”
“What they give cuz for that murder?”
“Thirty-six to life, but you know he’s a juvenile, so he can only do seven. He been down fo’ already. What’s up wit’ Li’l Huck?”
“Cuz live in Swan ’hood. He be fuckin’ up. Just the other day he blasted some Swayhooks”—a disrespectful term for Swans—“who lived next do’ to us.”
Huck and I rapped on in this manner until he had to go. Before his departure we swore not to let another six years see us apart. No sooner had Huck left than Joker rode up on a beach cruiser. I could tell by his facial expression that something wasn’t right.
“What’s up?”
“Monster, cuz,” he began, literally fighting back tears, “them Hoovers be trippin’, man. We gotta get wit’ them niggas, cuz.”
“What happened, homie?”
“Cuz, last night me and Li’l De fell to one of they parties on One-oh-fourth, Big X-ray’s pad, right? And cuz, I was all drunk and shit, but you know, I ain’t trippin’ on no Hoovers. But Macc from Eleven Deuce start woofin’ some way-out shit and—”
“You and Li’l De was the only two gangsters there?”
“Naw… well at first, ’cause Li’l Harv’s bitch-ass came later. But anyway, cuz go to woofin’ that shit, right? And you know how Hoovers get when they deep…”
Joker paused and turned his head. I could see he was really hurt.
“So anyhow, me and cuz get to scrapin’—”
“Who?”
“Macc from Eleven Deuce. And Monster, you know cuz a G, he ’bout yo’ age. Well, like I said, I was drunk, you know, and cuz, like he got the best of me.”
When he said that I could have sworn I saw him shrink a few inches.
“So then what happened?”
“When we was leavin’ they started bustin’ at us—”
“What?!” I said in disbelief.
“Aw, cuz, since you been in jail them muthafuckas been trippin’. But Monster, I want that fool Macc. Cuz, just take me over there. We gotta do somethin.’ They made the ’hood look bad.”
I called up Stag and he came right over. I had Joker explain again what he’d told me. Stag was fuming. His solution was gunboat diplomacy, but I didn’t think that would mend Joker’s pride. He needed to battle Macc personally. I decided that we’d roll over into Hoover eight deep—four in each car, symbolizing the Eight Trays.
The Hoovers had recently consolidated themselves under a new dynamic program called “Hoover Connection.” Their foundation was crack, the new high-profit commodity. All Hoovers who were part of the “Connect” saw Eighty-first as the hub of their new union. Thus at any time of any given day there could be well over two or three hundred Hoovers in attendance. Eighty-first Street between Hoover and Figueroa was without a doubt Hooverland. Ground zero. Everybody would be armed with their weapons openly displayed. When night fell, this street made New Jack City look like a boys’ club.
We had been tight allies with the Hoovers since we’d both broken away from Tookie’s leadership. Their enemies—which there was no shortage of—became our enemies. We’d entered five wars with them as allies. We went to war with the Neighborhood Blocks, the Underground Crips, the Rollin’ Nineties, the Watergates, and the Raymond Avenue Crips, who had never killed any of our homies. But on the strength of our alliance we’d taken up the call to colors and gone to war on their enemies. When the Hoovers and the East Coasts fell out and began their shooting war, the Hoovers automatically thought we’d go to war with them against that gang. When we opted to sit that one out, it soured our relations with Hoover. To get involved in the Hoover—East Coast conflict could be potentially disastrous for us, as our neighborhood had blood relations in both the East Coasts and the Hoovers. As a result of our nonaggressive posture and steadfast refusal to support either side, emotions were strained all around. It was in this climate that we rolled into Hoover Connect for a head-up fight.
In my car was Stagalee, Joker, and Preacher. In Li’l De’s car was Li’l Stag—since removed and replaced with a firmer soldier—Bink, and Cyco Mike. We rolled to a stop in the midst of some fifty Hoovers standing in the street listening to music. We piled out of our cars. Herm from Eight Tray Hoover recognized me and came over with his hand extended. I took his hand and shook it.
“Where’s Macc at?” I asked, looking for signs of hostility in Herm’s face.
’Oh, cuz ’round here somewhere. Cuz, y’all seen Mace?” he asked of some of his Baby Locs.
“Cuz got point, there he go.”
Macc came strolling across the street with an ?-1 strapped across his back. When he saw me he broke into a wide grin. Me and Macc went way back together. When I got kicked out of Horace Mann and sent to Henry Clay, Macc was my road dog. He took me to his ’hood and made me an honorary Eleven Deuce. He and I were friends, and in this light I could not overstand his maltreatment of my li’l homie.
“What’s up, Big Monsta?”
“Ain’t nuttin’, just coolin’.”
“Eh, cuz, we fin’ to groove to the beach. You wanna bail?”
“Naw, cuz, we got problems. Check this out. Last night you slapped up my young homie, Joker, at X-ray’s party. Now that cuz ain’t bent, he wanna go head up wit’ you.”
“What?” Macc said in disbelief, easing the carbine around so that it was now across his chest.
“You know what’s up, nigga!” Joker blew up, coming through the crowd.
“Cuz, I’ll blow you’ brains out—”
“Naw,” I said, “ain’t gonna be none of that. Cuz wanna scrap head up.”
“Yeah, well, you know what? Like I would get down wit’ you, but my hands is all fucked up from beatin’ yo’ ass last night,” Macc shot back to Joker, but in his statement I heard fear.
“Macc,” shouted a Hooverette, “fuck that nigga up. He don’t come in the Connect talkin’ that shit.”
“Hoova!” shouted another voice. The situation was deteriorating to a lynch-mob atmosphere. The gathering crowd was getting larger and more hostile by the minute. I saw Li’l Crazy De and Stoney from Eight Tray Hoover shooting daggers at each other.
“So what up, Macc?” I asked, eager to turn Joker loose on him.
“Cuz, if you really want to scrap, let’s get it on.”
At that, Macc eased the carbine over his shoulder and handed it to Junebug. A circle was cleared and the scrap was on.
Joker tore into Macc with a vengeance. Macc was outclassed, out-punched, and almost out cold a few times. When Joker knocked Macc to the asphalt he attempted to stomp him, but the crowd surged and it was all we could do to keep from being swarmed. At that, I stopped the fight, which from the jump was clearly one-sided. The only reason that Macc got the best of Joker at the party was because Joker was sloppy drunk.
When Macc gained his composure he grabbed the carbine from Junebug, who had taken off his shirt like he wanted to fight. Macc, whose lips were busted and bleeding, was heaving deeply and looking hard at Joker, who was relaxing against my car.
“All right now, y’all shake hands. That shit is squashed,” I said, trying to break the deadly silence.
“Naw, cuz, this shit ain’t over. I’ma get you, Joker—”
“Naw you ain’t, Macc, ’cause should my li’l homie come up dead behind this, I’ma get you. Now, if you—”
“Cuz, what you sayin’, Monster?”
This was Junebug piping in.
“Y’all on Hoova turf, cuz. Macc could blast y’ all right here right now, or Macc could call it cool. But it’s on Macc”
“Macc,” I started again, totally ignoring what Bug was talking about, “so what’s up? If you still got beef with Joker, y’all can scrap again, but this time it’s gonna be in Gangstaland at St. Andrew’s Park.”
“Nigga, you ain’t said nuttin’. Saturday, three o’clock, St. Andrews!” Macc blurted out over swollen lips.
And with that we piled into our cars, but only after we heard several weapons being cocked and loaded. We drove off without incident.
For the entire week that followed we made sure we told everybody about the upcoming brawl with Macc and Joker. Given the tension of the previous Saturday, it could easily develop into a full-scale gang fight.
The following Saturday the turnout in support of Joker was tremendous. Old homies came out of the woodwork in short pants and sweatsuits. G’s nobody had seen in years were there. Hillbilly, Robert Finch, Bacot—who had just served eleven years—Hoodlum, Harv, and Captain Wino were there. Also present was Smokey Joe, Sodici, Sidewinder, X-con, Sneaky T, Bo-Pete, Red Bone, and Goat Mouth. The park was filled with three generations of Eight Trays ready to rumble. Joker was being pampered by the homegirls. Weapons were planted around strategically.
“Here they come!” shouted our sentry, who spotted Moo Moo’s blue truck bending the corner of Eighty-ninth Street. I saw it too, but it was the only vehicle to turn the corner. They were alone. It is not Hoover policy to do anything alone. Something wasn’t right.
The truck pulled to a stop and eight Hoovers came forth, one Hoover representing each street of the Hoover Connection—43nd, 52nd, 59th, 74th, 92nd, 94th, 107th, and 112th. As they lumbered out I recognized hardly any, except Bennose from 107th Street and Macc. But still something wasn’t right. Their faces were disfigured. All of them had been beaten, and bad.
“Cuz,” stammered Macc in barely audible syllables, “we came to squash that shit we got goin’ on wit’ y’all. We fin’ to get wit’ these Sixty niggas. Cuz, they mopped us at the Gladys Knight concert last night.”
“Damn, how many of ’em was it?” I asked.
“Man, they was like two hundred deep.”
“So what’s up then?” asked one of our Baby Locs.
“Come to the truck,” said Ben, and he turned and walked away.
“Bring a gat,” I whispered to Stag, who promptly retrieved the .45 from Bam. We followed the Hoovers out to the truck. When we got there Macc pulled back a burlap covering to reveal a cache of rifles. Not shotguns, but rifles! There had to be at least two dozen there.
“Cuz, is it Hoova-Gangsta or what?” asked Macc to the crowd.
“It’s Gangsta-Hoova, if anything!” someone yelled back.
“Well, let’s show these Sixty niggas what it’s like!”
At that, homies started climbing into the truck, grabbing weapons, and running to their cars. Some stayed in the back of the truck and rode with the Hoovers. When we pulled away from St. Andrews Park, the caravan was sixteen cars deep, with the Hoovers heading it up. The week that followed would be one filled with rumors of sheer terror and mayhem.
It was Sunday, August 27, 1984. As we headed out we ran into Ping from Santana Block, who had two females with him. After we explained to him that we were on our way to the races, the females asked if they could ride with us. I said no, but Li’l Harv simultaneously said yes. We ended up letting them roll with us. We introduced ourselves as Monster and Li’l Harv, which is all it took for them to link us with Eight Tray. They were Sixties and never told us.
When we got to the races, which were largely huge Crip meetings, we asked the two females if they wanted something to eat from Golden Ox across the street. They declined and we walked over to the restaurant to get some food. In front of Winchell’s Donuts we met up with Li’l Marstien and Godfather from 69 East Coast. We talked for a while to Baby Gangster, Twin, and Mondo from Santana Block and when we returned, the females were gone. Harv was upset, as he felt they owed us some pussy for the ride. I said “Fuck ’em” and settled down with my pastrami sandwich. I hadn’t taken two bites before I was frozen stiff with fright.
“Aw, shit!!” is all I heard Li’l Harv say.
And damn, right in front of us was Li’l Fee—Tyquon Cox—and at least twelve other Sixties dressed in all-black suits walking toward my car. I was sitting in the driver’s seat with the door wide open, eating on the pastrami, and Harv was next to me in the passenger seat. By some stroke of good luck they walked right past and never looked our way. The slightest look to the left would have meant a bullet to the head. My weapon was not even reachable from where I was seated. I recognized not only Li’l Fee, who looked like a reptile with almond-shaped eyes that were green or hazel—depending on his mood—but Crazy Keith from Harlem Thirties, who had brought me the horrible news of Tray Ball’s death while we were in Y.T.S. Back then, only a year before, he was talking that “Tray love” shit, using semantics, knowing that Harlem’s allegiance as Thirties was not to the “3” but to the “0,” which automatically allied them with the Sixties and Nineties. On his own, Crazy Keith was likable. But now I saw his true colors.
“Cuz, let’s go. We can get away!” said Li’l Harv, excited, relieved, and happy that we had escaped.
“Fuck that,” I said, reaching for my .38 under the seat. “You know they up here lookin’ fo’ me.”
“Yeah, but they ain’t seen you. We can—”
“Shut up! Listen, take my car to the end of the alley and wait fo’ me. I’ma give these niggas what they come fo’.”
“We could get away.” Li’l Harv was mumbling more to himself than anything else as I got out and he slid over into my seat.
I went into the alley the same way they had and walked to the end, looking slowly out. There I saw two cars parked, both drivers facing the same way. I thought about blasting the drivers, but opted for bigger fish instead. I eased back into the alley and waited for the group to come back my way. It didn’t take long. I heard them laughing and talking amongst themselves and let them all walk past. I let them get about twenty-five feet before standing and taking aim.
“GANGSTA!” I yelled, and squeezed the trigger.
Some ran, some fell, and others hollered. One turned and fired back. It was Li’! Fee. But he had a revolver and was out-gunned. I squeezed off nine rounds then broke across the alley, dropping the clip and pushing in a fresh one. I fired four more shots before the others found the heart to return fire. The big blue dumpster I was behind was catching hell. I spent my remaining five rounds and discarded the empty clip, then slammed in another one and continued my assault. When I had three rounds left I began my retreat.
Their shots came far apart now. I heard screeching tires and screams all around us. A siren wailed in the far-off distance. The Seventy-seventh Division of the LAPD is less than five minutes from Florence and Main. When I was out of danger and able to stand and run, I bolted to where I’d told Harv to wait. He was gone!
I ran back around the side, taking fire from those who were retrieving their wounded, and out onto Florence Avenue. Luckily, I saw Whiteboy Eric and flagged him down for a ride. Back in the ’hood I found Li’l Harv sitting in my car in front of Tray Ball’s house. I opened the door and immediately started pistol whipping him. Disgusted at his cowardice. I left him in the street and went home.
All that night I thought about Crazy Keith. The next morning I called around and got April’s number. She had resurfaced and was supposedly claiming Harlem. If that was the case, I knew she had a line on Keith. I got in touch with her and asked where Keith lived. She claimed not to know, but added that he’d be over her house at eight that evening. Before I hung up she said, “Monster, don’t kill him at my house,” which sent chills through my whole body. If she had set up Twinky, had she been that cool about it?
I called Stag and ran down the previous night’s episode. He was hot. I told him of my plans for that evening and he was all in. Just then Tamu rolled over.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothin’ really. Just gettin’ at Stag.”
“About what? And what did you do last night?”
“Oh, just shot a few people.”
I knew that would stop her from asking questions, and it did.
I took a shower and watched some cartoons with Keonda. She asked if I’d take her to the park and I said I’d see. She was so pure, so clean, so honest. We contrasted sharply. I hoped then that she’d never know her father was a monster, a hunter, and often the hunted. I watched her more than I did the cartoons. Fatherhood. How? When? And most importantly where? The park she knew was a vast grassland with a sandbox and swings. In actuality, it was a meeting and mounting place for one of many warring factions in South Central. It was a target area for rivals and a cemetery for the ignorant. She was oblivious to all that made up her surroundings.
“… did you hear me?”
“Huh? What?”
“I said, are you hungry?”
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Babes, what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” I said, and went on watching Keonda watching TV. But I knew what was wrong. I just didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to worry her. I was back in the thick of it and knew that after tonight there’d be no turning back. My neighborhood right, my neighborhood wrong. Right or wrong, my neighborhood.
At 7:30 P.M. Stag and I rolled out in the red Toyota Tercel for undercover purposes. I had the .38 in my waistband and Stag had the .44 Bulldog. We headed north on Western Avenue. Our intentions were to correct Keith with minimal damage to others and space back to the ’hood.
We pulled to a stop on Thirty-ninth across from April’s house, facing west. Crazy Keith pulled to a stop in front of her house facing east. He was in Baby Brother’s white ’61 Chevy. We waited to see if he would notice us. He exited the car with a bag that appeared to be a forty-ounce bottle of beer and began walking up to April’s house. The very real possibility existed that April could be setting us up—after all, we weren’t the best of friends—so we moved cautiously.
When his back was turned we left the car and began to creep up on him. He never heard us coming. The only thing that saved him was April answering the door and calling our names. He turned in surprise, so we had to play off like we were just seeing how easy it was to get him. After that he began to relax, never thinking that he had been clocked last night with his cohorts in pursuit of me.
“So, what the Tray like, homie?” he said, popping the top on the Olde English.
“E-T-G, R-S-K!” I said without humor, reminding him I was a Rollin’ Sixties killer. His fake smile started to fade.
“What’s up, Stag?” he said, trying to switch-hit, hoping to find some humor in Stag, or at least a reprieve. I’m sure that at that point he suspected I knew, as I had said it.
“Cuz, what you got against me?” I asked Keith. April excused herself and went into the house. “Or, what you got against my ’hood?”
“Nuttin’, Monster, you and me been cool. You know I ain’t beefin’ wit’ you.” He was taking big gulps of the forty, perhaps his last drink.
“Keith, Keith, Keith,” I began, doing the Michael Corleone scene with Rocco, who had set Sonny up. “I saw you. Now don’t lie to me.”
“Cuz, they said it was just business. That’s on the ’hood, they said it was strictly business—”
“Who said that?”
“Li’l Fee and the Raymonds. They—”
“Raymonds?!” asked Stag.
“Yeah, it was us, the Sixties, and the Raymonds. But cuz, it wasn’t nuttin’ personal.”
“So it’s just business when I blow your fuckin’ brains all over this muthafuckin’ porch, huh?”
“Uh… uh… ”
“Huh?!”
“Naw, Monster, wait. I know where they be hangin’ out at. All of ’em. Cuz, they there right now. They tryin’ to start this syndicate thang on the west side and say you a problem, so you gotta go. It’s for the betterment of the Crip Nation!”
“You believed that punk shit? Nigga, you out yo’ fuckin’ mind. They can’t kill me, fool, I’m already dead, muthafucka!”
I drew my weapon and grabbed Keith by the collar, putting the barrel to his temple. I watched the sweat pour down over his face.
“Monster, wait, please man, hold it. We can go right now and bust on them niggas. I ain’t down wit’ them.”
“Man, I wouldn’t do shit wit’ yo’ sorry ass.”
Just then a Cutlass came to a halt in front of April’s house. It was impossible to see who was inside. I put my weapon away and pushed Keith out in front of me. The driver, who it appeared was the only occupant of the Cutlass, got out and came up to where we were.
“Keith, who these niggas and what’s wrong wit’ you?”
“Cuz, that’s Monster Ko—”
And before Keith could even get it out, the dude, who I later found out was Brandon, started to draw a small chrome revolver. But his movements were slow and obvious, and Stag had him on bead with the .44.
“Cuz,” Brandon said when he saw we had the drop, “Harlem ain’t got no beef wit’ Gangsta.”
“Then why you pullin’ yo’ gat?” asked Stag, who still had the .44 trained on him.
“’Cause, shit, I ain’t knowin’ what’s up wit’ Monsta.”
“Yo, homie, Keith was wit’ some Sissies and Raymonds last night when they call theyself ambushin’ a muthafucka.”
“What?! Keith, what I tell you ’bout hangin’ wit’ them niggas when they set trippin’? Huh?”
pow!
Brandon slapped Keith hard across the face.
“Cuz, I didn’t know they was—”
POW!
“You a damn lie, Keith, you love them niggas!”
SWOOSH!
Brandon swung at Keith, but missed. Crazy Keith hobbled a few feet away like an old, sorry dog.
Stag and I started to leave but were stopped by Keith.
“Monster, watch yourself, ’cause cuz and them is serious.”
“What you know ’bout serious when every time someone stronger than you around, you do whatever they say? Get out my damn way.”
“Naw, cuz, wait…” Keith tried to explain further.
“Let ’em go, Keith,” Brandon said.
We got into Tamu’s car and left. We contemplated rolling on the Sixties, but I didn’t want to bring any more heat on Tamu’s car. It was bad enough that Keith had seen it. And lived.
After a while, Stag asked what I thought about what Keith had said about the West Side Syndicate thing. I actually had no opinion about it. I knew that if they tried to hit me, I was going to hit back. West Side Syndicate. I did feel an awkward kind of fear that I had never felt before. This stemmed from the fact that if it were true that they were forming some new union inside of Crip and that my removal was, in some way, for the betterment of the Crip Nation, then there must be someone other than the Sixties, the Raymonds, and the Harlems behind it. That was not their language. This was the language of older people, people I didn’t know. That was a problem. How could I put up an adequate defense when I didn’t know who was coming? Or worse yet, how they were coming? The previous night’s maneuver was typical Sixties—bungled. I could always out-think them. But if they were, as Keith had said, starting something new, the next group of shooters might not be Sixties, henceforth creating a blind spot in my ability to predict what would happen.
“We gotta find out who is pumpin’ this West Side Syndicate shit, you know?” I told Stag.
“That’s right,” Stag replied. “We should kidnap that fool Li’l Fee. His grandmother live off of Seventy-sixth Street.”
“We’ll see what’s up.”
I dropped Stag off and went home. Tamu wasn’t there. I peeled out of my combat black, took a shower, and watched the news. I dozed off on the couch.
I was awakened by Tamu, who had Keonda in her arms. She told me to go get into our bed so she could put Keonda in the couch bed. I stumbled to our room, but couldn’t sleep. Tamu eventually came in.
“Do you believe in God?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said, and then added, “why would you ask me about that?”
“No real reason.” I propped myself up on my elbow. “And what is your God’s name?”
“Name?”
“I mean what do you call him?”
“God. Or Father, I guess. But I don’t really get into names. I just believe in a higher power. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Do you know what Allah means?”
“Isn’t that the name of the Muslim’s God?”
“No, it just means God in Arabic.”
“Oh, ’cause one of my mother’s friends was a Muslim.”
“I’m tired, very tired,” I said, lying back on the bed and looking up at the ceiling.
“Well, babes, get some sleep.”
“No, not that kind of tired. I’m tired of living. Tired of killing. Tired of acting like people want me to act. I’m tired of… “
“What’s wrong, Kody? Don’t talk like that, you’re scaring me. It’s gonna be all right. Things will get better. Hey, remember that Temprees song you like so much, We’ve Only Just Begun?’ Remember that?”
“Yeah, that’s a bad jam.”
“It’s gonna be all right, babes, you watch.”
She held my head to her breast and rubbed the side of my face with her soft hands, all the while humming “We’ve Only Just Begun.”
When I awoke the next morning, Tamu was up cooking and playing music. The fresh, wholesome aroma from the kitchen coupled with Anita Baker’s new song, “Angel,” made me feel good. The sixth sense of my melanin was catching some good vibes. Keonda came into the room and she and I talked awhile. When I was in Y.T.S., Tamu or Tamu’s mother had taught her how to say Ronald Reagan. When I was released I taught her his third name—pig. Now, over and over, she would say “Wonal Wagan pig!” and I’d say “Yeah!” I finished playing with Keonda, ate, showered, and geared up. The phone rang.
“Telephone, Kody, it’s Muhammad.”
I went to the phone.
“Asalaam Alaikum,” he greeted me.
“Walaikum Asalaam.”
“So, are you ready to roll?” he asked.
“Roll? Where?”
“To the seminar.”
Damn. I had completely forgotten about that.
“Yeah, I’m still down.”
“Great,” he said, “I’ll be right over to pick you up.”
Thirty minutes later I heard his horn. When I got to the car there was another brother inside who looked vaguely familiar. He introduced himself as Hamza. Hamza, yeah, that’s right. I’d met bro in Y.T.S. on that first encounter during the slave movie. We saluted each other as Muhammad pulled out into traffic.
“So, what’s been up, Monster?” Muhammad asked.
He always used my gang name, I believe to make me feel comfortable. Even when he introduced me to brothas and sistas in the movement he said, “This is Monster Kody from the Eight Trays.” He never downed where I was coming from and never made me feel ashamed. I must admit, though, that when he’d introduce me to revolutionaries I’d feel uneasy being announced as Monster Kody from Eight Tray. Like most bangers, I felt that the revolutionaries wanted to stop gangs, which is seldom true. They want to stop gang violence, which is ninety percent black-on-black. And the way they try to stop it is to show that black-on-black violence is a result of white-on-black violence. I knew none of this then, but felt uneasy all the same.
“Ain’t nuttin’ up, man, just dealin’ wit’ this madness out here.”
“Have you read anything on Chairman Fred?”
“Who?” I asked, not catching who he meant without the last name attached.
“Fred Hampton. The brotha in the Panther book.”
“Oh, naw, man. I ain’t read nuttin’. Been havin’ a few problems out here, you know?”
“Yeah, I heard. Someone told me you shot the street races up Sunday night.”
“Either me or them.”
“You gotta check out Chairman Fred. The brotha was dynamic and strong, sort of like you. How old are you now?”
“Nineteen.”
“Yeah, Chairman Fred was twenty-one when the pigs assassinated him. You know, Chairman Fred used to say, ’They can kill the revolutionary, but they can’t kill revolution. They can kill the liberator, but they can’t kill liberation,’ Ain’t that deep? Pigs killed Fred ’cause Fred was serious. Fred was hard as nails, brotha. You should read up on the brotha. You’ll dig him strong.”
“Yeah, I intend to. But lately, man, I’ve just been wantin’ to turn myself in to the graveyard and sleep.”
“What?! Brotha, it ain’t never that bad. That’s what the beast want you to do. Check out what H. Rap Brown say: ’We are starting to realize what America has long known. And that is every black birth in America is a political birth, because they don’t know which one is going to be the one to raise the people up.’ Bro, don’t let the beast pressure you into taking yourself out. You got a mission, remember that.”
“Righteous.”
But still I felt tired, overburdened. Today I know what that weight was, but then I didn’t. It was my conscience struggling under the weight of constant wrongdoing. Not wrongdoing in any religious sense, but doing things that were morally wrong based on the human code of ethics. Also, it was my subconscious telling me that my time was up. I knew it, I felt it, but I just couldn’t face it. No professional can. “You’re too old,” “You can’t move like you used to,” “You’re slippin’.” No one wants to hear that, especially when that life is all you have known.
At nineteen I felt like thirty. I didn’t know what to do. Dying on the trigger didn’t look so appealing anymore. I needed to do something that would be as satisfying as banging once was. Banging had taught me that I like the feeling of fighting for something. My greatest enjoyment from banging came from the sense of power it gave me. To be armed and considered dangerous felt good, but to stand in my turf that I fought to make safe was the climax of banging for me. So I knew that whatever I did after banging had to involve fighting for power and land.
When Muhammad dropped me off I began reading about Chairman Fred Hampton from the Chicago chapter of the Black Panther party. Just like Muhammad said, Fred was raw! Fred and eight other Panthers, including his pregnant fiancée, were set up by an informant and ambushed in their residence. Fred Hampton and Mark Clark were murdered. The informant and Fred’s killer were both Negroes. After reading about Fred, I really got into the book.
On September 27, a month after the street race shoot-out, our door was kicked in by the soldier-cops. They found a .25 automatic and hauled me off to the county jail. I was charged with mayhem and two counts of attempted murder. Three people had gotten shot. One, Li’l Eddie Boy, had positively identified me while in the hospital. He was the mayhem victim. The irony of this was that he and his unit had come into East Coast ’hood—sovereign territory—gunning for me. I’d defended myself and shot him in the ass in a dark alley as he ran away, yet he had positively identified me. I guess their thinking was, “If we can’t kill him, we’ll lock him up. But he must go.”
When I got to County I was immediately rushed to 4800, the Crip module. Out of 18,000 inmates in Los Angeles County at that time, all wore blue jumpsuits except the 150 Crips who were in 4800—they wore gray. Everyone who wanted to take a shot at us could, as we stood out like flies in the buttermilk. When I arrived, Li’l Fee was there, as was Big Eddie Boy, the victim’s brother. A sort of détente existed between the sets, since the Consolidated Crip Organization (CCO) had members sprinkled throughout the module keeping the peace. They did this by keeping our rage focused on the pigs, who were always antagonistically aggressive toward us—and our dicks.
I told Fee that Li’l Eddie Boy was a witness against me and he assured me that he would not come to court. At that time, Li’l Fee only had a gun charge, but a week or two later he was on the front page of the Los Angeles Sentinel wanted in connection with five murders—the Kermit Alexander family murders. The story was that it was supposed to have been a hit but that he’d gotten the wrong street, only even we weren’t doing hits. It made the Syndicate story carry a little more weight.
Li’l Fee was taken to High Power, maximum security, and Big Eddie Boy got released. Thus my contact with Li’l Eddie fell off and, surprisingly, he came to court to testify.
Slowpoke, Football, and Fishbone were in County for double murder. Diamond and Nasty were there for murder. Diamond had caught a Swan writing on the wall at St. Andrews Park and beat him to death with a baseball bat. Ckrizs was there, too. In fact, Crips from all over were there.
We were housed in Denver row and Charlie row in four-man cells and in Able row and Baker row in six-man cells. The pigs were so complacent that often there’d be six members from the same set in the same cell. A command booth was situated in the middle, and a glass catwalk ran the length of the tiers for observation by the pigs. Communal showers were located at the entrance to each tier.
For all of us, 4800 was a new testing ground, and there was always something going on.