by Trick Daddy
Like most hustles, pimping came down to who had the slickest tongue. A guy had to talk a woman out of her right reasoning to get her to walk down a strip selling her love below. There was an art to it. The prevalence of pimping can make someone speculate on those ironies rampant in the hood.
Imagine if those pimps could have got into city hall? I always thought pimps would have made good politicians. There isn’t much difference to the two professions. Both are selling you bullshit to get something out of you.
Paul Red and the Bel-Air Blondes made it look easy.
They were what folks could call signature pimps in the hood. Of course there were more too numerous to mention, but the way those two put it down was smooth like Hennessy chased with caramel drops.
Red always wore the brightest zoot suits. He showcased the hot pink, lime green, and of course the obvious red. His game was what people called mack-certified.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn!” Red would yell, walking up to a lady in a bar. “Looky here, woman, you got me intoxicated and I ain’t had a drink yet. I’m sure you fit that glass slipper!”
The lady would smile.
“Bartender! Please get Cinderella the house special. I got to whisk her away before Prince Charming comes looking for her!” boasted Red.
In minutes the two were locked in conversation. Red had the magic words. Some cats just had that golden tongue. You can’t teach someone how to mack. It has to be in his DNA.
Months later the same lady would be out on the strip in broad daylight shuffling down Seventeenth Avenue, all broken-down and destitute, another of Red’s whores. Money is a powerful motivator.
Women turned tricks in the alley behind my apartment. They turned tricks under the bleachers by the basketball court. Any discreet corner or shaded space became a john’s rented spot.
The Bel-Air Blondes were a crew of older pimps. They were always decked out in white. They wore their hair in processed curls and donned brightly colored shirts with butterfly collars and bell-bottom pants to accentuate their white suits. Their square-toe gator shoes were classic. They drove Lincoln town cars. Long, black, shiny Lincolns were their pimp caravan. With Curtis Mayfield crooning from their stereos they cruised the block checking on their ladies.
“Looking good, Ms. America. You know daddy likes his on the first of the month, baby!”
“Trust me, I got your rent, daddy!”
The pimps treated their trade with class. There was order and a code of conduct to the game. No pimp disrespected another pimp’s strip. Any disagreements were settled over a shot of cognac.
Most folks frowned upon the pimps and their whores. Tell me what’s different when a woman goes on a date with a man who expects to get sex after he pays for dinner? Women fly into South Beach from all over America, hoping to meet some rich guy in a nightclub. They dream of moving out of their boring desk job and into a mansion on the beach. Then they scheme on how to get knocked up to win the child-support lottery. That defines tricking if you ask me.
That was the more subtle way women tricked back in those days. Our women in Miami are what you might call traditional females. They are accustomed to being taking care of, if you know what I mean. Save that feminist, Ms. Independent crap for up North. In Miami, a man has to wine and dine a lady. Women got all dolled up on the weekend in hopes of finding themselves a man with money.
In fact, that’s how Miami ended up having so many strip clubs. Most of our strip clubs were regular clubs until women decided they would just take their tricking on the weekends further. Men went to happy hour to find what we call a shone today. A shone is a lady that a guy just wants to hang out and kick it with. Women wanted to find a man who could spend the most money. The pimps shined in that respect.
I looked up to them. Every boy in the hood did. Our admiration stemmed from basic economics. Whoever in the projects was self-sufficient without food stamps gained notoriety. The pimps were some cold, debonair cats, and theirs was a nonviolent trade, so to speak. They were from the old school of hustling and knew violence was bad for business. Drama isn’t good for concealing illegal activity. That’s why it’s so easy to weed out authentic gangsters from the fake ones. No true gangster wants to attract attention. It’s not the way the game is played. When gunshots rang out, the boys in blue sped down the avenue.
Most cops who patrol the hood know the drug dealers and hustlers. It’s a necessary and uneasy friendship. The cops let those crooks conduct business year-round. They only get involved when an innocent kid or a bystander gets shot in the cross fire. Do you really think the Miami-Dade police department launches an investigation when a known drug dealer gets put to sleep?
Hell no!
Good riddance. Let those niggers kill themselves.
The pimps understood that there could be some form of honor among thieves. They kept their whores happy on the finest drugs and gave each other the mutual respect earned over years of illegal living. However, when the powder came, the pimps lost their footing. Cadillac cars replaced Lincolns, and the hustlers behind the wheels were a more sinister and flashy breed.
I can still remember that Saturday night at Green’s Lounge when folks noticed the game was changing. Everyone realized that dope would soon bring out the worst in all of us.
Green’s Lounge was a typical down-South pub where black folk went to unwind. Booze, gossip, and good laughs were a mainstay. Ribs blazing on the grill and catfish frying sent a soul food aroma floating throughout the place. Lots of brawls always occurred at the lounge. The fisticuffs often interrupted the usual weekend bliss where old men sat playing dominoes and couples swayed to Marvin Gaye near the jukebox.
Amid that cool atmosphere cats would also get all fired up on devil’s water, aka moonshine, and start breaking stuff. Shortly after the fighting ensued, the bartender would calm the two winos down, and the good times continued. It was a place scripted in the usual down-South country drama.
I was an avid pool player. Even to this day I can rack ’em and knock ’em down better than the average pool shark. It’s one the few pastimes that I can truthfully say helped me escape mentally. On that particular night, I was beating the hog skin off the behind of some older cats.
“That boy right there the truth! I told y’all buddy got a mean pool game!” Smitty the bartender yelled.
“I’m taking all bets that he’ll whup you proper!”
I was kicking that old-timer’s ass.
Meanwhile, an old pimp was trying to get the attention of a guy at the bar. The guy whose attention he sought looked to be no older than twenty. He was flirting with a chick at the bar. She was obviously one of the pimp’s women.
“Hey, partner, you’re tying up little Ms. Lady’s ears with all the sweet talk. Good conversation don’t come cheap these days,” the old dude said.
The two kept on talking. The young guy shrugged his shoulders. For any older hustler in the pimp game the gesture was just as disrespectful as a smack in the face. The pimp didn’t take kindly to the insult.
“Partner, I ain’t gonna tell you again to ease up off the lady if there isn’t going to be a monetary exchange,” the pimp said.
“We’re just conversating! Why you got to be all in my business all the time!” the woman snapped back.
“Ho, your business is my business!” the pimp fired back, and slapped her.
The sound echoed throughout the bar. That lady got smacked hard. I thought her head would have tumbled off. The young guy stood up. He reached in his pocket, then threw a stack of hundreds in the pimp’s face. I wanted to run and grab the money that fell, but knew better.
“Motherfucker!” The pimp sprang on him.
Then all I saw was blood shooting upward to the ceiling. The young hustler kept jamming a knife in the pimp’s neck. Folks tried to pry him off the old dude, but it was too late. I never saw so much blood in my life. It was the first time I saw a man killed.
Something was happening in Miami. The pimps were losing the
ir footing. Hoe strolls were soon becoming dope holes. The prostitutes turned into addicts. Pimps became hollow shells of their former selves. Those durable enough sailed the tide and made the transition to selling powder. Others succumbed to it.
16
Gangsta Livin’
IT BEGAN WITH MR. BIGGS. HE WAS THE ORIGINAL Miami gangster, in every sense of the word. Biggs wore khaki Dickies pants and a T-shirt. His legacy will be left in the hands of Miami historians to debate over. Law enforcement will view him as common dope-dealing hustler, an inner-city scourge who preyed on misguided young men in search of a father figure. He stood well over six feet tall with a laugh just as imposing. They will call the hood’s adoration for him a case of misplaced priorities. But in my hood we didn’t see doctors, lawyers, and teachers whom we could aspire to become.
In our imperfect world Biggs made do with what he was given. In ghetto politics the means most definitely justifies the ends. In the end he showed young guys and the community alike what a black man could turn from the hustle. In the absence of real economic opportunities, Biggs was a one-man enterprise. He started with a quaint gardening company and soon started building homes. He bought up real estate and employed young dudes who would otherwise find themselves stealing from working folks. The powder was good to Biggs and he was good to us.
When the local theater was in danger of shutting down, he bought the place and turned it into Heart of the City. It was one of the few times Biggs put his wealth on display. His foot-long, gold Rolls-Royce pendant looked like it weighed a ton.
Heart of the City was the most happening nightclub in the city back then. All the hustlers and ladies who flocked behind them came out. It was a lavish affair. For those couple of hours on Friday and Saturday night folks in the Beans escaped the urban grind, losing themselves in the music and booze. There in that tight space while bumping and grinding to the Funkadelics, folks found temporary respite.
A true dope man gives back to his community, and that’s exactly what Biggs did. When he went to prison, a lot of folks lost jobs and their livelihood.
His younger contemporary Prince Rick was also an old-school gangster, but with more flare. The home Rick built on two lots in Carol City was never before seen in the hood. That Scarface-style mansion was smooth. Inside, Rick had one of his Rolls-Royces on display. In Opa-locka, Freddy Ice, who folks called the real mayor, had opened a gym so the young dudes could take their frustrations out on punching bags. It was the closest thing to a Boys and Girls Club near the Triangle. It wasn’t unusual to spot a line of kids running up to Ice as he passed out wads of cash. The dealers were our Santa Claus.
Then of course there was Drop Top Mo. Mo turned wherever he went into a movie set. Everyone on the strip was his costar. He made us all dreamers. He cut the tops off all his cars and hung out in Las Vegas with Mike Tyson. Any hustler that could sip champagne with Iron Mike was a superstar in my eyes. Tyson, the most feared brother on the planet, was that guy every true hustler wanted to break bread with. Hustlers from up North came down to see how Miami’s hustlers lived. It’s who they were getting their dope from anyhow.
My father, Charles “Pop” Young, was also heavy in the streets back then. Pimping. Dope slinging. Gambling. You name it and Pop did it. Like Biggs, he was one of those original Miami gangsters, and sadly those hustling ways left him no room for the raising and nurturing of kids. Pop has too many sons to count. I think fate played some joke and birthed a whole flock of us who, up until this point in my life story, seemed genetically disposed to dope dealing as well. Only two of my brothers, Chuck and Ephraim, share the same mother.
My brother Derrick “Hollywood” Harris was Pop’s favorite son. He was the shining star among the younger breed of dope boys on the rise when those gangsters previously mentioned bowed out the game. If someone could paint a perfect picture of a tragic hero, it would be Hollywood.
The ladies loved his good looks. The hood loved his generosity, and the killers feared his gangster heart. I told more people Hollywood was my brother than I’ve told Pop was my father. Ironically, the anger we both shared for Pop is what drew us close. I don’t think any younger brother admired and loved his older brother more than I did Wood. He was only two years my senior, but in my eyes he might as well have been a superhero. He was truly one of Miami’s thug angels.
17
Living in a World
“ALWAYS KEEP IT ONE HUNDRED.”
That phrase was Wood’s favorite. It defined his character. Whatever decision one makes in this life, make sure one believes in it to the fullest. Go hard or don’t go at all. People stand behind those who are sincere in their actions. No one respects someone who lives life sideways. Wood preached those phrases daily. If he turned his pistol on a man and that man shot him first, Wood wished the shooter the best in his future life—even if the bullet landed Wood in a wheelchair. Wood believed people have to live with the consequences of each decision. One must take the good and the bad.
When I first moved down to south Miami-Dade, I had to gain a foothold. The resident tough guys in the hoods south of downtown Miami in neighborhoods like Ghouls, Perrine, Naranja, and Richmond Heights weren’t going to let me come down there and disrespect them. Cutler Manor, Chocolate City, and Rainbow City all looked a lot like the Beans. There were crap games, hookers, and dope houses. It’s never personal when one steps onto another man’s turf and he takes the offensive. It’s just the way of the hood. In a puppy litter the weak puppy most likely dies. Dudes prey on soft cats in the projects.
The fighting wasn’t personal. We knocked each other out, then dusted each other off and commenced breaking bread. My reputation had already hit down south. Hollywood had told everybody about his “wild” younger brother raising hell in the Beans.
The look on Wood’s face when I got down there was classic. He looked me up and down and shook his head. I’d been wearing the same stained T-shirt, torn jeans, and cruddy sneakers for two days. I even smelled bad.
“My little brother got to stay fresh always,” he said.
Wood was generous. If someone came around him, he took care of them. If Wood ate filet mignon, his friends ate filet mignon. Wood went to his closet and threw me a pair of black Dickies shorts and a pair of brand-new Travel Foxes. Those shoes were the status symbol back then. Wood rocked the British Knights sneakers and matching jumpsuit. No one in the hood was fresh as that. He even had a block phone. His jewelry was blinding. People called my brother Hollywood for a reason.
“Try those on,” said Wood. “Yeah, now buddy looking right.”
He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. It looked like a stack of thousands. Up until then I thought that kind of cash was reserved for the older dope boys. I was dead wrong. Wood was getting money like he had been in the game for over a decade. He handed me a couple hundred dollars.
“This is yours right here,” he said.
Outside, the parking lot mirrored a car show. Wood had about a dozen cars. He had pairs of Mercedes-Benzes, BMWs, and Maximas. The older hustlers liked driving Chevys and Lincolns. Wood had those, but he also had a fondness for the foreign cars.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. First and foremost I was proud. I knew my father was making a lot of money as well, but we didn’t have much of a relationship so I didn’t care. Hollywood showed me love. He took me under his wings.
That weekend he took me to Ghoul’s Park. It’s where everyone hung out. Dudes were playing basketball and others were freestyling rap lyrics. The park was where folks flossed back in those days. I didn’t really have much leisure time when I stayed in the Beans, and I think Hollywood knew this. So he made sure to take me everywhere he went. He introduced me to Dante, Tronne, Tater, Bodeem, and HB.
“This that wild nigga I was telling y’all about,” he told them.
I didn’t say anything at first. I wasn’t shy. I was just sizing those dudes up. It’s not a cliché when cats in the street say real recognizes real. One can usually look a pe
rson in the eyes and get a glimpse of what’s in his soul. Someone who’s hiding something will rarely or hardly ever look you in the eyes. Dante stared into mine.
“What’s up homey? Wood said you a problem up in the city!” he chuckled.
“Nah, bruh. I just don’t take kindly to dudes trying me,” I answered.
They all laughed.
“Told y’all the nigga is a problem,” said Wood.
Before long we were all connected at the hip. Hollywood was on the road a lot, bringing the white girl into Miami. He was making money in Georgia, Virginia, and the Carolinas. I think Wood was even making money as far as Chicago. Back then, any weight coming through Miami was being picked up. The port was just too hot. So Wood had his supplier do what Mundey and Roberts did. He had it flown to Georgia and driven down.
I was itching to get my hands on the powder. All that money I saw made me daydream, but I had just got thrown out the Beans and caused Pearl so much hell that I tried my hand at school one last time. Besides, high school was right around the corner. That’s when the honeys really start to look good. The main motivation for me and the other fourteen-year-old boys entering the ninth grade were the ladies. That’s when girls started looking voluptuous. I couldn’t wait.
18
Strong Woman
AT DIFFERENT INTERVALS IN ONE’S LIFE GOD ALWAYS sends someone to take a meaningful interest in you. I don’t care who you are. From the pillars of society to the inmates serving life sentences, God will send you an angel. If someone’s too stupid to take the angel’s advice, that’s their problem. When I was a little kid, He sent Booner and Junior. I didn’t listen so I got myself thrown out the Beans. This time He sent my stepmother, Lynn.