by Darrell King
Paco also told me that Aunt Jenny had hooked up with some drug entrepreneurs by the names of Raymond Edwards and Byron Trippi who practically, if not fully, ran the Washington, DC area drug trade with an iron fist. Eventually, I began speaking with my aunt, who asked me about my mother and the little girl and boy, me and Paco’s siblings. I told my aunt that I hadn’t seen mom or Eric and Shante because I was ashamed to show my face around her at the moment. But I often heard word from my homies that she was fine, as were our little brother and sister. Aunt Jenny told me that she wanted me to leave California and come out to DC.
“Sweetheart, you need to leave La La Land and move out here to the Chocolate City. You talk about making money?! You ain’t seen shit until you get my how you say, homies,” Aunt Jenny said with a slight chuckle. “Raymond and Byron make huge capital out here in the District. Remember Angel Dust? Well it’s here in good old DC. They call it ‘Love Boat,’ or ‘Lovely,’ and some just simply call it ‘Boat’. Whatever the street name, ‘Deeg’ the shit is selling like hot cakes out here, and I along with Chocolate City crew am making a whole lot of loot… I’m talking over a million dollars in twelve months. So what’s up?” Aunt Jenny waited in silence on the opposite line as I contemplated the idea in my head.
“As soon as I get out in October after my birthday I’ll let you know,” I said after thinking about it for a minute.
“You mean to tell me it’s gonna take your little half-Spanish ass that long to make your mind up about making this kind of money? Don’t tell me that them motherfuckas in jail have been turning you into a faggot?!?”
“Come on now Aunt Jenny, why you sweatin’ a nigga? You know it ain’t shit like that,” I returned, laughing.
“Well I don’t know, I mean there you work for some cop and get paid a few gees. But here in DC you’ll be your own distributor. There’s a very profitable, like between the black operated drug rings of New York and the nation’s capital, that like us, Raymond Edwards and Byron Trippi control the District’s market, and as you and Paco well know, ran things in New York.
“Ever since ’71, I’ve operated a cocaine and heroin ring that covered the Queens-Brooklyn areas and a small portion of the South Bronx, with more than fifteen hundred people working under my leadership. Only Gotti controlled more of New York than I did. My syndicate, dubbed Ashanti, even joined forces with the powerful Giovanni Italian crime family, who in turn joined along with myself and Ashanti Raymond Edwards, Byron Trippi and the Chocolate City Crew of Washington, DC, forming perhaps the most formidable and prosperous drug alliance on the entire Eastern sea coast – an alliance we choose to call The Trinity.”
With all that was said I was flabbergasted. There
was no doubt in my mind now and that I’d be packing for Washington, DC as soon as I was sprung in October. From April until my release date although I steadily worked for Tate, I hadn’t forgotten his abuse and payback lingered within my mind day and night. Within the month of July, shit started getting real sticky in the SCORPIO organization. First of all, the FBI along with DEA started shutting major league drug operations and syndicates throughout the midwestern and Pacific coastal regions of the U.S. due to cocaine’s strong renewal throughout U.S. cities, and the widespread violence accompanying its rise in demand. Many powerful and well known drug overlords and cartels along with them fell by the wayside in wake of Uncle Sam’s war on drugs during the late summer of 1982.
Big-time drug-traffickers like Ramone Esposito of Tempe Arizona, Peter Wong of San Francisco, California, Dorion Markette of Houston, Texas, and Ferdinand Pirraro of Las Vegas, Nevada were only a few of the big mob bosses that got locked down. Syndicates and cartels to fall were the Leotine/Costa organization of the Bay Area, the McClain family of Sioux City, Iowa, the LaRoche crime family operating out of Portland, Oregon, and the Diablos de Rojo crime syndicate controlling ninety-five percent of the drug business within the New Mexico state lines. It was but a matter of time before the “Feds” applied the heat to Sergio “Big Daddy” Mendez’s ass, which affected SCORPIO’s operations all over. Of course during this troubled time period, it was quite a pleasure to watch the good old Captain living each day on pins and needles.
Phones were found bugged, people were being questioned by federal agents, arrests and convictions were carried out. All kinds of criminal justice were taken out on the Mendez organization. Many of Big Daddy’s SCORPIO outfits were completely demobilized in Central America. Bid Daddy Mendez, fearing betrayal from apprehended members, had a great number of them executed while awaiting trial. Several of those members that were killed included syndicate bosses, a fact that further aggravated Captain Tate’s already unraveled state of nerves.
Because of Big Daddy’s drastically carried out actions concerning snitchers and possible snitchers,
Lawrence Tate had a few suspect dope boys who worked under his supervision put to sleep. Rita Tinkle and half of the drive-by crew that went out in those two vans back on March 16th got their caps peeled by others in Tate’s camp. Only myself and Rawbone were spared. Funerals were being held every week almost. But when members of the LAPD who were also down with the Captain’s illicit activities started fucking up, word came down from Seattle, Washington to Tate that he either dispose of these officers or he himself should be disposed of, courtesy of Sergio “Big Daddy” Mendez.
By August, twenty-two Los Angeles police officers died mysterious but nonetheless horrible deaths, and by month’s end, five more up and just disappeared. These events caused a considerable ripple effect not only in the LAPD and the city of Los Angeles, but within the entire state of California. The California state governor had the State Attorney General issue a thorough investigation on the deaths and disappearance of the police officers. The DEA and the Bureau were dispatched by the U.S. Attorney General’s office in Washington, DC to help further assist the California State Attorney General. Heat was coming down on the LAPD, especially Lawrence Tate.
He was getting burned from both sides. Sergio Mendez on one side and the federal agents
investigating his police force on the other. From August until my release date a week after my eighteenth birthday on November seventh, all I did was just do my time and lay low. There were no more drug runs and the dope I’d stolen from Tate during previous drug runs I stashed away in my jail cell. Nobody did anything unusual or illegal inside the clink at that time, because Tate had people beat down, stabbed, and even shot for anything that might cause the Feds to bust him or cause Mendez to put a contract out on him.
Anyone associated with SCORPIO especially had to watch themselves. Two dudes named Ralph Trillmon and Samuel Person who worked the jail for Tate in Cellblocks 1 and 4 were found dead in their cells one morning. The night before they went around to their cellblocks peddling coke to the inmates there. Each one was killed execution-style, a single gunshot to the back of the head, with thick duct tape wrapped around their hands, feet and mouths.
When my time came to be processed and released, I was overjoyed. I’d spent two whole years in the pen and now I was back on the streets. First thing I thought about was going to see my mother; but then I
changed my mind because I knew that I’d have to watch my back every minute of every hour, and I sure as hell didn’t want to expose mama, you or Shante to any danger whatsoever.
Tate wanted me dead. There was little doubt in my mind of that. On my day of freedom, as I was greeted by a few of my Reaper homeboys who arrived in an El Dorado to pick me up outside the correctional facility, I noticed Lawrence Tate’s eyes follow me down the hallway and outside the exit doors. He even went outside and lit up a cigarette, leaning back on the side of the squad car looking on me and my partners with rapt attention as my homies and I embraced, laughed and cut the fool outside of the prison grounds.
As we drove away leaving him in the distance, I could still remember the look of distrust and uneasiness about him, not to mention his anger at seeing me ride off joyously into the sunse
t with my boisterous, gangbanging homies who threw up their gang signs as the big convertible squealed off into the traffic beyond.
Later on that day I met and spoke with my main man Skippie Dee, who was being pushed around in a wheelchair by his girlfriend. He was paralyzed from the waist down due to a gunshot wound he suffered during a drive-by back in March. One from which he was lucky to have escaped with his life. When Skippie Dee mentioned that to me a cold shiver went down my spine and a hard lump lodged in my throat. He continued on that two black vans rolled up on the set and started spraying. He mentioned that Day-Day, and several other Reapers lost their lives that night. Even several of the children belonging to gang members were shot to death as well. Tears immediately filled my eyes and flowed freely down my cheeks as I thought about not only the terrible loss of life, but me being responsible for helping waste my own friends and their kids. I went over to a row of garbage cans and vented my anger there by tossing and kicking them around. With that finished I fell to my knees on Skippie Dee’s front lawn and hung my head weeping bitterly. Skippie’s girlfriend knelt down beside me, cradling my head close to her bosom and comforted me to the best of her ability— while Skippie Dee wheeled himself over to me and took my hand in his.
“Young brother, I’m sure that wherever the homies and their little ones are, they’re much better off on the other side than they are here. Because Allah is the most merciful and beneficent. Within the protective aura of white light there is nothing but peace and tranquility.”
“Fuck all that God bullshit!” I growled, “don’t you want to blast those bustas!?!” Skippie Dee smiled then asked his girl to get him his safe from out the house. When she returned she placed in his hands a small steel safe – one from which he produced a bloodstained bowie knife.
“You see this blade boy?” Skippie Dee asked me, staring into my eyes seriously. I nodded yes, fidgeting uncomfortably.
“This bloody knife is twenty-five years old, seven years older than you. Back in the day when gangs fought in dark back alley and in empty parking lots or schoolyards. We used our fists, chains, pipes, brass knuckles, and knives. But rarely guns; only on occasion did someone get shot to death. But nonetheless, those old gang fights were pretty damn bloody and brutal – with niggas dying and being hospitalized just the same as today, only on a much smaller scale.
“When I was just a kid, my older brother was the head of a gang in Watts called the War Gods, who like modern day “Bloods” wore all red. Since I was his little brother, he pressured me into joining the gang. On the night of my initiation, he and a couple of his boys got me a bottle of “Thunderbird” wine and a bag of weed. They got me fucked up. After that we drove to El Segundo and caught a James Bond flick. After the movie ended we rumbled with a gang back around the way, who we had a beef with. They called themselves the “Death Angels” and were recognized by their black and green colors.
“We engaged in battle outside of an abandoned warehouse. I had long since been handed the knife you now see, back in the theater. People were getting dropped on all sides. Then this dude grabbed my brother in a headlock and pulled out a switchblade in order to slice his throat with. My brother “Chew,” as he was known among friends, was a fearless fighter, but the cat that had a hold of him looked like a pro wrestler. Dude, I got a firm grip on that bowie knife and went to work on his big ass like there was no tomorrow. I kept yelling Die! Motherfucka! Die! Motherfucka! each time I plunged this blade into his ribs. When my brother’s homies pulled me off of him I was spattered with his blood and he was totally covered in his own gore. The Death Angels took flight after watching me butcher their largest, meanest member.
“My brother boasted of my so-called heroic deed more than I did. I got the respect of not only the “War Gods” but of everyone who knew me in the hood.
Those that didn’t know me, knew of my reputation and therefore gave me wide berth whenever I came around their neighborhoods. You remind me so much of myself DiAngelo, that I sometimes feel like I’m looking into a mirror at myself. But like I told you a few years back, man you’re bigger than this! You’ve got potential, intelligence and more than that, you’ve got God Almighty just reaching out his hand to help you along if you only let Him.
“Look at what the fast lane has done to me. I’ll never be able to walk again, much less go down to the park or recreation center and shoot hoops with the fellas. For what? Some bullshit. My brother “Chew” died in ‘68. He was killed in the riots. So I took up where he left off. Now look what it cost me. DiAngelo brother, I’m telling you to leave this gangbangin’ shit alone! There’s bigger and better things that you can be doing right now with your time and mostly your brain. You’ve already got a police record, so that’s a strike against you right there. But that’s cool though, ‘cause you’re only eighteen. You’ve got plenty of time to turn your life around for the better. Start reading. Go to the library and open your mind. Go to the mosque or either go to church with your mother on Sunday’s. Read the Holy Qu’aran or the Holy Bible. Either one is food for the soul. Find yourself a nice girl and get a steady commitment. Stop fuckin’ with these trifling little old hoodrats out here. Earn a decent living for a change. Right now I work with high school dropouts and juvenile delinquents. The pay is fair enough, but it’s not all about making that dollar all the time. It’s about helping young black kids like yourself make it out of the violence and despair of the ghetto. Not your money, not your possessions, nor your women. You can lose all of that at the drop of a dime. But not wisdom or selfrespect.”
After Skippie Dee’s prolonged lecture I stayed and went to evening prayer service with him and his girl Tina. I even sincerely prayed that night in church, asking the Heavenly Father to forgive me of my sins and to allow my murdered homeboys a peaceful journey into the spirit realm. As Skippie Dee, Tina and I departed the quiet little tabernacle, I passed my mother going into the sanctuary. She looked so noble and proud as she led her two small children by the hand and seated them at the first row of pews. She then made her way up the steps unto the platform and behind the pulpit. She greeted three other members of the ministerial staff, then knelt in front of a large seat directly behind the podium and silently began praying.
In quiet reverence I watched as my mother completed her prayer then approached the pulpit, greet the congregation, and deliver the evening’s closing sermon. I was taken by surprise. My mother, founder and pastor of her own church, “The Holy Tabernacle of the Galilean.” I stood far in the rear so that as the parishioners were called up to give their life’s testimonies I would not be chosen. I was very happy to see my mother, but not yet ready for her to see me just yet. When I noticed her gaze resting on me I quickly exited the sanctuary. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t face my own mother, of all people. But how could I? Here I was, a common criminal, and she had just turned into Mother Theresa on a nigga. Naw, I just didn’t have the nerve to let her see me in my sinful condition. Plus, although Skippie Dee’s positive pep talk tapped a little sense into my head, I guess Satan still had a little stronger hold on me at that time than did Christ.
So back into selling dope I went – making huge profits as I always did before my jail sentence. Dressing in the latest and most expensive fashions, along with driving the fastest, most stylish foreign sports cars money could buy, it was once more but mere morsels satisfying my exorbitant tastes. Once more I started fucking around with Melissa Tate, who had since moved into an apartment near U.C.L.A. to further distance herself from her father and the troubles looming over him. It was a little two-bedroom piece of shit, so I moved her into a condominium in North Hollywood. I made her get rid of her pink Z-28 and bought her a brand new Porsche, which was electric blue with a fresh ass spoiler kit, awesome sterling silver rims, and the freshest stereo sound system ever put into a set of wheels.
She was more than happy with all of her gifts and showed me her appreciation each time I layed her. Melissa got turned on by my dope dealin’ lifestyle. She liked
my carefree attitude, and fully enjoyed the thrill and element of danger that went along with being the girlfriend of a gangster mack like myself. She helped me prepare and distribute my drugs and she especially loved helping me count and spend the cash that it brought in.
Two of her girlfriends from off campus were rich valleygirls who indulged heavily in cocaine. Tiffany and Samantha, two charming brunette beauty contest winners, left almost every day with an ounce or more of coke, which they purchased from me for themselves, friends, family members, even college professors. They kept my pockets fat all year long. They also didn’t mind having orgies and other sexual freak shows at my girl’s crib. Melissa didn’t mind at all, in fact, whenever she observed me screwing her schoolmates in front of her she got even more hornier than usual.
Each Sunday, I’d go to my mother’s church, and hear her Sunday sermon. Before I would leave I’d drop between two and three hundred dollars into the offering plate that was handed around by the ushers. I’d only stay long enough to hear her preach then I’d step.
Although I now resided in North Hollywood, about nine or ten blocks from Melissa, I still visited my homeboys in Compton and Watts on a regular basis. The Reapers had grown in membership since the March 16th attack on them. Many of the new members were young, trash-talking, trigger-happy hardheads looking for trouble, quick cash, and even quicker sex. Whenever I was in the hood my boys never had to introduce me to the new crop of Reapers. They all already knew exactly who I was and greeted me with the enthusiasm of idol-worshippers. They raved over me to the point where it got quite annoying to me and other older Reapers – being so well-known to a vast multitude of gang members all over South Central as both friend and foe; my reputation and status had achieved almost God-like fascination among youths of other major L.A. gangs, such as the notorious Crips and Bloods. These bandanna wearing, pistol packing youngsters gave me the nicknames of “Mack Daddy” and “Gangster Mack.” Many of my young fanatics went as far as naming the illegitimate children that they fathered after me. Even the baby girls had my name feminized to fit them. All over South Central Los Angeles, colorful graffiti bearing my name or nicknames adorned public buildings, walls and city buses. Chicano graffiti artists went further by spraying paintings in my likeness throughout East L.A. barrios. I had indeed grown to be a legend in my own time.