by Darrell King
In Tate’s case I was certainly gonna lay him six feet deep, no questions about it. DiAngelo was gonna break the nigga off somethin’ proper, brother! He really must not have known me as well as he thought he did. Well, that was just too fuckin’ bad. He should’ve asked somebody. They would have told him, “That little lightskinned pretty muthafucka ain’t no joke. I suggest that you leave him the fuck alone!” I smacked fools for looking at me wrong, I could’ve called up some Mexican homies whom I knew from my days hustlin’ dope with white boy.
Todd Pulaski told me that my older brother Paco was out on parole and lurking around Compton once more, runnin’ shit. He was twenty-one years old now; but he was as inhospitable as ever. Anyway, that’s what the Mexicans said. Knowing brother like I did, I knew that they couldn’t be lying to me. They said he had a prostitution ring that numbered more than one hundred whores, spanning the entire Hollywood area. Paco owned the whole stretch of Sunset Strip. Sunset, Hollywood, Santa Monica, Seculedan, and Olympic boulevards belonged to him. He was said to have resided in the town of Pasadena on the outskirts, living in an enormously large ranch house, with wide open expansions of ranch land which was fenced off to keep the herd of thoroughbreds he raised and sold.
Paco kept Arabians, Appaloosas and Palominos on his ranch and sold them to other horse breeders, rodeo circuits, and circuses. He himself came away with many prizes and much prize money due to his equine entries in California State fairs and horse shows. Those two Mexicans would have went on and on about my brother’s wealth and possessions and how he had gotten busted for trafficking women if I didn’t silence them. I only wanted to know where he was and what was he doing at this time. They informed me that he was back in Compton and that he was still pimpin’ whores and selling smuggled weapons to the organization called SCORPIO. I took great joy in the knowledge of this valuable piece of information. I thanked the Chicanos by giving each one an overstuffed twenty-dollar sack of herb and two twenty dollar sacks of coke.
PUSHER ON PAROLE
All summer long during ’81, I continued to sell dope for Tate and company, and each chance I got made a bee line for Compton, CA in search of Paco Lovett. Finally, my dogged search for the big ox paid off, and I crossed paths with him hangin’ out with a couple of our old Reaper homies. Everyone was elated at laying eyes on me after so long. And they all received me ardently with the usual soul brother hand shaking and the show of upraised hands, many of which brandished AK-47 submachine guns, and all of the upraised hands had their fingers displayed in the wicked gang signs of South Central’s most dangerous gang… the mighty Reapers. But no one was more ecstatic than my big brother.
He embraced me warmly, with tears of joy running down his cheeks. In the meanwhile our gangbanging buddies playfully ribbed him about his emotionalism. He smiled broadly and gave them all his middle finger. Everyone laughed out loud and then all of us began to rank each other out. It was all in fun though. Afterwards everyone stood admiring and complimenting me on my set of wheels. My old drop top low-rider had long since been sold to one of the Mexicans that I hung out with in the pen, who had gotten out not too long ago.
So I’d gone out and bought a new 1981 Cadillac Brougham, fully muthafuckin’ equipped. Gold and ivory paint job with gold trimmings, gold rims, and genuine velvet interior colored beige. That was my first really big car. All the niggas loved my Caddy and always wanted to cruise through the hood in it, trying to mack. I wouldn’t let anybody except Paco drive my Cadillac. Not even any little broads that I was laying pipe to at the time were allowed behind the wheel of my ride. When it was time for me to return to jail on Sunday evenings, I’d give Paco my car keys and some of my drug money to hold for me until the weekend rolled around. Of course I pulled his coat tail about SCORPIO – Tate and our little jail run-in. Paco was really pissed off at the fact that the captain had hurt me. And as impulsive as he was, he really wanted to peel his cap back on sight the next time he did business with Tate for weapons. Being more rational than he was, I cautioned him to repudiate such unwise notions and to patiently bide our time until the proper time presented itself to us. Then we could go ahead with our murderous objective.
Paco agreed, then we took off for Crenshaw to mack on some ho’s. Melissa continued to write me in prison and still visited me in Compton whenever Tate sprung me for the weekends. She still gave up that ass to me, and as good as it was, I wasn’t at all trying to leave it alone. I didn’t give a damn what Tate said. As long as his sexy ass daughter kept spreading those lovely legs of hers for me, I’d continue sticking my dick in her.
She moved on campus at U.C.L.A. when school reopened during the fall of ’81. So I rode that fat ass almost every weekend. Each time I was slamming dick deep into Melissa’s tight, moist pussy I’d envision her father’s face watching us in anger. As I gazed into Melissa’s beautiful bedroom eyes I’d grab her long, shapely legs, and hold them above my shoulders, then penetrate her deeper and deeper, all the while stroking her with such gusto that my balls made distinctive smacking sounds on her plump ass cheeks. We’d both be all sweaty and musky with the hot and heavy scent of sex upon our naked bodies. Then we’d get up and change positions to doggy style. Melissa would bend over on the living room sofa or across her waterbed and spread her legs wide, displaying the gaping pink slit surrounded by a forest of jet fuzz. Palming her juicy ass cheeks, I’d make her squeal out my name louder and louder until her body was rocked by a succession of riveting orgasms. Many times her nails would dig into whatever material we fucked on. Luckily the waterbed’s material was durable enough to withstand our constant coupling.
Needless to say, due to our healthy sex life once again Melissa ended up pregnant by me. A week after my 17th birthday, she told me that she was concerned because she had missed her period. Sure as shit when she got her test results back from her family gynecologist, it showed up positive and she called me again, elated over the fact that she was once more with child. Even though I was kind of proud over the fact that I might again have a shot at being a father, I knew now that maybe Paco’s past statement about putting a speedy end to Capt. Tate’s life might need a certain amount of reconsidering.
With Melissa living on campus, things most likely would go smooth for a while, but what about when she started showing? The noticeable bulge of her belly would leave no doubt of her condition, which I’m a little sure would’ve prompted her psychotic father into deadly action against me. No action was ever taken though, ‘cause after only a two-month gestation period, Melissa lost the baby due to an accidental fall she had in January of 1982.
Her mother knew all about the pregnancy and supported her daughter’s decision to keep it. So, when this tragedy struck, she was admitted to the famous Cedars-Sinai Memorial Hospital, called “the place where the stars go to die.” She stayed in there less than a week and for a week or so later the Tate family doctor put her on strict bed rest, and afterwards, minimum physical activity.
Even though I couldn’t get out of the clink to see her, I phoned my brother and had him send her get-well cards and large bouquets of roses each day. The only good thing about that time in my life, was that Lawrence Tate was on a month-long vacation, one in which he and Valencia vacationed down in the Caribbean Islands. So fate was that no blood was spilled on either side – at least for the time being. Actually time apart from each other was a good thing. With all the important events that occurred down the road, I really didn’t have the time to get that deeply involved with anyone. That could cause me to become comfortable and lose sight of my goals at hand. There was no way that I was gonna go out like a sucka.
For the whole month of January and part of February, Tate was on vacation. So there was no weekend drug errands to run, which meant that I stayed in the pen for a while. That really didn’t phase me none though, ‘cause I kept loot on me. No less than nine hundred dollars stashed in a shoebox beneath my bunk in the cell. Plus, I had given Paco over six grand to keep for me when I got out on parol
e later in the year. During this time in ’82, folks were beginning to use cocaine in a different fashion. They began cooking the stuff, so that it hardened into like a rock salt looking substance. Then they’d inhale the intoxicating fumes of the concoction from a glass bowl or pipe.
On the streets they called this trendy method of cocaine usage “free-basing.” Popular at the time, it was especially a novelty among certain Hollywood celebrities, jet-setters and other café society types. Popular comedian John Belushi had fallen victim to cocaine’s deadly power already, and not long afterwards the great Richard Pryor barely escaped the clutches of death after igniting himself using the drug in its latest form. Using the free-base method was dangerous because of the flammable chemicals mingled with cocaine in order to give it a boost and intensify the user’s euphoria. Many an unwary addict scorched themselves trying to get a free-base high. You could easily tell experimental users from the telltale burn marks on their hands and/or facial areas.
When Tate returned in late February, or early March of ’82, I can’t quite remember which month it was, he and his black dressed thugs immediately went to work, taking full advantage of the free-base craze sweeping the nation. Everyone was affected by the enormous demand for coke. Everyone tried it. Some got hooked on it. Some didn’t. Drug dealers of all ages and descriptions began to pop up all over, trying their hand at profiting from the coke fad. Because of the stiff competition in the hood between loosely distributed drug gangs, the streets now more than ever erupted into a deadly war zone, with rival gangs and dope boys contending with each other over the most profitable drug turf. Drive-by shootings and constant gun battles were the order of the day. Trespassing on jealously guarded drug turf spelled a quick and bloody end to anyone unfortunate or foolish enough to venture forth unwarranted. But there were no group of drug runners more feared, nor carried out death swifter than SCORPIO. During 1982, Big Daddy’s group brought in millions of dollars from SCORPIO drug syndicates throughout the major U.S. cities of California, Washington, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.
I will never forget my anger and dismay at the cold blooded slaughter of more than thirteen members of my old gang, the Reapers, in March of 1982 – March 16th to be exact. From my jail cell I was awakened one night by crazy ass, dreadlock wearing, blunt smoking Rawbone. He took a key and opened my cell door. As I got dressed and stepped outside the cell, an overly excited Rawbone told me that Tate was playing the fellas to go on a drive-by and waste some bustas moving in on SCORPIO territory. He beamed with elation, while gently stroking the barrel of his submachine gun.
Our footfalls made faint pit-a-pats as we made our way down the long, darkened hall surrounded on both sides by cells containing snoring prisoners. As we exited the building, two large black vans with SCORPIO glyphs pictured on either side of the vehicles were parked outside. When I entered the van in the front of the other I was greeted by black-garbed individuals who had black ski masks pulled down over their faces.
There were six people inside each van carrying AK-47’s. I too was given an AK machine gun and a curved, fully loaded banana clip. Rawbone sat next to the sliding doors where he would be sure to get choice shots at the intended victims. I slammed my clip into the weapon, pulled my black ski mask over my head and gave the thumbs up signal to the driver, a lesbian chick named Rita Tinkle who winked at me, slid her mask over her head and started the engine. Both vans took off down the main street and away from the jailhouse in search of the perpetrators.
While inside the van I had no inkling of where we were headed, I only knew the reason why we were going on this mission. Some of the dudes in the back of the van shot dice while others passed a joint around. When the marijuana cigarette came around to me, I passed up on the offer. The dude who’d offered it to me shrugged his shoulders and placed the strong smelling joint back to his lips and continued puffing on it. I just wanted to get it over with. None of these fools were friends of mine anyway. I just worked with them. So I wanted their relationship with me to be strictly business and nothing more. There’d be no hanging out, cracking jokes or getting high together. These motherfuckas were dirty, lowdown bastards who didn’t give a fuck about anyone besides themselves, much like their punk ass ring leader, Lawrence Tate.
Anyway, I kept weed for myself or my friend’s enjoyment. I didn’t want or need shit from the likes of them. While we were cruising along I gave Rita a “Parliament Funkadelic” cassette in which she popped into the van’s tape deck. Back when I used to gangbang with the Reapers I’d always listen to some jams before I pulled a drive-by on someone. Funk music usually got me revved up to the point of peeling a punk’s cap with ease.
As we stopped for gas I excused myself and exited the van. Approaching the gas station attendant’s window I asked for the bathroom key in which she gave me. When I entered the restroom I closed the door behind me and reached down in my pants, coming out with a fifty-dollar sack of coke. The nails on my fingers were quite long. Particularly the ones on my right hand. I carefully opened the bag and stuck my index finger into it coming out with a heap of snow under my elongated nail. I repeated this at least three or four times until I’d gotten my fill of coke and was zooted like shit.
By the time I came out of the toilet, I didn’t want any of those motherfuckas to see me with coke cause I know how begging ass niggas can be. As I returned the keys, I noticed niggas from both vans were inside the convenience mart buying shit. When I went in I went straight to the booze and bought myself a forty ounce Old English 800 Malt. Then I went back to the van and grooved to the tune of Flashlight, until everybody boarded their respective vans and pulled away from the gas station.
I was ready like shit now! I had my music pumping; I had my buzz on, and I was feeling better than a muthafucka right about then. Hell, I even went ahead and smoked a blunt with crazy ass Rawbone, who in turn took a few swigs of my Old English. Like I said, I was higher than a motherfucka, so when we entered the neighborhood of Compton, I couldn’t even yell at that time. Everybody had placed their ski masks back on, upon leaving the gas station, including myself.
Rita killed the headlights and put the van into neutral. We crept along at a snail’s pace hearing only neighborhood dogs barking in the distance and an occasional passerby hurriedly walking by so as not to be mistaken as a victim. I remember the van making a left turn at an intersection when Rita ejected my cassette and turned the radio off.
“There they are! Get your shit together. We’re gonna bleed these fuckers in about two minutes! Y’all got that!?!” Rita asked everybody as she loaded a full clip into a silver looking tech nine laying in her lap. Everybody else was ready, willing, and able to blast the fuck out of anything that moved once that sliding door came back. Rita slid the knit ski mask over her face again and asked us if we were ready to do this. All of us nodded yes; and positioned ourselves near the side and back doors of the van.
Rawbone hopped up front with Rita and plopped down the passenger’s seat, giving one last drag on the roach of pot he rolled down the side window and flung it out on the street where it bounced off the curb in minute sprinkles of flame. He then eased his AK-47 out the open window and we continued to roll along slowly. Rita stuck her head out of the window and gave the thumbs up signal to the driver of the van in the rear of us. That’s when she put the van in drive and hit the gas pedal. The tires of the van squealed loudly and the van jerked forcible forward as we now sped down the darkened street. I could distinctly hear several voices outside yell out the alarm.
“Look out! Look out! It’s a fucking drive-by!” At that moment, I slid open the side door and began busting caps. The back doors of the van flew open and niggas inside the van at the rear began shooting. Nigga’s on both sides of me were emptying their clips on the fleeing gang members. They were running for their lives along the blood-stained sidewalk. The clatter of many rapid-fire assault weapons resounded within the van and caused a ringing in my ears. It felt like the old ti
mes again, as I felt the death dealing power of the A.K. 47 vibrating through my body, even rattling my teeth as it incessantly released round after round after slaughterous round into the panic-stricken group beyond.
Two or maybe three of the dudes from outside tried in vain to return fire at those of us shooting from the van. But they were cut down with the quickness with gunfire coming from the inside of both SCORPIO vans. As we sped away down the street toward the adjoining intersection, the carnage that we left behind in our wake was devastatingly great. Bullet peppered corpses were scattered all over the place.
Later in the week Tate paid all of us six-hundred bucks each for that late night drive-by on March 16,1982. Following that bit of action, several more dramatic happenings took place in the great year of 1982. First of all, my older brother had traveled back east in April to visit with my aunt Jenny, who had moved from Queens, New York to Fort Washington, Maryland, which is in the suburbs of the greater Washington, DC metropolitan area.
Paco relayed to me over a series of long distance phone calls that Aunt Jenny had bought an elegant colonial home in Ft. Washington, Maryland, that was custom built with all brick which was 80,000 square feet, including two master bedroom suites with sitting rooms, four fireplaces, a two-story foyer, and a three-car garage – not to mention several other features to Aunt Jenny’s Maryland dream home which Paco mentioned with the exuberance of a preschooler.