Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta

by Darrell King

  Skippie didn’t fuck around when it came to giving one’s word about business or anything. And he made sure I had a fat pocket before I left. Skippie Dee pulled out of his private stash and placed before me on a nearby countertop twenty-five hundred dollars; all one hundred dollar bills – genuine “Ben Franklins” – nothing less.

  Then he made a phone call to some cats he knew in East L.A. who hotwired and sold stolen cars for a livin’, just another type of street hustle only with little or no bloodshed involved. Since these dudes Jose and Rudolpho Rodriguez knew Skippie Dee from elementary school, they hooked him up with a top of the line El Camino Low Rider – metallic gold and yellow with electric blue flames… very Mexican in flavor, damn sure not anything I’d buy… but what the hell, as the saying goes, ya don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. So I accepted this ugly ass set o’ wheels with pleasure. Much better than a pair of sneakers or the city bus. I thanked Skippie graciously for the hospitality and the great favor he’d shone me.

  But all was not over that night. Before I left, he hooked me up with two lids of weed, a quarter ounce of coke and an M-16 assault rifle with a fully loaded banana clip. And those two beige beauties, the fine sisters I was telling you about earlier… I fucked ‘em both. Again, I was bein’ in the hood doin’ what I did best of all… dealing dope and makin’ money.

  The interest in marijuana waned during the summer and fall months of 1978. So at first my two lids sorta sat around like dead weight in the apartment I stayed in. And it sold only moderately whenever whites were bold or curious enough to venture into the black ghetto in search of such. What I didn’t sell I’d occasionally dip into every now and then and get my buzz on.

  But even though I enjoyed getting high I enjoyed getting paid much more. The quarter of coke sold almost overnight. All of it was gone within a week’s time. The money I received for the “blow” I spent getting a new paint job on the car, since I despised the original coat. I added new speakers and had her engine overhauled to increase her speed and power. The new coat or paint was champagne and white with stylized California license plates emblazoned in the typical gold letters on blue background DIANGELO.

  The pot started selling rapidly after I got wise to the PCP game and started lacing my own batch with the chemical I purchased from a mortician in Watts. I never really understood what niggas saw in it – “Angel Dust.” The stuff was too damn potent for the kid, I mean the high was different, a lot different… too harsh, uncontrollable. But as long as muthafuckas demanded it, I would supply it.

  By the end of the month of August ’78, I’d made about six grand. I also tried my hand at stealin’ cars, A.K.A. grand theft auto; but that hustle wasn’t quite my forte either. I hooked up with dishonest characters who tried “gypping’’ me of my cut of the dough. At other times, I barely escaped the clutches of L.A.’s finest. So rather than getting my lil’ black ass locked up, or smoking some poor fool over a few hundred dollars, I just gave up on the program altogether.

  By November I had three little hardheads from around the way hustlin’ for me. Lil’ Peanut, a chubby, nappy headed black muthafucka; Poncho, a lil’ badass Mexican who thought he was the hardest little gangsta in South Central; and L.T., or Little Tay, who was Skippie Dee’s first cousin and basically a miniature version of his more notorious older cousin.

  Lil’ Peanut had all the connections cause his pops owned the Sinful One, the popular discotheque around the corner where Francisco and I had run into some bustas a while back. And whenever we, or rather my lil’ workers, ran into static of any kind, Poncho, or Tex Mex as he was known in the hood, cause originally he came from San Antonio, Texas, would make sure we collected our monies and enforced rules over our drug turfs in Watts and Compton.

  That little muthafucka was psycho! Man straight

  up! At 11 years old, he had gotten shot once, stabbed three times, and in and out of juvenile reform schools in both Texas and California so many times he himself lost count. Once he single handedly chumped up a group of seven members of the Ebony Demons, a small but formidable street gang who prowled the outskirts of South Central in search of unwary dope dealers and/or pimps to jack.

  By the time he got through spreading the lot of ‘em out on the concrete at the end of a sawed off twelve gauge shotgun he had taken from them all of the money, drugs, and jewelry, that they in turn had wrested from the pimps, players, peddlers, and prostitutes of the hood. That particular day Tex Mex came away with no less than 3,200 in cash and about 2,000 worth of jewelry; who knows – it was a hell of a lot.

  Shit, the four of us partied for a week and a half. But the brains of the riot was no doubt Little Tay, his urban cunning, steel nerves, and cold, calculating mentality was more than enough to govern himself as head honcho of the little drug runners.

  By November of ’78, my personal dope couriers had grown from three to twelve members and they were really getting crazy paid, and that meant double for me. I was livin’ larger than ever. My notoriety grew, and with it my enemies both seen and unseen as well. Everything has a price. Jealousy was all around me, and anyone associated with me no doubt felt the presence of it also.

  In fact, two of my crew were arrested for obvious reasons. But we were in an area seldom frequented by Five O, so someone had to snitch on ‘em. That was strike one. Then on Halloween night, three of my young runners were gunned down from the inside of an allblack colored El Camino, while those responsible yelled out trick or treat, leaving three preteens bullet-riddled and bloodied on the sidewalk. Strike 2.

  November 5th, I had awakened from a nap late

  in the evening around 7:30 p.m. I called up a little hoochie mama around the corner and lined up some ass. Got washed up, dressed and left. Before I made it outside the apartment to my ride, shots rang out three or four and bullets whizzed hither and thither around me and above my head. Two of the slugs slammed in the corner of the building, chipping off sizable chunks of brick. Immediately I sprung nimbly behind a dumpster, knocking over garbage and tripping over a cat which ripped my clothes in a frightened attempt to get away.

  As I got up off the funky ass pavement, all kinds of nasty shit fell from my clothing and what seemed like dozens of rats scurried beneath my feet. Sweat glistened from my face as I nervously peered around the corner, appraising the streets and adjoining parking lot before me. I gripped the nine millimeter stronger as I raced back inside my apartment building.

  I voiced my anger and frustration aloud in streams of profanity as I tore through my dresser drawers slinging my belongings every which way, packing only the most important items I needed; for I was hard pressed to exit the apartment. I was done in fifteen minutes, leaving behind a vast majority of items. The phone rang. On the third ring, I picked it up but did not answer. I didn’t have to. The voice on the other end said simply, “You’re dead, you big yella mutha fucka!”

  Then all I heard was a click and the monotonous dial tone. At that time someone rapped on the door. I slowly picked up my nine and eased over to the door.

  “Who is it?” I asked in an agitated tone.

  “The fuckin’ police muthafucka!!” answered the voice from outside the door, chuckling. Immediately I knew who stood outside. I snatched upon the door and pulled the laughing fool inside. It was none other than Poncho.

  “Hey, watch the threads baby,” Poncho blurted out, smacking my hands down and turning a forty ounce malt to his lips. I jerked the bottle of malt liquor out of his hands and threw it violently against the wall, where it shattered, leaving the wall stained with the strong smelling brew within.

  “Look, you simple ass muthafucka, some cats are settin’ themselves up ta off us, you dig?” Poncho ran into the bedroom and quickly produced a mediumsized safe from beneath my bed and from it he withdrew the sawed off shotgun that had served him well so many times before.

  “Amigo, me and my partner here will be waitin’ for any fuckface stupid enough to show up.” Poncho smiled wickedly while stroking the s
hort barrel of the gun. At first I wanted to literally go upside his fuckin’ head with that shotgun for being so damn ignorant in the wake of impending danger. But a flash of intuition gave me insight that indeed the weapon Poncho held could be used – if not to save our asses – it could be a source of a little payback.

  “Quick, gimme the gun!” I shouted at Poncho. He stood looking blankly, so I immediately relieved him of it. I pulled out a chair from the table in the kitchen, and barked orders at Poncho to bring the box of buckshots over. With that done I loaded two shells into the chamber, snapped the barrel into place, and positioned the shotgun on the chair about three feet from the doorway. Poncho and I got some string from the cabinets and quickly constructed a crude, homemade booby trap, with strings running all around the chair through the trigger and around the doorknob, so that any fool snatching the door open or better yet busting it down would get blasted.

  Before we could get all of our belongings or rather my belongings out of the joint we could hear the screeching sound of tires just to the left of us near the bedroom… the parking lot! I tripped over my shoelaces awkwardly as I lunged for the open window near the kitchen. Poncho was already long gone by the time I picked myself off the floor. Desperately I fought with the window to move it up higher to allow my lanky frame passage through it.

  It seemed as though I’d strained every sinew against the stubborn window before it gave way. Surely God must’ve been with me then, because no sooner than I exited the apartment that I heard the terrible clatter of bullets spraying the interior. This was accompanied by much shouting and cursing on the part of the attackers. As I fell upon the garbage pails and more rubbish I heard a deafening roar from within the building, followed almost instantly by screaming, crying and more yelling.

  I limped around to the side of the apartment building and withheld a score of tenants running outside with their children, and lovers, spouses etc. to escape the unknown gunfire from within as I made my way slowly around the front. The entire front was crowded with startled, terrified tenants. I didn’t stick around to find out what happened, for I knew that as my would-be murderers broke into the apartment hoping to find my bullet pocked corpse, they instead met a cruel and swift end. I had to move as gingerly as possible.

  As I neared the parking lot, I heard the crying of police sirens and within minutes several squad cars came flying down the block toward the apartment. More of a reason for me to hightail it outta there. I didn’t see my car and began to get irritated and worried. About fifteen minutes later, about three blocks away, a fantastic explosion reverberated the neighborhood and above the skyline of palm trees rose a grayish black cloud of flame and smoke which mushroomed for a few seconds then disintegrated, mingling within the smogfilled atmosphere.

  To make a long story short, although Poncho took off with my ride, he unknowingly sacrificed himself in my stead. The stakes of the streets had evened themselves out. Toward the end of ’78 I was broke, homeless, living like a bum, and running for my life. I had sunken so low as to earn a living working as a janitor for about $4.50 an hour and I briefly lived in a shelter for two and a half months.

  By February 1979, I got busted for the second time in my crime career; and guess what for? Drunk driving! I’d gotten another car after my 15th birthday. I caught this fool slippin’ and jacked him for his ride—a beautiful Volkswagen “Bug,” candy apple red. I got tore down late one Saturday night and ran a red light. The fuzz busted me for several offenses: driving without a license, driving while intoxicated, having both a concealed deadly weapon (an uzi machine gun), and possession of narcotics (a full quarter ounce of weed).

  I was tried as a juvenile and once more spent time in a juvenile detention center. This time I spent nine months. I got out on my birthday, October 31st. As soon as I got out I couldn’t piss without pigs being on my ass non-stop, at every turn. I couldn’t do shit! Period! I got arrested in no time. It was now 1980 and I was 16 years old. I went through the juvenile system and as soon as I was 18 years old, I was transferred to a prison block for young adult repeat offenders.

  I observed some doggish shit inside. Captain Lawrence Tate ran the joint with an iron fist and had anyone he wanted harassed or beat down by thugs inside whom he bribed with money, drugs, freedom, or all three. He had a crew called the Attitude Adjusters known from the blue bandannas they wore, who did all the above, including gang rape of several prisoners. One unlucky dude was thrown to his death from on top of the sky tower overlooking the recreation yard, during the night. His body was found mangled and blood soaked the very next morning by the prison guards. Even the guards worked for Tate, and would beat guys to bloody pulps on many occasions.

  Every drug known to man circulated through the prison and big money changed hands daily. Oddly, those loyal to Captain Tate enjoyed much monetary profit. I myself kept a low profile. I knew many people who were locked up with me from my days of hustling and gang banging, and met new guys every day. I rarely met a problem or had a beef with anyone and the few times I did, after I kicked ass or slashed some dumb ass with my box cutter, I usually didn’t encounter any more problems from those particular troublemakers.

  I began working out with weights, which helped me develop a ripped and powerful physique. The Captain visited the prison often and he spotted me. He always heard stories on the outside of my courage and ferocity. He also witnessed one of my confrontations which resulted in my opponent being hospitalized with severe lacerations. He admired me and sought to add me on to his crooked bunch of hoods. I became tight with him, and soon was running coke for him within my cell block.

  THE SCORPIO CONNECTION

  During March of 1980, I ran more coke inside the joint than I did on the streets. At one point, on the 21st of March, I counted along with members of Tate’s notorious jail bullies “The Attitude Adjusters” more than fifty-five thousand dollars. I pocketed fifteen hundred for myself. It wasn’t much, but hey… what could I say? I was locked down and the shit wasn’t mine. So I was satisfied with what I had… hell, it was a helluva lot more than most cats had in their pockets who were there for years.

  Of course on my cell block, nine, lots of guys were jealous of me… a little 16-year-old buck who had the authority to come into the adult section of the joint and sell dope. I was given full charge of pushing cocaine there. Captain Tate and his regulars knew that I was one of the most clever and street smart individuals within the juvenile detention section if not the most streetwise.

  They also knew that I didn’t take any shit from anyone regardless of their age compared to my young sixteen years. I wasn’t intimidated by anyone younger or older than myself regardless of their trash talking, dirty looks, or criminal track record. And as far as selling Tate’s coke, I was all business. Friend or foe was treated the same when it came to cash flow. If I had a delinquent customer I never had to go to Tate personally in order to correct the situation. I had been a criminal since the age of nine… not just mischievous or a juvenile delinquent, but a straight up hardcore criminal from Brooklyn, A.K.A. “Crooklyn” New York. So I knew too many tricks of the trade not to be able to force some fool to give up the loot he owed me.

  Beat downs with metal or steel pipes was one of the methods used to extract money or give a warning, not only to the transgressor but to all would-be assholes guilty of non-payment of drug habit support. Others included the following: stabbings, pistol whippings, amputations of fingers, toes or an occasional ear, or even, as I mentioned to you earlier, gang rape.

  I was down with and participated in all the above mentioned brutal scare tactics with the exception of the latter. There was no way on God’s green earth that DiAngelo Lovette was going to penetrate some niggah’s asshole or pried open mouth for any price, no matter how large. I couldn’t go that route at all. I’d much rather shoot, stab, or beat a niggah to death before I’d lower myself to that disgusting level. Though I was amused by some stupid muthafucka getting the balling of his life by an assortment
of powerfully built, heavily hung, non-give-afuck cons. Even the so-called “hard” muthafuckas began screaming, pleading, and crying like little old bitches when they were about to have their manhoods taken.

  Shit talkers couldn’t do much but take orders with a stiff one shoved down their throats and the end of a gat pressed between their eyes. And believe me, after a niggah got his asshole split the fuck open, he never – I don’t give a fuck who it was – made the same mistake again. Yeah, shit yeah, we ran the muthafuckin’ entire jail in 1980. Here I was a sixteenyear-old, hoodlum ass muthafucka. A dropout, a gangbanger. Hadn’t seen my mom since God knows when. All I knew was that I caused her so much pain back then, when all she tried to do was be a loving, caring, “supportive” mother. I know she sorrowed many a night and day about me, and wondered about my whereabouts.

  But the fuzz, I’m sure, could give a fuck less about some missing black kid from South Central. They more than likely felt that any little nigga thug’s disappearance was good riddance. With all the difficulties, L.A.’s plentiful and diversified gangs, black, Chicano, and occasionally Asian and white, gave the force trouble twenty-four seven. As the months went by, the more money Lawrence Tate and his crooked law enforcement team made. I’m quite sure that by years end, the profit made by the turncoat captain and his uniformed sidekicks both on the streets and within the Los Angeles County Correctional Institution netted more than a cool million.

  The captain did little to hide his lavish tastes, much less his stately home which was the pride of Bel Air. The elegant Victorian style manor was reminiscent of the old antebellum homes of the deep South. Hell, he even had magnolias and dogwood trees growing out front. There was more than ten rooms within the structure, with at least four of them being bathrooms. I know cause I must’ve used all four at one time or another, if not to relieve myself to prepare and bag the remaining coke I secretly kept to use or sell. The kitchen was mysteriously large – almost like a living room. And Tate had two appliances of each therein. Two stoves, two refrigerators, two microwaves, two kitchen counters… Two of every fucking thing.