by Darrell King
Marci sat up and shot back, “What do you mean say what? Don’t even try to say it ain’t yours. I’ve only been with you. I don’t sleep around you know. So don’t even come with that.”
I laughed and hugged her. “Oh naw you got me all wrong. I know that. I’m just shocked, that’s all. But you said you wanna break up; what you gonna do? Get an abortion?”
“Nope! I’m not getting an abortion. It’s against my religion. I’m Catholic, remember? And I was just thinking as good as you look and as good as you make love to me, I don’t know if I wanna let you go.” She smiled, flashing those pearly whites at me. Then we got lost in each other’s loving embrace and fell asleep together.
Marci and I awoke to the sound of gunfire and shouts. The church bus was pulled over and a group of armed men were aboard demanding money and other valuables from the frightened passengers. The driver’s body was slumped to one side at the wheel. Blood covered the right side of his head and body where he had just minutes earlier been shot.
Father O’Learhy started saying Hail Mary’s and he took several bullets to the head from an annoyed gunman. As the priest’s mortally wounded corpse slammed to the middle of the aisle, the bus was filled with the shrill din of screaming women and children. The thugs went down the aisle brandishing ninemillimeter automatic handguns and bags which were being quickly filled with loot.
“Everybody get the fuck off the bus! Right now!” yelled the biggest and baddest looking punk, waving around his piece menacingly. When no one seemed to acknowledge his commands he bust a cap through the ceiling of the bus’s interior.
“Y’all muthafuckas deaf or something? Move!! Goddamnit!” I was the last one off the bus, so I took the butt of a pistol upside my skull – a blow that rendered me unconscious. When I awoke, I was inside an ambulance along with the cops who told me they had to question me when I recovered. I tried to get up but a paramedic came over and asked me to remain calm and lie still.
“Little brother, you’ve suffered a concussion and you’ve a pretty nasty head wound. You’ll be needing stitches and plenty of rest. But other than that you’re just fine… Just fine.”
I was laid up in the hospital for a minute, but after a week or so I discharged my damn self. Luckily for me, those fuckin’ pigs never got a change to question me during my brief hospitalization. As soon as I was back on the street, I jacked some fool for $500 and snatched his El Camino. That gave me a little loot and some wheels so I could track down my woman and blast those bustas that jacked us on the trip.
I went all over my old haunts and stomping grounds of South Central asking about the whereabouts of Marci and showing people a photo of her. I had to literally beat off strung out chicks who promised that they’d do everything Marci did for me and more if only I’d give them daily heroin fixes. For about two weeks I went through disappointment after disappointment in my quest to find my lady love again.
I just prayed to God that she wasn’t dead or something. It was damn frustrating. After a month I had built up a little dope clientele and tossed that old beatup El Camino to the curb, and bought me a nice ass ’66 Ford T-Bird. I had a little basement apartment out in Watts. And I laid low as much as possible.
But one evening I decided to cruise down the avenue, lookin’ for some ho’s to mack. When I spotted some “hood rats,” three of ‘em strolled up to my ride. Each one swinging their asses seductively as they neared the driver’s side. I began talking business with them and flashing a wad of loot in their wide-eyed faces. I had them model for me on the curb briefly. I looked at and felt their breasts, buttocks, legs and hips for firmness, soft texture and curvaceousness to see if either of the three was worth my time and money pimpin’ ‘em.
Before I could complete my decision, a burgundy Ford LTD screeched loudly behind me and immediately four thugs dressed in midnight blue, faces masked with bandannas and brandishing sawed off pump shotguns hopped out and surrounded my car.
“Shit!” I exclaimed aloud as I peered into my rearview mirror, raising my arms instinctively. By now all three of the girls lay crouched beside my Thunderbird screaming their heads off and beggin’ not to be harmed. The closest busta shouted at them “Shut the fuck up!! Get the fuck outta here ya stinkin’ ass bitches!”
He then backhand slapped one of the broads to the street, bloodying her mouth. She screamed out pitifully, and then got up and ran swiftly to catch up with her already fleeing girlfriends. Cold steel was pressed against my temple as my car was searched for valuables. But while I was being jacked, I recognized some of these punks…
They were “Reapers” – my old homies. Day-Day was going through my glove compartment removing eight-track cassettes, condoms and money. “Foots” was checking the backseat and also checked my trunk. Pretty T checked the sun visors and my person, while Ron held that awful shotgun to my head. They made me get out of the car. As I stepped out of the automobile I couldn’t help but grin.
“What you laughin’ at sucka?” asked Pretty T, getting in my face.
“I’m laughing at you Pretty T,” I announced.
Instantly the hardcore expression left T’s face and was replaced by a look of consternation.
“What… did you just call me?”
“Damn nigga, you done forgot your own fuckin’ name… Pretty T, unless of course all y’all niggas been getting’ zooted before you jacked my…”
“Who da fuck is you?” asked Day-Day inquisitively.
“Well I sure is hell ain’t Bootsy Collins, now am I Day-Day? And get this fuckin’ shotgun out my face. Ron, you could hurt somebody with dat thing fool!” All four were dumbfounded and silent. As Ron slowly lowered the weapon I threw up my hands and shook my head in disbelief.
“You mean ta tell me all the reefer we smoked together, all the forty’s we drunk together, all the Korean carry-outs we robbed, all the stupid-ass shit we all did together and y’all can’t remember little old me? Fuck y’all!” I said in mock anger, giving them my middle finger.
They looked around at each other then at me again, still just as silent as before. I reached into my jacket, pulled out a thick joint and fired it up, took a long drag, and exhaled; continuing my tongue bashing of my homeboys’ amnesia.
“Especially you Pretty T. How can you forget a nigga that saved your ass?” That did it. At once, niggas were all over me joking and laughing and slappin’ me skin. After we all sat around on the hood of my car getting high, we all drove back toward the “Reapers” hangout. It was like déjà vu, like old times all over again. I was with my boys and they were with me. Rolling down the street daring anyone bold enough or dumb enough to confront us – even cops. Once again we were rulers of the hood.
GANG TALES & OTHER GOOD SHIT
The new hangout was not the same old, dingy, rundown tenement buildings that the crew had back in the day. This was 1978 and niggas weren’t gangbangin’; they were hustlin’ coke, Angel Dust, and heroin. These punks had done went and bought themselves an apartment building! But then again, even though the Reapers numbered many, and there was enough dollars on the streets to go around, they had to be hookin’ up with somebody large to occupy an entire apartment building.
As I entered the building I was greeted by surprisingly well-dressed young ladies. Gone were the bandanna and sweat suits, dirty jeans, and plaid shirts. These muthafuckas were clean!! The carpet was wallto-wall wine colored, wool-like material. The furnishings were of the same color but were encased in a genuine leather exterior.
There were pictures on the wall of Angela Davis, The Black Panthers, and Malcolm X, all that militant shit. Yet they’d sell dope to or shoot a brother at the drop of a dime. I was patted down thoroughly by two athletic looking sisters with completely bald heads. Now don’t get me wrong, the broads were sexy as all outdoors, but they damned sure were funny looking with those Kojak heads of theirs.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked looking around at my boys with startled surprise. “Y’all niggas think this muthafu
cka is the White House or somethin’?”
“Naw,” Dee blurted out, “Day-Day it’s just security procedures.” “Ooohhhh… I see,” I said still eyeing the two bald chicks squatting down patting up and down my outstretched legs.
“He’s clean,” said the girl to my left, lighting up a long thin cigarette.
“Yeah, but not you,” I said displaying a butterfly blade I nabbed from her while she and her homegirl searched me.
“You little thief!” snapped the girl, snatching the closed blade from my hand. “I oughtta kick you in the nuts!” she snapped, glaring at me with a seethingly angry look.
“How ‘bout licking ‘em,” I asked with a coy grin.
Everyone including her partner couldn’t restrain chuckling at her expense. She looked around at everyone laughing, and I could see that her anger was mounting rapidly. And as I expected she reacted.
These two women like I said, were very athletic looking, lithe, sinewy and sturdy. They, or at least this one, obviously was skilled at Karate, Kung fu, or some shit ‘cause I scarcely dodged her flying feet, which kicked the air where only seconds before my face had been.
No sooner had I dodged that near assault, I found myself lunging out of the way of three more lightning like roundhouse kicks which cleaved the air of the smoke-filled lobby with deadly force. At this point being the young thug that I was, I was tired of playing games with the ho. I rolled over and sprung to my feet; simultaneously she did the same. She quickly reached down inside her boot and came out with a Chinese throwing star, or Shuriken. I reached behind me and pulled out a deuce-deuce with the left and snatched a clip from my pocket with the right. At that age I was young and dumb with a hair trigger temper and was not above smoking a female if she got on my bad side. And this one had overstepped her boundaries by a mile.
“Yo Reapers – y’all betta check dis bald head Bruce Lee Bitch, before I peel her fuckin’ cap back!” I snarled slamming the clip into my pistol.
Quickly the girl’s partner ran over and took hold of her and restrained her, taking away the throwing star and Day-Day, Pretty T, and the crew grabbed hold of me and tried to calm me down. Day-Day, Pretty T, and the others led me to the elevators. We got on and proceeded toward the sixth floor. When the elevator doors opened I stepped into a plush, purple and black colored office.
I was surprised at the immensity of the space. It was as though I walked into someone’s freaking apartment or somethin’. I was impressed by the plush carpeting of the room and exquisite furnishing therein. Wall-to-wall violet tinged Imperial Brussels covered the extent of the spacious area, while an elaborate chestnut dinette set added to the lavish decor. As I walked further into the room, my nostrils were assailed by the penetrating fragrance of sandalwood incense which clouded the atmosphere. Dwarf palm trees were all over the area, giving it a tropical feel and look. And to top it all off, two fearsome looking black panthers lie chained at the far end of the room just to the right side of a great desk, also of chestnut.
The big cats came immediately to their feet and emitted threatening snarls in my direction; and the beast to the left of the desk, being even more feral than its fellow, strained powerfully at the end of its chain in an invigorated effort to rend me. I nervously stepped back reaching once more for my weapon; when from behind the wall a tall, well-dressed dude emerged sipping on a glass of wine. He motioned to me and I relaxed. Then he sat down behind the desk and kicked up his heels. The brim of the guy’s hat caused his face to be shadowy and hard to discern. Slowly the unidentifiable dude lifted his head. Even though he wore dark shades. I still recognized him after he lifted his face into the dim indistinct light. A large hand with jewelry-decorated fingers beckoned me to come and sit beside him. Cautiously, I came keeping a steady vigil of the two massive cats which rested on both sides of the desk.
“Don’t worry ‘bout the panthers DiAngelo; they’re just as cuddly as kittens… unless of course you get caught slippin’ – then your ass is grass.” Skippie Dee smiled lightly, showing more gold gleaming from his teeth. He leaned back further in his seat, and removed his hat, revealing a shaved dome similar to the building security downstairs; but different in that an emblem of a cobra was emblazoned from the nape of this neck to the front of his forehead.
He fumbled around in paperwork on the desk and from it produced an ivory and gold object resembling a great sphinx. It was an elaborate and very expensive phone. He dialed a few digits and spoke to someone about bringing up some drinks and food. Then as he ended his phone call he pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window in which he adjusted the blinds so that the red-orange glow of the setting California sun could pour its slowly fading beams into the room.
He leaned on the sill with both hands and stared blankly out of the window. Gazing upon the concrete jungle below, he turned around and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Before he lit one up, he set eyes on me then offered one. I refused. The buzzer at the door sounded, breaking the peaceful silence and bringing the panthers to their feet once again, growling with consternation.
Skippie Dee did some sort of hand command or action and the great cats sat down obediently in response. He then took something that looked like a TV remote and pointed it toward the door. After a series of short beeps the two heavy doors swung open and two bodaciously beautiful sisters, clad in tight fitting leopard print cat suits, entered the room. I sat transfixed as I watched the sultry gelatinous motion of their bouncing buttocks and luscious hips.
The sterling silver trays carried by these goddesses were filled with piping hot plates of soul food: collard greens, pork chops and gravy, cornbread, macaroni and cheese, and various types of veggies. Two tall glasses of mint juleps glistened on the outside from the ice toppling over the rim. The women walked or rather wiggled over to a small black dinner table near the window in the left corner of the room and stacked the dishes in order.
Before they departed the room, Skippie Dee instructed them to also feed the big cats and out they went with the chained felines trailing behind them. As we dined, Skippie Dee questioned me repeatedly about my life outside the Reapers. Between mouthfuls I answered him, to the best of my knowledge of most of the happenings in my life, since last I ran with the Reapers.
As I unfolded ghetto tales of money, murder, and mayhem, Skippie Dee leaned back in the chair, crossed his fingers and smiled delightfully, nodding in appreciation of my vividly violent recall.
“I’m trying to find my girl, Skip,” I said slowly,
sipping the last of the mint julep. “A little while back some busta jacked us going on a church retreat. Sonof-a-bitches took out a whole fuckin’ busload of muthafuckas, including me and my lady. I luckily escaped with my life, which means bad news for them motherfuckas, but as for my gal… who knows if she’s alive or dead?”
Skippie Dee listened intently but casually. “So you in love or what?” asked Skippie Dee pulling his chair up closer to the table.
“Yeah… of course. Why you ask that?” I responded a bit inquisitively.
“Cause…” Skippie said, “you wouldn’t be going through the trouble of wondering whether or not some old bitch got smoked if you weren’t in love.”
A sense of resentment arose as Skippie’s remark swept over me. “She ain’t no bitch!” I said sternly. “You don’t even know her!”
Skippie smiled broadly and said, “Yeah cuz, you’re in love.” Skippie just sorta sat there smiling at me for a long time before both he and I got up from the dinner table. There was a buzzing sound at the door and again Skippie opened them via the remote in his possession.
The gorgeous women which entered earlier were back again, as were the pair of ebony felines who by now had gotten familiar with my scent and passed by me without malice. In fact, the cat nearest me nudged my leg gently and licked me with its rough sandpaper-like tongue.
The girls cleared the dining area while Skippie and I walked out on the balcony where we were met by a cool, crisp eve
ning breeze coming off of the Pacific Ocean. We both leaned lazily over the railing and gazed upon the street activities down below… A prostitute leaning up against a street lamp, while another solicited herself to drivers pulling up in the parking lot of one of the many neighborhood liquor stores, while yet another pleaded mercy before a threatening pimp. Drunkards argued, puked, and begged outside the liquor store – while dope fiends shot up or lay stricken on the alleyway in a heroin stupor.
Mingled with these sounds below was the everpresent drone of the police copters above, shining those annoying search lights all over the area. We both got up off the railing and Skippie Dee broke out with a joint of pot laced with Angel Dust. We puffed and passed several times before I killed the roach.
“DiAngelo… Tell ya what young brotha, I’m gonna lay some bread on you and see to it that you get ya self a decent set of wheels. Cause you’re like a little brother ta me, and as ya know I’ve always admired you and ya older brother Paco… although you seemed the smarter, more clever of the two of you. You’re like me boy. You’re a true soldier and a real life player. You’re gonna make it outta this shit hole one day. Know why?” asked Skippie as he peered at me through bloodshot eyes after lowering his shades.
“Naw man, you tell me why,” I asked.
Skippie said simply, “’Cause you know the ledge, young brother. You know the ledge.”
I didn’t figure out what that meant until years later. It meant quite simply that one possessed knowledge. Just in “five percent” jargon. Skippie believed vehemently in keeping one’s promise. He always said “word is bond” and bond is life and he damn sure meant every word of it. I once was a witness to a grisly display of Skippie Dee’s code of ethics when a fellow drug runner promised to pay back a three thousand dollar debt, then boldly refused to pay it back.
Skippie hired a group of Filipino gang members from Frisco to travel from up north and take care of the offender and his brother who also ran dope. Both were hacked to death with machetes so badly that their chopped up body parts had to be placed in buckets.