I’d been conceived by a man unknown at the time, but later my biological father claimed me.
Just from what I pieced together, Venita met my Belizean father, Buddy, pronounced Butty, with a harsh tee sound, when she was living with Mayhem’s father, Big Dave. She was slipping around seeing my father, who wasn’t a Crip, and who was a working stiff. Well, she accidentally got knocked up with me.
For a short time, my father, Butty, lived with Venita, but she cheated on him, too.
When I was little, my mother always said my real father was no good. However, as I became older, I learned from Butty that my mother got pregnant by another man when he lived with her, and that’s why he left her. Anyhow, this baby died at childbirth. Later, he married, but he vowed to always take care of me. I’m telling you, Venita had been as scandalous as a man when she was young. She believed in keeping what people in the hood called “a spare tire”—a man on the side.
All through the years, though, my mother had a live-in boyfriend, but when she got with Strange, Diggity’s and Rychee’s father, she was a little older (early twenties) by ghetto standards, and a little more desperate. After all, who did she think would want her with two kids with two different daddies?
Now as rough as Venita was, she allowed Strange to beat her. I knew it was “allowed” because I’d seen her whip a police’s ass once before six other cops restrained her.
Anyhow, Venita was pregnant with Ry-chee when the problem that divided our family happened.
Memories start flooding back to me as I went back to sleep and revisited the past, which I’d repressed, like a bad dream.
My mother, who had never been married, was about four months pregnant, carrying Rychee, with Diggity barely a toddling year old infant, when Strange started beating the crap out of her in their bedroom one night. I was sleep, but the banging noises and loud screams woke me up. I ran to their room and opened their bedroom door, stood in the doorway, and yelled, “Stop! Leave my mama alone!”
Strange, with his crazy self, was holding an iron over Venita’s face, threatening to bash her head in. As soon as he heard my voice, he climbed off Venita. He stood up and turned around like someone in a slow motion film towards me. He glared at me, eyes shining fox fire red like the devil’s.
“I’m a call my daddy. Get yo’ hands off my mama!” I shouted again, my hands placed on what Black folks used to call ‘imaginary hips’ on pre-adolescent girls, just the way I’d seen Venita do all the time.
“Oh, yeah. Tell him this.”
With that, Strange flashed opened his robe and exposed his penis, which oddly was standing out like a pole. This fool had an erection like he was getting off, just beating up on my mama, which I didn’t understand at the time. But I knew something was wrong with this whole picture. Something evil. Underneath it all, on a primitive level, I knew that I had been violated.
“Yeah, what?” Strange taunted. “What? Now you grown now?” he added, as if he wanted to screw me.
I turned and ran to the phone and called my father. “Daddy, Strange is over here beating up on Mama and he just showed me his ding-a-ling when I told him to stop.”
Well, my father, who used to pick me up on weekends, and who always had financially supported me, started cursing in Spanish. He didn’t live that far away and he was at our front door in about ten minutes, it seemed. He’d obviously grabbed his gun and came over ready to shoot Strange.
When I answered the door, my father grabbed me up in his arms. “Did he touch you, babygirl?” he demanded.
“No,” I whimpered.
My father put me back down on the floor, pushed past me, cursing in Spanish. He rushed to the bedroom, lunged at Strange and grabbed him up off Venita. See Strange was still beating on Venita when my daddy arrived. After that, the two men got to tussling. Venita jumped on Strange’s back, trying to help my father fight Strange.But somehow, Strange wrestled control of the gun from Butty and shot my father in the chest. My father slumped over, then fell backwards to the floor.
My daddy laid there, eyes wide open, a bloody hole in the middle of his chest. As soon as I saw the blood, I started screaming at the top of my lungs.
Time seemed to stop. What happened after that proceeded in slow motion.
From out of nowhere, another loud blast penetrated the room. Strange was standing with his arm raised to hit Venita again, but he stopped, his fist raised in mid-air, and grabbed his chest. He looked down, as if he was surprised to see the big hole in his chest. He fell to his face. In the doorway, Mayhem stood holding a smoking gun.
With that, I sat up, wide awake. It all came rushing back to me.
For years, everything had been mixed up and murky in my mind. I always thought it was my mother who shot Strange, but for the first time, I faced a memory I had buried deep inside my heart. It was ten-year-old Mayhem who pulled out a gun and shot and killed Strange!
For the first time, I realized something. My mother had taken the blame and had done time to save Mayhem’s ass . . . A mother’s love? I didn’t know. I didn’t even know anything anymore.
Could I ever talk to them about this? Or was this a family secret? I guess it was because after all these years, no one had ever talked about it. Now, I had to keep this secret myself because it would cause too much mess to stir up the truth. At the time, I didn’t know what the repercussions would be from that one phone call. But this I did know now. When I was nine years old, I wiped out my entire family in just one phone call.
Because of my father’s subsequent death and my mother’s resulting imprisonment, I broke up our family. I figuratively killed our whole family because we all wound up in different placements and a part of us, as we knew ourselves, died, never to be replaced.
Now I was a virtual stranger to my oldest brother Mayhem, and had no idea where my younger two siblings, Diggity and Ry-chee, were in this world. I knew I was a child at the time and I couldn’t be held responsible for the choices made by the adults in my life, but I still would always regret breaking up our family, as dysfunctional as it was. Because who was to say that the state made a better parent? Mayhem had been in a dozen group homes before he ran away one final time when he was about thirteen. From there, the Crips became his father until he became a leader.
I lucked up on one good foster home, but how did Diggity and Ry-chee fare? The foster homes I visited them in had been average, but then they were adopted as part of some campaign to adopt older black children and it was a closed adoption. Now I didn’t know what had become of them. Were they still even in California?
For this reason, all I knew was that night would haunt me the rest of my life.
26
The next day, as I awakened, I felt a deep darkness inside my soul, but there was also a light. In a crazy way, I was glad to know my mother was not a killer—at least not in this case. Maybe this would restore some of my faith in the goodness of mankind.
I was glad that I finally had accepted the truth about what happened that night, but I had a more pressing concern now. I couldn’t just sit and relish my father’s picture and think about what his death had meant to and for me.
Right now, I wanted to talk to my brother, Mayhem. I didn’t know what I’d say to him; I just wanted to see him again. This surprised me because when I saw him before, I thought I wouldn’t care if we didn’t see each other anymore, or at least any time soon. Now, I wanted to feel a connection to someone who went back to that fateful night with me, someone who had lived through it with me.
I thought about calling Venita and confronting her with what I knew, but then I thought, What’s the point?
She might even deny it. She did her time and she didn’t seem to be complaining about it. Maybe that was a can of worms I didn’t want to open.
When I dialed Mayhem’s number, my hands were shaking.
“Hey, sis,” Mayhem answered on the second ring.
“Mayhem, I’d like to see you again—today, if possible?”
Ma
yhem hesitated. I could hear a pain in his voice. “Well, lemme see. I’ve got to rearrange a couple of meetings, but anything for you, sis.”
Yes, I guess so. You killed for me when I was a child.... But you were a child, too.
“How about at Dock Weiler?” I asked, knowing this beach was near Compton. All he’d have to do is go straight out Rosecrans Street until it ended at Pacific Coast Highway.
“What time?”
“Two o’clock okay with you?”
“Fine. What’ll you be driving?”
“I’ll be in a blue Toyota Corolla. How about you?”
“A black Benz.”
When I sat across the road from the ocean, I felt myself calming down. I drove to Doc Weiler Beach early, just so I could gather my thoughts.
I watched as the surf lapped against the shoreline and I got a little clarity. There was only one thing I knew for sure. Mayhem was my brother and I had lost too many years. I still didn’t know what I was going to say to him. This was the Mayhem no one knew. Everyone just saw him as Big Homie or The Man. His rap sheet saw him as a criminal. They didn’t know that this was a man who had been taking care of himself since he was ten years old, a man who killed for his younger sister’s honor in a society which didn’t care about its women.
I jumped when someone tapped on the window.
I looked up and saw Mayhem. I saw his goons standing nearby. He tipped his hand to them that it was okay and he climbed in my bucket with me.
“Sis, what is it? You sounded serious.”
I paused. There was no sense in us talking about the murder since it was too painful.
“Mayhem, I just wanted to tell you I love you, big bro.”
“Love you too, sis.”
We sat there, quietly, not saying a word for about five minutes.
Mayhem finally shifted in his seat and opened the door. “I guess I gotta get on and handle my business.”
“Okay.”
“Sis, please be careful. I worry about you. If you need anything, call me.”
I reached over, gave him a hug, and kissed him on the cheek.
Mayhem slowly hugged me back. “Take care of yourself, baby sis.”
27
As I drove away from the beach, I realized how if Mayhem and I would have been raised together, we could sit and talk about what happened. Maybe not. In our shorthand way of communicating, he knew I understood what he’d done for me. Well, we certainly weren’t the Brady Bunch.
Just as I was approaching LaCienega and Rodeo, a large SUV bulldozed towards me and almost hit me head on. The vehicle would have hit me, if I hadn’t whipped my steering wheel to the right and pulled on to the shoulder of the road.
Once I got my bearings, I looked over my shoulder. Was that an accident or on purpose near-miss? I was really getting afraid now. I was going to have to take action fast.
I finally realized something I’d been trying not to face. My life was in danger, and so could the lives of my family if I continued to stay here at Shirley’s. Who could I turn to? I didn’t want to call Mayhem back, or it would just create more murders. It wouldn’t be nothing but a word for my fool ass brother to order hits, but who would he have killed? Who shot Okamoto, if it wasn’t Pookie? Who shot Trayvon? Even if Mayhem knew who did it, he’d get involved and I didn’t want that, either.
No, I wanted the court system to handle Okamoto’s and Trayvon’s murder. This was something that could get bloody if Mayhem got involved.
I decided to call Romero. Yesterday, I’d made copies of the CD, and I placed them in another safe deposit box. Once I knew who I could trust, I would hand them over to the proper authorities. I didn’t know if I could trust Romero like that yet.
“I need your help,” I said. I explained all the strange occurrences. “I don’t want to endanger my family.”
“Why don’t you come and stay with me—under protective custody, strictly business—until we get some of these things cleared up. We’ll send the police to check your family’s house at night.”
“Thanks!” I wrote down his address, then hung up, hands trembling.
I gathered my wits together and rushed over to Shirley’s house. “Moochie, I’m going to have to go underground—just for a minute.” I hesitated before I continued. “It’s part of my investigation on Trayvon’s murder.” I didn’t add that it seemed as though Trayvon’s murderer or murderers were stalking me, and might come after them if I continued to stay with them.
Shirley looked concerned, but her mind was not really on what I was saying. Lately, she was consumed with Daddy Chill. Last week, Shirley told me the doctor recently diagnosed him with dementia. It’s as though Shirley had transformed from being fed-up to a concerned, care-giving wife with an ailing husband.
Oh, well. I guess the divorce was off again, which I was happy about that. Now the wedding would feel like family for Chica and me. After all, Shirley and Chill had been our stand-in parents for over the past twenty years.
Just like Trayvon’s death took Shirley’s mind off her own issues regarding her wanting a divorce, now she was there for Chill . . . just because. Maybe this was what floated Shirley’s boat. Taking care of people.
I knew I was only on the outside looking in and I knew I only had a bird’s-eye view as to what went on between two longtime married people, but all I could say was love was some crazy shit. I didn’t think I’d ever been in it. Thank God. That was too much love in the world for me.
Shirley had been driving Daddy Chill back and forth to doctor visits, and setting up home nurse visits for him. She waved her hand, absently, dismissing me. “Be careful. I guess you know best how to handle this investigation.”
Back at my apartment, I called Chica.
“Any news about Trayvon’s killer yet?” Chica asked. She sounded hopeful.
“Chica, I’m going to have to go underground for a minute. Someone’s been following me and I don’t want them to mess with the fam.”
“I’m getting tired of waiting on some news about Trayvon. I bet you just want to go off and be with that Romero. I’m sick of you. That’s all right.” She slammed the phone down in my face.
Chica and I had argued before when we were teens, but this was the first time she’d ever really gone off on me. I was too upset and too nervous to worry about Chica right now. I’d explain everything to her later. I decided I would call her once I got settled.
I threw a few essential items, with inter-changeable tops and jeans, into an overnight bag, which was attached to rollers. I also packed a couple of wigs, a floppy hat, and large shades. I carefully packed a copy of the CD into a padded envelope, then hid it in a secret compartment in my lap top carrier. I grabbed my lap top, and bags, then headed over to Silver Lake, which was in a hilly area east of Hollywood.
When I pulled up in front of his home, I didn’t see his car. I was about to pick up my cell phone and call Romero, but my phone rang. It was six in the evening.
“I got tied up on a case, Z,” he said, “but the key is in the planter on the right side of my porch.”
I dug through the potted geranium and found a silver key about a half inch buried in the dirt. I let myself inside, looked around at Romero’s definite alpha-male decorated house, with its various brown and beige earth tones, and plopped down on the leather sofa. I noticed a house phone, and other than a cart of OJ in the refrigerator when I wanted to get something to drink, it didn’t look like anyone else lived there—a real bachelor’s pad.
I looked out in his backyard and was surprised to see an in-ground swimming pool.
I called Shirley and let her know I was safe. “I’ll be underground for a while, so unless it’s an emergency, don’t call. You can leave all messages on my cell phone.”
I called Chica, and she hung up in my face. I shook my head. What was that all about? I wondered. The police hadn’t made any progress in finding Trayvon’s murder, and I was doing the best I could. I just didn’t know all that digging up would sti
r up so much trouble. The next thing I knew, I dozed off.
“Hey, sleepy head.” I woke up and Romero was standing before me, looking really happy to see me. “Hey, I bought Chinese food. Hungry?”
“Sure ’nuff!” I yawned and got in a yoga-type stretch. I hadn’t slept that deeply in a while. For the first time in a minute, I was able to sleep without being afraid.
After we finished eating a spread of moo goo gai pan and fried rice, we sat on Romero’s redwood deck, which faced the Santa Gabriel Mountains, and just relaxed. It was twilight and a purple haze settled over the mountains in the evening, and the sight was absolutely breathtaking. The twitter of birds singing decorated the air. Sequoias and oak trees wrapped around his back yard. The scenery was so serene and peaceful that something seemed missing. Then I realized it was the absence of blaring police sirens and helicopters.
“Do you think I’ll have to stay here long? I’ve got to get back to my investigation on Trayvon.”
“Well, we’re closing in on some leads. The main thing is you need to stay out of harm’s way right now. We have detectives on Trayvon’s case.”
“Do you think my poking around is what made the killer come after me?”
“Could be. Well, you stay here until we make an arrest. We have some leads that I think will pay off.”
I guess to take my mind off how scared I was, Romero changed the subject. He brought up the issue of relationships.
“Z, have you ever been in love before?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You just seem kind of in a shell. Like you don’t let people get too close to you.”
“People or men?”
“Okay, men.” Romero threw his head back and let out a delicious-sounding guffaw.
“Like I said, I’ve been married before. Just put it this way. Being an officer didn’t quite add to my “marriage-ability” factor. It didn’t help that my husband was on the force too. Our egos were too big, and somebody was about to get hurt up in that mug.”
L.A. Blues Page 17