Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta

by Darrell King

  That we did, the very next day, or should I say morning. The five of us accompanied by five armed security guards went into a nearby retail store to go Christmas shopping. Wisdom had briefed me earlier during the ride there that we were to fake an argument pretending to start a fistfight with one another. This we accomplished with acting so incredibly believable we both should have been awarded Emmys.

  The largest and possibly the meanest of the security guards roughly escorted us from the interior of the store to the outside area cussing us both out thoroughly while doing so. As we neared the van that had brought us there that morning, we both noticed a burgundy vehicle pull up behind us. A young girl no more than eleven or twelve at the most stuck a revolver out of the rear window of the slowly moving car as it came to a stop beside us three.

  The little hoodrat then told the security guard to unhand us, lay down his weapon and his walkie-talkie. As the security guard reluctantly obeyed the gunwielding youngster, Wisdom quickly snatched up the thirty-eight and security radio, then we both proceeded to whippin’ on his ass before we tied up his hands and feet plus bounding his mouth with masking tape. With this completed we then tossed him into the back of the school van along with his radio, but of course we kept his gun. I learned that the two young girls riding in the getaway car were Wisdom’s younger sisters. The driver was the oldest, being eighteen years old, and the bold little “stickup” kid was as I thought, only twelve years old.

  I stayed with the three siblings for three days and felt at home among Wisdom and his younger sisters. I lived with the three a total of five months. Enough time to sell enough dope in order to go it alone. Wisdom and his sisters had grown fond of me and were sorry to see me leave. I too had to admit that since I left my mother and hadn’t seen my older brother in a great while since his arrest, Wisdom and his sisters Afriqua and Ebony were the closest thing to a family I had. But on the mean streets, compassion must give way to durability and self-assertiveness.

  So after a brief interlude of reminiscing over our stay in the juvenile detention center and our escape there from, the three of us held a cipher making our Islamic wisdom, knowledge, and understanding known. Even little Ebony dropped science with uncanny clarity and insight. When this came to a conclusion, Wisdom placed an edition of Clarence x Smith’s “Book of the Five-Percenters” within my hand. We both gave each other the blessings of Allah and I departed.

  DOPE PUSHER’S PARADISE

  During the year 1977, I was thirteen years old and living large. Heroin was king at the time and yours truly took full advantage of “smack’s” rapidly growing popularity within the drug culture. I began a partnership with a white boy by the name of Todd Pulaski, who was about eighteen years old. He and his mother were about the only white people that I personally knew at that time living in the midst of South Central L.A.

  I was introduced to him during my brief stay with Wisdom Allah. Although he was Caucasian, Todd considered himself a five-percenter and knew much about the teachings of the “Nation.” On top of that, he was the most street-smart white person that I’ve ever met of any age or sex. Tall and sturdy with a ruddy complexion and strawberry blond hair which fell unkept over his forehead and down across his broad shoulders, Todd was a really laid back individual who was easy to get along with and slow to anger. Although when forced into a fistfight, the boy could most definitely hold his own with just about anyone from the hood.

  Once while we were buying a few pounds of marijuana from a drug distributor in an East Los Angeles barrio, three Chicano gang members broke into and tried to hot-wire Todd’s pink Cadillac. Not only did he whip the livin’ shit out of every last one of ‘em, but he knocked each and every one of ‘em slam out! As a partner you knew he had your back come what may; he never deserted you or punked out for any reason.

  Todd and I made a killing nearly every night. When we weren’t protecting our drug turf from wouldbe usurpers or dodging “five-o,” about six hours on the Strip would bring us about ten grand each. We had several spots throughout the city that we would set up shop and our customers could gain easy access to us. Our customers varied in age, sex, race, and economic standings. We served white, black, Hispanic, and even Asian “clients,” whose ages ranged anywhere from fifteen up to fifty. Our numerous clientele resided in both the gang infested, poverty stricken neighborhoods of South Central and East Los Angeles, as well as the wealthy, aristocratic substance abusers of such notable areas as Beverly Hills and Bel Air.

  Todd had bought his mom a splendid looking Spanish-style villa out in the Sacramento Valley, yet he remained with me in the confines of the inner-city where we felt more at home. We both rented a fourbedroom apartment with wall-to-wall plush carpeting. The inside décor was very much of an eccentric taste, for two ghetto brats like ourselves.

  We held many a freak party up in the crib, many times inviting as many as sixteen to seventeen broads at a time to party, dope, and screw with us. On one particular night, while we were cruising through Watts in the Caddy, we stopped at a corner store to pick up some eats before rollin’ up in the crib for the night.

  When we were paying for our junkfood, three young hoods in line directly behind us looked on in astonishment and growing envy as both Todd and myself produced thick knots of currency. I overheard one of the three whispering to the other as we left the store. He had informed the other two to leave out the side door of the small convenience mart and to meet him at the curb where we were parked.

  “Let’s bail, white boy!” I exclaimed, nudging Todd in the ribs, “dem bustas are settin’ up ta jack us, you dig!?”

  “Ease up cuz,” Todd returned reassuringly, “dem there lil busta ass punks ain’t bout ta do shit but get there asses killed.” He then tossed me the car keys and told me to relax, and cool out.

  “Wait for me in the ‘hog’ lil brah,” Todd said lighting up a joint. “I gotta call our East L.A. dealer Theresa Miranda. She said that we have a shipment of ‘smack’ comin’ in tonight. So we gotta be there on time, bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  “Alright,” I said rather uneasily, taking the joint that Todd passed on to me. As I opened the door and looked out over my shoulder to make sure that Todd was okay and that no one was creeping around in the shadows of the surrounding streets, I noticed Todd talking on a pay-phone behind the store. The glow from the phone booth cast a ghostly beam, making every shadow seem all the more ominous.

  As I tried to relax by slipping a cassette into the eight-track deck, all of a sudden I overheard the unmistakable sounds of a struggle. Looking toward the phone booth area from where the sounds issued, I saw that Todd was being roughed up by several toughs dressed down in all blue clothing. I knew almost immediately that these youngsters were none other than the notorious Crips who had allied themselves with the Reapers during their street battles with both the Bloods and the L.A.P.D. some time ago. These young thugs were one of the newest gangs on the South Central streets at the time and had immediately gotten the reputation as being one of the most ruthless. I knew that if I were to save the white boy’s ass I was gonna have to act as quickly as possible. I reached over and opened up the glove compartment pulling out a deuce-deuce from inside. I then checked to see if it was loaded then quickly stepped out of the Cadillac. Before I could close the door behind me I felt the touch of cold steel pressed against my temple and hot, funky breath breathing down my neck.

  “Look here cuz,” the gunman whispered heavily, “me and my homies been scoping you and dat whiteboy over there. We saw when you two pulled up in this baaaad ass hog, and we also saw you flash around a whole lotta bread baby. So you a big time dope man huh? A regular little mackdaddy; but one thing is… you fucked up by hustlin’ on this set… Eight ball Crip set… Which means you gotta pay ya dues cuz.”

  After that little speech the Crip busted out with psychotic laughter. But, while he was laughing he had briefly allowed his trigger hand to slip somewhat, which was all I needed to quickly move to the si
de and plugged his bitch ass three times to the dome before he even knew what happened. As his corpse slumped over against the Cadillac I scooped up the thirty-eight which had fallen from his dead fingers and tucked the deuce-deuce in my pocket.

  As I rushed over to aid Todd, I could see him prostrate on the cold, damp pavement behind the store bleeding profusely from the nose and mouth… but still alive. About seven Crips surrounded him. They had taken most of his jewelry, all of his money, and had even stripped him of his costly pimp clothing. He lay now only in his drawers and socks.

  I was overcome with rage; and I rushed in blindly

  among the thugs swinging madly at any in my path with a metal pipe that I picked up off the ground. I did manage to catch the sons of bitches off guard and even delivered a few punishing blows with that pipe before I was knocked unconscious from behind.

  Slowly and painfully I came to as I opened my eyes and blinked a few times to remove the cobwebs which clouded my brain. I cursed myself for being foolish enough to have run smack in the middle of a dangerous gang and not bustin’ niggas with the thirtyeight I took from the dead Crip. I was lucky… very lucky to be alive.

  In most circumstances involving gangbangers as notoriously dangerous as these I would have been offed on sight. But as I looked at the faces looming above me I saw one that caused my heart to leap with joy and happiness. Paco stood above me; then he knelt down beside me and cradled my head in his arms and wept as did I. I had found my brother at last and he and I made the most of our reunion.

  PIMPS AND HOS

  When I asked Paco about Todd he said that the white boy had slipped off half nude and all and driven off in his big pink Cadillac. Usually Todd didn’t desert a friend but I guess being street smart you put selfpreservation before anything, or anyone else… I couldn’t blame him for that. Paco hadn’t changed that much. He had put on a few extra pounds, had some facial hair and also a much deeper speaking voice.

  He was eighteen and I was thirteen. It was near the end of ’77. We tried desperately to find out where our mother and baby brother lived, but we had no success. During the day we would hustle or pimp. Paco had about twelve whores working the streets for him.

  And they would bring him about ten thousand and eight hundred dollars on a good night. Less on a bad one. Unlike a lot of pimps, my brother was not abusive of his prostitutes.

  “I cuss ‘em out, or maybe take some of their bread, but I never hit women. Hoes or not. Besides, don’t nobody want ta screw a beat-up looking bitch.” And when I thought about it, it did make sense. I pimped four whores myself. They’d make about five to six hundred dollars each night; which yielded anywhere between two thousand to two thousand eight hundred dollars tops. Those figures weren’t that impressive for a street pimp but my thing wasn’t pimpin’, it was gamblin and hustlin’. Now there’s where I made real money.

  The only time Paco and I would hang out alone together was on Friday nights at a joint called “The Sinful One”; which was named accordingly. It was a dimly lit, smoke-filled, sleazy discotheque. It was always frequented by pimps, whores, dopemen, and gamblers. It was there that I met an old acquaintance. I had a car… a brand new one at that. It was a blue Mustang and I was feelin’ pretty damn good about my new wheels so I drove over to “The Sinful One” to kinda show it off to all the patrons there.

  When I drove up in the parking lot I could hardly find a space; the place was jammed packed. As I entered, the bouncers immediately recognized me and allowed me free admittance, with the usual handshaking and laughter. Then afterwards, I stepped into the club squeezing and squirming my way to the bar all while colorfully dressed men and women, many sporting Afros, gyrated and swayed in soulful unison to the funky lyrics of Marvin Gaye’s “Inner City Blues.”

  I motioned to the bartender to come over because it was hard to talk over the loud music. I ordered a gin and tonic and tossed twenty bucks on the counter and spun around on the bar stool to see if any new women were in the joint. Scarcely had I taken a swallow of my drink when this big, lumbering mutha bumped into me, causing me to spill the gin and tonic all over the both of us. The big ox turned around swiftly, his face was contorted with rage. His eyes narrowed into slits as he gritted his teeth and clenched his massive fists.

  I appraised his gargantuan frame which towered above my own. As he approached me, I slowly reached inside my jacket, fishing around for my piece. Then a strange thing happened. A look of puzzlement briefly masked the ugly scowl on the brute’s face as he closely examined my features. Then, with the mirth of a fool he burst into laughter and extended his open palm for me to slap him some skin. I was in a state of total consternation. Then my memory quickly returned.

  “Francisco?” I said still unsure.

  “You know it like a poet,” said the big guy, cheesin’ like a Cheshire cat, as we exchanged fives. “Hey look here DiAngelo, real sorry ‘bout your liquor brah, let me buy you another; then let’s sit down and rap.”

  “That’ll work,” I said all the while trippin’ off the sudden kindness toward me by my erstwhile foe. We both sat down and shot the breeze as we waited for our drinks. While we were kickin’ it, a little skeezer I knew from around the way came over and hugged and kissed me and I introduced her to Francisco. We kicked it with her for a while until her man and his homies came over and he snatched her up and cussed her out. Then he turned towards me and whips out a switchblade, while his boys grinned and snickered in the background – egging him on to knife me. Before he could step to me wrong, he was starring down the barrel of a snub nosed “Saturday Night Special.”

  “Back up off him homie,” Francisco told him grinning. “He definitely ain’t the ‘one,’” he finished, nodding toward my hardware. The five startled punks backed off quickly and disappeared into the partying throng. Francisco shook his head and chuckled.

  He turned toward me and jokingly added, “Boy, if

  you don’t get no bigga, you’re still my nigga.” We both laughed; then turned around and got our drinks. As we continued our previously interrupted conversation which bordered on hoochies, cars, and money, I couldn’t help but notice how shifty eyed the big Mexican was. He scrutinized every last soul that came in or went out of “The Sinful One,” many times interrupting our talk to swing around on his barstool and investigate a stranger to the club a little more closely.

  Once when a scuffle between two drunkards broke out beyond the dance floor over near the billiard tables, two of the bouncers I knew quickly and rudely broke it up and threw the two inebriated combatants out on their asses. But not before Francisco leaped from his seat and produced a small metallic blue tech-nine from his leather and suede trench coat.

  When things settled down again, and the disc jockey started spinning off some funky disco tunes, Frisco chilled out and told me that for a while he was a police informant and had got paid good money to snitch on pimps, drug dealers, and gang members. So he let me know that his enemies were many.

  “So, is that why you’re so nervous?” I asked.

  “Ya damn right that’s why,” he said with a mischievous grin slowly appearing on his hardened Latino features. Francisco settled back in the stool, took his shot of tequila straight down, grimaced from the bite of the strong liquor, belched out rudely and then ordered another round for both of us. I refused though because I couldn’t stand tequila.

  “Come on son, it’ll put some goddamn hair on dat bird chest a yours!” Francisco laughed out, shoving the glass of tequila over toward me.

  “Naw, Frisco, I’m cool. Could use a ‘jay’ though,” I said placing the drink back in front of him.

  “What?! You mean ‘Marry JaWanna’? What do I look like, giving dope ta minors? Huh?!” said Francisco sternly. Then his expression relaxed once more and once again there was that stupid-ass grin. Then he went on yammering, “Besides, smoking dat shit will fry your brain, and fuck up ya sperm count son,” he blurted out loudly, displaying several gold capped teeth that gleamed brightly
under the disco lights. “BBUUTT!

  Since you’re a little hard muthafucka, and a genuine Jr.

  Gangsta, I guess I can hook ya on up!!” the big Mexican chuckled. Then he grasped me about the neck in a headlock and gave me a noogie. I pushed him off and threw a couple of playful jabs at his chest. We both laughed and then he slid a ziplock bag full of reefer across the counter toward me in full view of the bartender who just smiled and shrugged it off.

  “Didn’t see a thing ‘Big Boy,’” the lanky bartender said lighting up a cigarette and winking coyley at Frisco and myself.

  “Course not ‘Slim,’” Francisco answered, tossing him a dime bag.

  “Thanks brah, ya next drink is on the house!” Francisco pumped hands with the dude behind the bar then it happened. I saw it coming. There were two dudes I had never seen before in the discotheque. Both were tall, dark skinned, hard looking cats. I steadily observed the pair as they stood side by side just eying us for what seemed like about fifteen minutes.

  I was surprised at Frisco’s unusual inattentive behavior; but as I looked over my shoulder I saw the reason why. He was entertaining some big breasted broad who was gigglin’ and sittin’ on his lap, just shakin’ those huge titties in his face. I immediately turned my attention back toward the two suspicious looking strangers at the back of the club; because I knew as long as that chick stayed with homeboy, nothing else would occupy his mind, not even his own safety. As the old saying goes, “A stiff dick has no conscience.”

  When I observed the back of the room, all I could see was the dancing forms of perspiring men and women grooving to the funk of “Bootsie’s Rubber