by Darrell King
Band.” I became alarmed at that particular moment because I had lost sight of those two cats and I knew in my heart that some shit was about ta go down and soon! Francisco had dumped on the counter top about two tablespoons of the white stuff and was dividing it into long, thin horizontal lines. The hoochie was already getting’ her cuts of that ‘caine.
Musta been good as shit cuz she was trembling, gigglin’ more ‘n ever and her nose started to bleed a little bit. But that didn’t stop her. She simply snorted more up her nostrils, giggling like the fool that she was. Nobody fucked with Frisco while he and the sister got high because he knew everybody that was anybody, including the cops whom he moonlighted for in his spare time as an informant. Even the bartender was tootin’ coke behind the bar.
I scanned every nook, crannie and corner of that damn club and I didn’t see those creeps anywhere… until it was seemingly too late to react. Like a slow motion picture reel, the gunmen burst through the crowd dancing on the dance floor. I saw them rushing toward us from the reflection on the glass mirrors behind the bar. Shots rang out immediately. Two bullets whizzed over Francisco’s head as he unwittingly but miraculously ducked down to sniff a line of coke. The dude serving drinks took the two bullets that missed the Mexican. One to the throat and one to the dome. He fell back against the bar knocking over liquor bottles, glasses and ice pitchers. Then he slid down behind the bar leaving only a bloody vertical trail coming down the bullet-pocked mirrors.
Francisco pushed his lady friend off his lap and she landed hard to the floor where her screams told that she was being trampled under foot by those terrified, many fleeing for the exit. Francisco, in his frenzied haste to spin around on the bar stool and face his attackers, himself fell. But with quickness nearly unbelievable for his girth, he was up on his feet in a crouching position with his back against the bar stools. He reached quickly inside his leather trench and again pulled out the tech-nine; only this time he started pumpin’ lead in the direction of the gunshots.
Several people running for the doorway were cut down by the unabated spray of bullets. People were screaming, yelling, cursing, bleeding, and running hither and thither in a mad attempt to save their lives. With the pandemonium so great and the panic-stricken crowd so uncontrollable and reckless in their efforts to escape injury or death, I was lucky that I dove behind the bar after Francisco started bustin’ off caps. I crouched as low as I possibly could and grabbed my deuce-deuce from out of the small of my back.
I shoved the bartender’s dead body further toward the corner so that I could have more room to lay low. That bar’s interior served as my foxhole as the mayhem raged beyond. While I lay upon the floor, my hands were bleeding from the many cuts delivered by the broken pieces of glass littering the area, ignoring the pain, I crawled quickly but cautiously toward what seemed like a door or trapdoor on the floor.
I sprung to my feet and dashed over to my new source of hope. I gripped the bulky brass handle and tugged at it with all my vigor and strength. Perspiration beaded my brow as I strained above the weight of the trapdoor; it groaned loudly then popped open. I went down a dimly lit, dank cobweb-filled stairway that was sturdy but obviously seldom cleaned or traveled. As I got down in the basement, I kept flicking on my cigarette lighter in order to see a light switch or something.
Then sure enough I found the string dangling just about three inches over my head, but when I grasped it to turn it on the bulb was blown. I cursed out loud in the darkness, but after searching blindly in the pitch dark with the limited help of the lighter, I found a door leading outside toward the parking lot. Since “The Sinful One” was located in the ghetto, the fuzz took their time getting there. By the time they came around I was ghost. But it must’ve taken ten or fifteen minutes just to get to my car. The whole fuckin’ neighborhood must’ve been in and around the parking lot, talking, lookin’ around all crazy like, basically buggin’ if ya ask me.
It was two weeks before I laid eyes on Francisco again. He was up on the avenue playing “bones” and takin’ nigga’s money. We greeted each other and talked a little shit about this and that for a while. Then I asked him about the shootout at the club and what occurred afterwards.
“Ain’t shit really happened cuz. You wuz in da joint whenit got hectic, just hadda peel a nigga’s cap like any other time when ya gets bum-rushed,” Frisco concluded nonchalantly puffing on a blunt, then passing it to me. I was already getting’ a contact from the thick aroma of marijuana and tobacco mixed, so it only took a few tokes ta get me feelin’ nice.
“So did you ice both dem niggas?” I asked passing the chonic back to the Mexican.
Francisco gazed at me blankly for a few seconds then suddenly as if his brain finally registered that he was being spoken to the blurted out, “Huh?… oh sorry homes, I’m so fucked up I can’t even remember the name of that hoochie I balled last night. That’s what I was thinking about… damn that pussy was gooood as a muthafucka!! Man, what the fuck is that bitch’s name?!?!” said the Mexican wrinkling his brow in deep thought, all the while slowly stroking his stubbly beard.
“Yo Frisco, you’ll find that ho in time; there’s a million of ‘em all over. Watts, Compton, Long Beach. They all got the bitches that love ta fuck,” I blurted out. “But what I want ta know is… Did you or did you not put both of dem punkass nigga’s to sleep? If so, cool brother – but if not I’m here to tell you ta watch ya back!! Word on the street is that you stepped on the toes of a nigga named Sergio Mendez, A.K.A. “Big Daddy” Mendez down here from Seattle, Washington, where he’s wanted on first degree murder charges, racketeering, prostitution, blackmail, cocaine, and heroin trafficking man.” I said shaking my head, “You not dealing with your ordinary standing on the corner, nickel & dime makin’ hustler, you fuckin’ with a big time million dollar money making mackdaddy, so wake the fuck up!” I yelled at him, rapping him on the head.
Francisco gazed around lazily, then started counting his winnings from the game o’ bones he had just played. A few of the losers tried to insist that they go another round, but went away filled with anger and mumbling profanity when their offer was declined.
“Don’t go away mad, just go the fuck away,” grinned Francisco mockingly, “ya sorry, non-gamblin’ muthafuckas!”
I smiled slightly as I watched both Frisco and those two ghetto brats exchange verbal putdowns and
“birdies.”
“Ya know what ‘Dee?’” Frisco said shaking another bag of weed into the partially emptied husk of a Havana Cigar, “I just hate playin’ wit sore losers, don’t you? I mean… Shit I’m da best! Like Ali says I’m the greatest, da prettiest, I’m a baaad man…” Francisco said flashing a gold-toothed grin, and giving his best Muhammed Ali impression, fists clenched and arms outspread. He did everything but acknowledge the dire seriousness of the dilemma which loomed before home.
After that period I sorta got outta hustlin’ for a while. I even gave most of my dope back to my older brother Paco, who was none too happy that I had given up such a lucrative business.
“Man, what the fuck you doin’?” asked Paco, astonished. I got my bags together, looked around my brother’s drug den turned apartment, then I looked Paco in the eye and smiled slowly.
“Brah, this shit just ain’t my bag no more; I’m ready to call it quits… At least for right now,” I said playfully jabbing him in the ribs.
“Well what the fuck you goin’ ta do now? Work in a fast food joint an’ shit?!” laughed my brother, watching the clock and looking out the window across the street.
“Don’t worry ‘bout me niggah, I’m gonna be alright,” I blurted out definitely. “You worry about your own ass!” Then I hugged him tightly for a long time; we drunk a forty and smoked a few joints together. After that I hopped in my Mustang with my baggage and hauled ass. That was the summer of 1977. I never did see my brother again, at least for a while. Last I heard, he was in Sacramento strung out on heroin.
JUST CHILLIN’
/> During the fall of ’77, I decided that enough was enough and I would get the high school diploma that had temporarily eluded me due to my premature involvement with the gangs and drugs. I hated school and had no intentions of returning to day classes. But instead, although still a minor at thirteen years of age, I managed to attend a GED class at night.
The teacher of the night class took a liking to my study habits and test grades. Her name was Mrs. Lynette Clark. She was a devout Catholic. She hooked me up with a gig as a waiter and a dishwasher in this fancy seafood restaurant in Hollywood. I made pretty decent money and got fat tips from wealthy patrons. More than often I got tips and autographs from some of Hollywood’s more famous residents – autographs which I sold for $100 to $200 a pop.
Mrs. Clark invited me over to dinner several times and insisted that I attend Mass with her and Mr. Clark and their three kids: Marci, Connie, and Jeremy. Of all the churches I’ve attended, Baptist, Holiness, etc., Catholics must have the most boring of all. The only reasons I went were one, Mrs. Clark was like a mother to me and the least I could do was to go to church with her family on Sundays; and two, I had a crush on her oldest daughter Marci, who was seventeen.
She was all that! She stood about five foot eleven, weighed about one forty and had more curves than a roller coaster; and a gorgeous deep ebony complexion. Damn she was fine!
We hit it off real well, Marci and I. And never once did I think solely about ballin’ her. I was for once in my life truly in love and I really wanted this female to be my one and only lady. I studied with her, we went for walks in the park, to the zoo. We went to the movies, Disneyland, everywhere, we did all that lovey-dovey bullshit.
During December of 1977, Marci got a wellpaying bookkeeping and accounting position for a law firm in downtown Los Angeles. December 26th, 1977 she turned eighteen and a week later she got her own apartment. Homegirl was truly livin’ large, and her parents were proud of her accomplishments… and so was I. Even though her parents disliked the idea of my moving in with her, Marci comforted me.
“Look DiAngelo, I’m eighteen years old. I’m practically a grown woman. Mom and Dad will just have to understand that I’m not a little girl anymore. Know what I mean?” Marci asked, looking lovingly at me with those seductive cat-like eyes of hers.
“Yea, I guess you’re right,” I said, finishing my homework. “Ya know what?” Marci asked.
“No, what?” I returned.
“I love you,” she whispered.
I smiled. Then went back to studying. After the holidays blew over I found myself more engrossed in my school studies and work at the restaurant than ever. A retreat was planned by our church, St. Theresa of Avila, for the weekend, in which a large church bus would take at least twenty-five to thirty members to Santa Barbara for a much needed break from the smog,crime, and madness of inner city L.A.
Marci signed our names on the register along with the trip’s annual fee of two hundred dollars and that Saturday morning we arrived at the church with our luggage for the weekend getaway. A police cruiser pulled up beside the church and police chief Lawrence Tate stepped out. He walked over to our parish Father, Father Phillip O’Learhy. They began talking and joking like long time pals which I assumed that they were. I wrinkled my brow and gritted my teeth.
“I hate that son of a bitch,” I said under my breath, staring with hatred toward the Los Angeles police chief.
“How come you so hard on Chief Tate, Boo? I think he’s a pretty good cop as well as a strong community leader,” Marci said, playfully mussing my hair.
“He’s nothin’ but a stinkin’ snake in da grass. He’s no real cop. He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A fulltime cop, part-time mack and 100 percent sell out!” I snarled tensely.
Marci stepped back a little, surprised at my sudden outburst of rage. “What the heck are you talking about?” Marci asked with utter consternation.
“That piece o’ shit you see over there in uniform and badge works for a big time gangster who goes by the name of Sergio Mendez. He’s based in Seattle, Washington, but he runs a drug and prostitution ring which covers most of the West Coast. The man is large… real large and he’s payed off the entire police department here in L.A. He calls the shots all over California, L.A., Oaktown, Frisco, San Diego, Sacramento, San José; all dem mothafuckas belong ta him! ‘Big Daddy’ they call him and he’s not ta be fucked with. Just last year over in Watts, me and a home boy barely escaped with our lives after two punks busted in on my boy and me while we were just coolin’ in a club! Compliments of ‘Big Daddy’ Mendez. And word on the street is that your neighborhood officer friendly there is being paid by that scum to watch his back, which means makin’ life rough for me an’ my homies in da hood!”
“DiAngelo, I thought you’d dropped that hoodlum life of yours?” Marci questioned boldly staring at me with an acid look in her lovely brown eyes. “Don’t you appreciate the fact that Mr. Tate is a true role model for the children here in L.A.? But no, I guess selling drugs and killing people gives you a hard-on, huh?”
I was taken aback by Marci’s patriotic and fierce defense of Lawrence Tate, but stood my ground firmly and defiantly. “Hold up! Wait a minute! You don’t know what you’re talking about, you don’t understand!” I said, my tone of voice taking on an angry overtone.
“Oh, yeah… yeah I understand DiAngelo, I understand. I understand that almost everyday and night I read in the papers or hear on the radio or see on television about black people our age killing and being killed by each other. I’ve witnessed the drive byes, seen the doped up mothers who in turn give birth to addicted babies. I see the poverty, the illiteracy, the despair, and the hopelessness of our people in the ghetto. And when a strong, intelligent brother like officer Lawrence Tate takes a stand, makes a life for himself through education, and not only becomes a police officer but becomes a police chief and returns to the black community and gives back to it by defending and upholding the law and protecting innocent and decent black folk who are preyed upon by the same gangbangin’, dope sellin’, gun slingin’ filth that you call ‘homies,’ I call that one hell of an accomplishment and
I’d love to have a man like that!”
Those last words cut sharply and now I was thoroughly pissed and I let go with both barrels. “So what the fuck you sayin’ Marci? I ain’t a good enough man for you? You wanna be with Tate? You wanna fuck Tate?”
Marci smiled and chuckled briefly. Then she shook her head and poked me in my chest with a freshly manicured fingernail. “Listen here lil’ boy, I know you’re cute and all but you’re just too damn immature for me. I should’ve never been fuckin’ with a thirteenyear-old anyway. That’s probably why my parents were so pissed, not to mention that you used to be a hood. Just because you can light my fire in bed doesn’t mean a damn thing. I see today that you’re still a child… Not yet ready for a real relationship with a woman like me, so I think we’d better go no further with this relationship.” I just looked at her. The first time I’d been in love… And now the first time I’d felt heartbreak. Tears welled up in my eyes and a lump seemed to creep up into my throat. I struggled to gain my composure.
Then I spoke, my voice breaking at times with sorrow.
“You don’t understand Marci,” I said choking, “I wanted to be a better person. I wanted to finally be somebody, get a high school diploma, hold down a job and make an honest living. And for once in my life I have a woman I really love… I mean really love and you’re just gonna walk outta my life just like that?… Why? Tell me why?”
Marci pulled me close to her and cuddled me up against her breasts. “I love you DiAngelo. I love you very much. But I’ve realized that you are still very young and you have a long road ahead of you. Oh yeah, I know that you’ve got the experience of one much older than yourself but I still feel that our relationship just won’t work. We’re like the Odd Couple. You belong to the streets. I don’t and could never be. You’ll meet someone else who will give you a
s much love as you give them, ‘cause lemme tell ya, you’re one fine thing!” she said grasping my buttocks. “You’ll make some lucky girl really happy.”
“You two coming or what?” yelled out Father O’Learhy. I took a minute or two; wiped the tears from my eyes and regrouped. Marcia took my hand in hers and kissed my lips softly, then whispered in my ear that she had some good news for me. That brought a smile to my face and we both got our bags and made our way toward the waiting bus.
While on the bus, we got seats at the very rear so that we could talk privately. Marci snuggled up close to me, her fluffy fro brushing gently against my face, her hand mischievously rubbed across my chest and worked its way down my stomach, then settled firmly on my crotch; all the while fondling my balls and stroking my jimmy. She gazed into my eyes, erotically licking her luscious lips.
“I’m really horny. I don’t know but arguing makes me hot. Would it be wrong to suck your dick on a church bus, filled to capacity with devout Saints of God? I mean it’s kinda kinky, don’t ya think? Makes me cream just thinking about it,” Marci laughed.
I was feeling damned good right about then, but there were just too many people on that damn bus. People who worshipped with us every Sunday. I put my hand on top of Marci’s just as she was about to unzip my fly and whip out my meat.
“We can’t do this… now… not here. Let’s respect ourselves and these people,” I said looking lovingly into Marci’s eyes.
“Yeah, you’re right… But when we get off this bus I want us to go to our cabin and fuck like rabbits!
Okay?!” she asked.
“You bet,” I returned, feeling the moisture between her legs. “But what did you have to tell me?” I asked her.
“Oh yeah…” She took a long slender finger and slowly zig zagged it across my chest. She cleared her throat and sighed… “I’m pregnant – two months.”
I looked at her in shocked surprise. “Say what?!”