Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta

by Darrell King

  That’s when Mrs. Piedmont asked her youngest daughter Shawnnah where Ellen went.

  “Ellen put on tight pants and a halter top and said she was goin’ ta her man’s house, Mama.”

  “‘What?” said Mrs. Piedmont, who jumped out of her chair in a rage. “I’m gonna break my foot off in Ellen’s ass!! You just wait. The nerve of that little heifer.”

  “Just calm down Molly, you know how girls are,” said my aunt, trying to put her two cents in it.

  “That’s the very reason why I’m worried! These little gals are too damn hot and I don’t want my little thirteen-year-old baby walking around with no big belly.”

  “Well come on and we’ll ask Paco if he happened to see her today. He’s always on the streets anyhow,” Mama said, putting her arm around Mrs. Piedmont.

  We all went toward the door, and then Shawnnah came bouncing along with her thumb in her mouth and dragging an old Raggedy Ann doll behind.

  “Can I go Mama?”

  “Hell no you can’t go little miss busy body! You’re too damned grown,” said Mrs. Piedmont. Then she slammed the door shut behind her. She walked a little ways down the hallway to our mother’s apartment.

  When she opened the door, the sight that met our eyes caused my mother to look with her mouth agape. My aunt, in the meantime, had to catch Mrs. Piedmont as she swooned. I couldn’t help but chuckle and shake my head because there before us was sweet little Ellen on her knees, while Paco sat back on the couch with his hands behind his head and his fly open while Ellen’s pretty little lips took on the length of my brother’s dick. That was the last straw. Ellen went home with the whipping of her life while Ma threw all of Paco’s belonging’s out into the hall.

  “Get the hell out of my house goddammit!” said Mama slapping Paco sharply across his face. “You are nothing but a goddamned hoodlum! I bend over backwards to try and give you the best of everything, clothes, food, shelter, understanding, and love. But what do you do in return? Give me hell, that’s what.” Mama’s face was flushed red from her furious temper. “All you do is fight, get in trouble with the police, get thrown out of school, and hang out with street trash. You don’t give my home any type of respect whatsoever. You disgust me Paco,” screamed Mama with tears welling in her eyes and falling down her face in tiny rivulets. “You never learn, you’re just like your hard-headed daddy. I pray that my baby DiAngelo doesn’t grow up to be like either of you!” Then Ma held her face toward the ceiling and asked God why was He allowing this to happen. She fell upon the couch as her tired body shook from sobbing. Both of us hugged her and tried our best to soothe her. Aunt Jennifer agreed to let Paco stay with her for a while until Mama calmed down.

  “Well, let me get going,” said Paco collecting his things in a gym bag. He turned and gave my hand a firm shake and after a short pause pulled me close to him in a warm embrace. “You stay strong, Dee,” he whispered in my ear. “And you take care of Mama. I know you can, cause you’re MY little brother. And whenever you run into any problems you can’t handle, give me a call at Aunt Jennifer’s or let this do what you can’t with your hands.” He placed in my hand a small pearl-handled, snub-nosed .25 automatic with a full clip. I gasped with excitement. “Put it away before Ma sees it.”

  With that said, he went over and kissed Mama, picked up his gym bag, and he and Aunt Jennifer said goodbye and closed the door. I didn’t see Paco much after that, but I always got the lowdown on him from one of his boys or the bitches in the neighborhood. Two years later, I saw in the paper and heard on the news that the Ebony Warriors street gang was caught robbing a Korean liquor store somewhere in the Bronx. Among the twenty-one names listed, on line number 14 it read: “Paco Miguel Lovett, Queens, New York, sixteen, black/Hispanic descent.”

  *****

  The year was 1973. I was nine years old and Paco was fourteen. He was placed in a juvenile detention center somewhere in Jersey. He’d call Mama and me on Sundays to let us know that he was okay. Earlier during the year, he got to come home for his fourteenth birthday. He never wrote. He said writing was for fags and old people. I doubt it if he could spell correctly. He had dropped out of school, so his scholastic aptitude was little or nil.

  I studied hard in school and usually came home with a pretty decent looking report card. Mama was proud of me, especially since I made the honor roll during the fall semester and received a certificate for perfect attendance the same year. I excelled in all my classes and my report card was the best of the entire third grade. That achievement quickly elevated me on to the fourth grade. My teachers adored me, especially the females. If I were a few years older, I would’ve fucked quite a few. But the DiAngelo Marquis Lovett of the streets was also a cunning little hustler. At the age of nine, I could shoot pool better than many of the niggas that were in their late twenties and early thirties.

  I would hang out in Brownsville with a few other hardheads and watch the pool sharks play. At first they didn’t want no little hoodlums hanging out in the pool joint, but after I showed an almost uncanny knack for the art of pool hustling, I became something of a celebrity. At first, I played just for fun, but eventually I was hustling and bringing in big bucks, something like sixty or seventy dollars a game. Then I moved up to one hundred; sometimes one hundred and fifty dollars a game. Most of the guys who lost big money to me were professionals, pimps or dope peddlers. They could afford their losses and many later became good buddies of mine, which was why I slipped further into the dark abyss of crime. The place was called Big Bubba’s Joint.

  On Friday and Saturday nights, I told Mama I was going to catch the train to downtown Brooklyn with a couple of the guys and catch a Kung Fu flick. Mama considered me a saint, so there was never any static except when I occasionally came home in the wee hours of the morning. I’d make a straight beeline for Big Bubba’s. The joint would be jumping. Pimps with their whores, dope dealers, and gamblers all came in the door looking clean. They all knew me and called me Lil’ Mack after the popular movie of the day. I had some serious rags to be only nine years old. I had a leather and suede trench coat with mink trimmings, a big wide superfly hat complete with ostrich plume, and enough gold jewelry to make Mr. T. envious. When I left for the night at about twelve or one, I usually had two to three hundred dollars on me.

  I was also a wunderkind when sitting at the card table. Tonk, spades, bid whiz, blackjack, gin rummy, you name it – I played it. For some reason, I lost a little more money at the card table than on the pool table. Eventually, I had to start getting an alibi for disappearing every Friday and Saturday night. Luckily for me, one of Big Bubba’s frequent customers was none other than my mother’s younger sister, Ms. Jennifer Lee Lovett. She used to be my partner at the card table and taught me the better qualities of cheating.

  Whenever somebody, male or female, jumped on me, Jennifer or Big Jenny as she was known to the throng in the pool hall, was more than able to protect herself or her nephew. Aunt Jennifer, like Paco, was a brawler and I had witnessed several men fall to the power of her punches. Every Friday and Saturday night, my aunt called my mama and lied that I was spending the night. It wasn’t exactly a lie because after we collected our winnings, which many times ranked in the Gees, we went home to her apartment in JamaicaQueens. I could tell that she was living large because she had a three bedroom apartment in the white section. It had beautiful mahogany and oak furnishings, wall-to-wall carpeting, and expensive East African art and figurines.

  “Go get somethin’ to eat precious,” Aunt Jenny would say nodding toward the well-stocked kitchen. I’d find all kinds of junk food, pizza, cakes, hot dogs, cookies, kool-aid, popcorn, you name it. Jenny would snort a few lines of coke, drink some imported champagne and call a few friends over. Before they arrived, we would count our money and laugh about how we had cheated so many people at the gambling table that night. When her girlfriends arrived, she’d kiss me goodnight and send me off to bed, but they laughed and talked so loud that I could never really get a
ny sleep.

  The later it got, the more interesting things became. Aunt Jenny usually invited the same five broads over… Jacqueline, Morag (a pretty blonde white girl), Diane, Farrah, and Latisha, and all were as fly as they could be. They would snort lines of cocaine, smoke reefer, and then they would be high, hot and horny. I’d slip out my room and watch secretly. They’d all be nude, licking, sucking, and fucking each other with them little rubber dicks and shit. They’d be groaning and sweating just like they were being sexed by men. They damned sure seem to enjoy each other’s company just the same. I wasn’t surprised. My aunt never did hit it off with the guys, since she was bigboned and masculine. If she was a lesbian that was her business; she was still my aunt and I loved her just the same.

  One Saturday while we were gambling, a prostitute who frequented the joint to gamble and look for business accused me of reneging on the last hand that played. “Ain’t nobody reneged bitch,” screamed my aunt, angrily slamming a thick fist on the table. “You’ve been suckin’ dicks so long all that swallowed cum has gone to ya fuckin’ brain!”

  “Who the hell you callin’ a bitch, you big bodagga,” the prostitute shot back with her arms akimbo. I knew the streets well and the jargon spoken on them; bodagga was another word for dyke, an ethnic version. Without warning, Aunt Jennifer reached over the table and slapped the living shit out of the bony prostitute. She nearly flew across the bar on the opposite side of the Joint. Then like a tigress, Aunt Jenny leaped over the table knocking over cards, money, chairs and patrons unfortunate enough to be in her path.

  She landed full upon the prostitute, ripping off her blond wig and tearing her sleazy clothes to shreds. The prostitute fought wildly like most bitches do when fighting. But Jenny was too big and strong and fought too well for the skinny street walker to withstand. She was beaten to a bloody pulp. The pool hall crowd was screaming for blood, just like it was a prizefight. I was jumping up and down screaming at my aunt to beat the shit out of the bitch.

  That’s when the whore’s pimp came over and snatched my aunt by her hair, threw her to the floor and kicked her in the ribs. Aunt Jenny rolled to the side quickly and came to her feet with cat-like reflexes, brandishing a savage looking switchblade in her left hand.

  “Ohhh, so you like to kick people huh?! That means I’m gonna have ta cut ya too short ta shit!” With those words, Aunt Jenny leaped on that pimp so fast that the nigga couldn’t do nothing but try to go for his piece. Before he could draw it, his face felt the bite of cold steel. Jenny kept slicing his punk ass until Big Bubba and a few other guys held her off. Then they threw both the pimp and his ho in the alley, blood and all.

  “Sorry ‘bout the mess Bubba baby, here’s seven hundred and seventy-five dollars,” said Aunt Jenny, “this will help clean up the damage.” Bubba took the money and smiled.

  “Girl, you’re one bad-assed sista! Take my little buddy home, he looks sleepy.”

  After that night, my aunt advised me to stay away from the pool hall so much. “You got more money on you than most niggas make in a month. You’ve been exposed to things and people you’ve got no business knowing. I’m not gonna let ya Mama know what you’ve been up to on account that I’ve had quite a bit ta do with it. But I don’t want you ending up like your brother Paco, locked away somewhere and not being able to see your family.”

  With that she drove me home and kissed me then hugged my neck. “You behave yourself now Dee Dee,” said Aunt Jennifer affectionately. “I’ll be checkin’ on ya!” she said shaking a fat finger in my face. “Tell Lydia that I’ll call her tomorrow and ask her what time she wants to go to Manhattan. Tonight I’m just gonna cool out, plus I got company coming over. Bye, bye baby.” With that the big gray Lincoln eased out of the parking lot and snaked slowly around the playground and disappeared down the main street.

  As usual, I got into my studies and returned to the more familiar activities of a fourth grade student. I kept my two thousand dollars hidden in my closet under some toys and shit. I bought clothes, shoes, and most of my school supplies with it. I know you wonder how I accomplished all of this without Mama finding out. Aunt Jenny was a masterful liar. Without thinking twice, she told my mother that she had purchased much of what I

  owned including a few pieces of gold and silver trinkets.

  “Jenny, I know you mean well,” Ma would say, “but that child don’t need all them fancy clothes and jewelry. I don’t want DiAngelo spoiled, plus in this neighborhood those ragamuffins are likely to fight him over them.”

  “Lydia girl, you worry too damn much! You mean ta tell me that I shouldn’t buy my own nephew clothes and things? You musta bumped your head, girlfriend. And as for those little bad-assed kids takin’ somethin’ from my DiAngelo, I don’t think so. The way him and

  Paco used ta wreck shop around this joint, girl please.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Mama said wearily. “But that’s not what I’m raising my children to be. I don’t find that behavior cute or pleasant. That’s exactly why I kicked Paco the hell outta here. If you can’t do what I say and you think yourself too grown to listen to me or follow my guidelines, it’s time for you to go, child or no child. See, you like that shit because when we were small, your damned head was as hard as a rock!” Ma stated, looking at her younger sister, the object of her sharp criticism.

  “You were loud-mouthed and tomboyish. Mama and Daddy gave you more whippin’s than they did our brothers. Paco acts just like you, all rough and rugged, hardheaded, loud and profane. But that’s not what I want DiAngelo to become. He’s a good and obedient child. He’s a number one student. All the teachers have high expectations for him. I’m not going to let anyone spoil or ruin him by lavishing expensive gifts on him.” Jenny sat back on the couch staring at her sister stoically, her magnificent diamond encrusted rings shining brilliantly under the pale luminescence of the ceiling lamps. She took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. Mama watched her until she lit the cigarette, then she told her to extinguish it at once because she didn’t allow anyone to smoke in her house.

  “If ya want me to go Lydia, just say so okay? I can tell when I’m not wanted.” My aunt got up and put on her snow white ermine stole, picked up her purse and car keys then gave me a hug and a kiss as usual. Going to the door, Jenny stopped in the doorway, and looked back.

  “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer Dee Dee, but your Mama is such a bore,” she exclaimed, faking a yawn. Mama slammed the door shut and mumbled something to herself. She looked at me then at the door. She shook her head and went out on the balcony to calm down. The months went by swiftly, and soon summer was back again. I couldn’t go back to Big Bubba’s. The fuzz busted the Joint for gambling, embezzlement, prostitution and drug trafficking. I still had six hundred bucks left from my grand. I bought some cool summer clothes and a ten speed bike. I was always treating my friends out to the arcade and Coney Island Amusement Park or we would hang out and have fun in Central Park sometimes.

  Soon I was beginning to miss gambling and the excitement that went along with it. I began shooting craps in the playground, basements, and alleyways of the neighborhood. As far as I was concerned, I was a pro. For someone like me, who was used to gambling with and winning money from men and women, shooting craps with my peers was child’s play. I was constantly winning weekly allowances, sports balls, sneakers, comic books, and dirty magazines. One Saturday, me and some other little hardheads were shooting craps on the playground when some older teenage boys came over and watched us cunningly. They looked on as I won game after game and collected my winnings.

  “Yo Shaun, this little nigga thinks he’s one cool

  dude,” said one tall, jet black teen wearing a baseball cap backward. ‘Maybe we should show him how to really shoot craps.’ As I looked up at the teenagers, I appraised their ugly faces, which were battle scarred and full of violence. The nearest was about six feet, muscular and wore braided hair under his cap. He had on a half tee-shirt, and his washboard abd
omen bore a wicked knife scar across it. The one seated on the monkey bars had a bald head, numerous tattoos and was light skinned like me. He wore dark shades and spoke with a thick Jamaican accent. He constantly used Jamaican profanity such as “blood clots,” and “rasclots” when referring to me and my friends.

  The third was a short tubby motherfucka wearing an afro and a colorful dashiki with an afro pick in the back pocket of his shorts. ‘Let’s get on with it sucka,’ said the tall, dark muscle-bound youth.

  “Money talks, bullshit walks,” I said, counting my money nonchalantly. He glared at me with homicidal intent in mind I guessed. I really didn’t care. We played a few games; then the motherfucka started cheating. I didn’t say anything at first, I just observed. Then realizing that I would have to fight fire with fire, I pulled a few fast ones. The crap games went back and forth between me and the black ugly dude for damned near two hours. I had won thirty-five dollars and a goldplated ring from him. He won fifty-seven dollars and some of my platinum-plated jewelry. Darkness set in so we played by the light of the street lamps.

  “Take all that nigga’s shit Ratman,” yelled his two buddies, like a pair of cheerleading ogres. Most of my friends had gone in for the night, except one or two who wanted to see the outcome of the game.

  That’s when I caught my opponent’s buddies sneaking him marked dice. Ratman and I both threw our die simultaneously. Seeing the toss was in his favor, he shouted “Hot damn!” and reached for the gold chains, hundred dollar bills, and girlie magazines. I slammed my hand on top of his and looked him squarely in the face.

  “You been cheating me all night,” I said angrily, “and now you gonna give me back every godddamn cent you owe me!” The two other thugs looked on as their leader stood up eyeing me fixedly.

  “You little high yella son-of-a-bitch!” shouted Ratman, swinging a powerful roundhouse that caught me on the right side of my head and sent me flying over the edge of the seesaw.