“The RCGs are from the Rigsby Courts, and SB stands for Second Baptist,” Marcus explained. “That’s those projects over there off of East Houston Street. The SLBs are the Skyline Bloods, and KP stands for Kirby Posse. BGF stands for Black Guerilla Family. Those dudes are from Converse, Universal City, Schertz, Selma, Cibolo, Windcrest, and Kirby, Texas.”
“The Puro Ochos and the MCs, which stands for Midnight Colors, are Mexican Bloods from out here in the Heights,” Darius told him. “The LCGs are the Lincoln Court Gangstas, and the WSBs are the West Side Bloods, and the WSV are the West Side Villains. Those are all of the Blood sets that we allow out here in the hood.”
“But we really don’t fuck with the BCGs, or the RCGs,” Marcus added. “Tre, you’re gonna have to learn all of this stuff, now that you are living out here.”
“The Jungle is where we are now, it’s where we live,” Darius explained. “It’s The Heights and the hood right across East Houston Street. It goes all the way past OPE, which is Olive Park East, another Blood hood.”
“Camelot is another major Blood hood out on the Northeast side,” Marcus added. “Camelot, The Heights, and Rigsby Courts are all the big Blood spots that are competing to be The main Blood hood.”
“Camelot, Converse, Kirby, Universal City, Seguin, Shertz, Selma, The Glens, and Sunrise all ride together, and they all call Camelot and Camelot Two their home,” Darius told him. “They are deeper than a muthafucka, really about half our strength. Now, BSV is a little bit harder to explain. It’s The set. Sometimes, it’s like everybody put together. All of the Bloods who I just told you about, plus a whole lot of others.”
“But, BSV is also its own set,” Marcus added. “Like us, we’re BSVs through and through. The muthafuckin’’ real McCoys.”
“Shit,” Travon muttered, as he contemplated the numbers.
The boys turned the corner onto Palmetto Street, and continued on their journey to the neighborhood store.
“It must be a million of y’all,” Travon told Darius.
Then they heard the music. The thumping bass notes grew progressively louder as the boys approached the next street. A street named Cactus. A street that was the hub of the neighborhood’s activity. The words to Piru Love emanated throughout the neighborhood.
“How far is the park from here?” Travon asked.
“Not that far,” Marcus told him. “It’s about a mile down the road. It’s the hood park. You know where Pitman Sullivan Park is, Tre.”
Still confused, Tre shook his head.
Darius pointed. “Right there where they have ‘Take Pride in the East Side,’ and the Martin Luther King celebration after the MLK March.”
Travon shook his head again.
Marcus smacked his lips and folded his arms. “Right there where they have Midnight Basketball.”
“Oh,” Travon nodded. He remembered those games. The last one he had gone to had been with his brother.
The boys approached Cactus Street, and Travon was totally unprepared for what he saw. As they passed the corner house and Travon was able to look down the street toward the music, he stopped cold. There appeared to be a wall of red.
“Oh, fuck,” slipped out of his mouth.
Red T-shirts, bandannas, shorts, shoes, shirts, pants, berets, cars, hats, graffiti, and what appeared to be at least one hundred people were scattered up and down the street. A boy wearing a red baseball cap turned backward, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called to them. Another boy waved his hands, beckoning for them to come over.
“What’s up, Blood?” Darius shouted as they started toward the massive conglomeration of red.
Travon watched silently as his cousin pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket and allowed it to hang freely.
“It’s all about that BSV!” Darius shouted. He twisted his fingers into a gang sign. He placed the gang sign over his heart.
Travon turned toward Marcus, who was spelling out the word Blood across his chest.
“You know it!” replied the boy with the red hat.
Marcus, Darius, and Travon approached one of the groups. Smiling broadly, Darius glided up to a tall, lanky boy who wore his hair in a gigantic Afro.
“Say, Fro Dog, I can hear your shit all the way down Palmetto!” Darius told him.
“When did you get your shit out?” Marcus asked.
Fro Dog walked to his vehicle and stood proudly in front of it. Darius, Marcus, and Travon followed closely behind. Fro Dog turned toward Darius and crossed his arms.
“Check it out, Blood,” he said.
Darius walked slowly around the perimeter of the car, examining it carefully. Fro Dog turned his attention to a group of girls seated on the hood of his freshly painted car.
“Y’all hoes wanna get the fuck up off my shit?” he asked them.
“Fuck you, nigga, I aint no ho!” one of the girls protested.
Fro Dog placed his hand over his stomach and bowed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Y’all tricks get y’all asses off my shit!”
Laughter broke out amongst the crowd of boys.
“Fuck you, you black bastard!” another girl told him. “If I’m a trick, then yo woman’s a trick! And the next time that nappy-headed bitch calls, I’ma tell her that you fuckin’’ Wanda!”
The girls slid off the car and walked into the yard.
“You do, and I’ma put some hot lead in yo ass!” Fro Dog told her. He shifted his gaze to a boy seated in the driver’s seat of his car. “Say, Lil Fade, hit the switches.”
An albino with cold, penetrating, pale blue eyes leaned forward and flicked one of the numerous switches that were scattered across the car’s chrome-and-leather dashboard. The red convertible ’64 Chevrolet Impala’s front end leapt up off the ground. The albino’s hat flew off, and a monstrous, sandy-colored Afro popped out.
Travon began to examine Lil Fade. There was something about him that made goose bumps appear on Travon’s arm. Lil Fade was grotesquely pale, with numerous tattoos on the parts of his skin that were exposed. His crystal blue, almost white eyes made it seem as though he was looking through you instead of at you. Travon was scared of Lil Fade.
Another switch was hit, and the rear end of the car bounced up. Lil Fade flicked another switch, and the right side of the car dropped down. Another, and the left side plopped down.
“That shit is hitting!” one of the boys shouted.
Marcus turned and shifted his gaze toward the boy. “Say, Lil Bling, when are you getting your shit out?”
“Them muthafuckin’ Mexicans be bullshittin’!” Lil Bling told him.
It was easy for Travon to see why they called him Lil Bling. Every tooth inside of his mouth, top and bottom, was capped in gold. It was a perfect match for his golden skin and jewelry-adorned body.
“I went down there to check on my shit today,” Lil Bling continued. “And them muthafuckas was talkin’ about another two weeks!”
He searched the crowd for several moments, until he located the person he was looking for. “Say, Tevin, pretend like you a muthafuckin’ quarterback and pass the muthafuckin’ forty.”
Tevin, a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound mass of dirt and filth wearing a red T-shirt that was two sizes too small, extended his arm and passed Lil Bling the beer that he had been sipping on.
Travon turned away from them and began to examine Fro Dog’s car. The automobile was absolutely gorgeous. It was covered with multiple layers of red-candy paint, with tens of millions of sparkling red flakes throughout. The paint reminded Travon of a brand-new bowling ball that had just been polished with oil. The interior of the vehicle was covered in white leather, with red leather piping and blood-red carpeting. The car’s front grill, bumpers, rims, mirrors, and trim pieces consisted of highly polished chrome. The car was truly a rolling work of art.
“My shit is gonna be like this,” Lil Bling announced, pointing at Fro Dog’s car. “Except my car is burgundy, with gold rims, grill, and trim.”
“Say, Marcus. W
here was y’all headed?” asked another one of the boys.
“To the hood store.”
“Is that y’all kinfolk from The Courts that y’all said was gonna be staying with y’all?” the boy asked.
Marcus nodded.
The boy walked to where Travon was standing, and extended his hand. “Say, lil homie, my name is Big Pimpin.”
Travon extended his hand, and he and Big Pimpin tapped each other’s fist.
“I’m Travon, but everybody calls me Tre.”
“Rewind the B-side!” Lil Bling shouted to Lil Fade.
Big Pimpin reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of rolled-up bills. He peeled off a twenty and handed it to Travon. “Bring me back a forty-ounce of Red Bull and a forty-ounce bottle of O.E. You can get you whatever you want, for going to the store for me.”
“Say, Big Simple, I mean, Big Pimpin,” Lil Bling called out to him. “Get me a bottle of M.D. and some bigga-rettes.”
“Nigga, fuck you!” Big Pimpin told him. He turned back toward Travon. “Get a bottle of Mad Dog and a pack of Kools.”
Travon nodded, and then stuffed the twenty-dollar bill into his front pocket. He and Marcus turned, and started back down the street, continuing on their journey to the neighborhood store. Once they had reached a point where he was sure that they could not be overheard, Marcus turned to his cousin and nudged him in the side.
“So, Tre, do you think that you are gonna like it out here?”
“I think I’ll be aight. It seems like everything out here is pretty cool. Everybody is real laid-back.” Travon lifted his head toward the sky and took in the last warming rays of the lazily retreating sun. He turned to his cousin and nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m really gonna like it.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Hood Store
Travon grabbed two Red Bulls and walked to the checkout counter. He sat the beers down on top of the counter, and then walked to the wine freezer, where he grabbed a bottle of MD 20/20. He returned to the counter with the bottle of wine.
“ID, kid?” a lady of Asian descent asked him. She spied Marcus ambling toward the counter through the corner of her eye. “Are you with him?” she asked Travon.
Travon nodded. “Yeah.”
She proceeded to ring up the items.
“Add two packs of Kools to that also,” Travon told her.
The petite Asian clerk reached into the overheard cigarette dispenser, where she pulled down two packs of cigarettes. Marcus stepped up to the counter.
“Hello, Marcus,” the clerk greeted him. “How’s your mother doing?”
“She’s all right, Mrs. C,” Marcus answered. “How about you, how are you doing?”
“Oh, I’ve been doing pretty good,” she told him. “Just arguing with that damn insurance company again. Have you seen Lil Fade today?”
“They’re all at Big Pimpin’s house right now.”
“Is that where you’re headed?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marcus nodded.
“Good. Then you can give him a message for me. Tell Lil Fade that my husband said that he has some new AKs in. I think he said that he had three of them. Well, anyway, tell him that Mr. C said that he will make him a good deal if he gets all three of them right now.”
Travon’s mouth fell open.
Outside, a blue-and-white San Antonio Police Department patrol car pulled in front of the store. Mrs. Chang spied the patrol car out of the corner of her eye.
“Hurry up, give me your shit!” she said, thrusting her tiny, pale hands out toward them.
Marcus pulled a Glock model twenty-three, forty caliber, semiautomatic handgun from his waistband, and handed it to Mrs. Chang. Travon was paralyzed from shock and fear. Mrs. Chang quickly hid the weapon beneath the counter, and placed the beer and cigarettes that the boys were buying on the floor behind the counter. The cops walked in.
“Ching, chong, chang, separate mines from yours, Ms. Thang,” said one of the officers.
Mrs. Chang opened the cash register and gave him a wad of money. The second officer approached Travon and Marcus.
“What’s up, Lil Marcus?” The officer nodded. “What have you been up to? I see that you’re still slobbing. You know that you shouldn’t be hanging around those pussy-ass Bloods.”
Marcus frowned. He balled his hand into a tight fist, and blood rushed to his face.
“Them Crips over in the East Terrace say that they got all the juice,” the officer continued. “They say that they got it going on, and that y’all Slobs ain’t shit.”
“Fuck them punk-ass Crabs!” Marcus shouted.
Travon’s eyes flew wide, and his heart began to drum rapidly. He had never heard anyone talk to a police officer like that. He had heard people talk bad about them after the cops had left the scene, of course, but not actually curse them to their face.
The officer shook his head. “Now, Marcus, why you gonna talk that way about my homies? You know we boys in blue all stick together. Now I’m gonna have to shake you down too.”
With a wide grin, the officer began searching Marcus. His partner walked over to Travon and did the same. When they finished, the officer had taken a total of one hundred and twenty-nine dollars off the boys.
“Lunch money, huh, partner?” asked the second officer.
“Yep, and a little bit of beer money to go with it!”
The patrol officers shared a hearty laugh.
Travon examined the officers’ name tags. Cooney and Preto.
Cooney was the tall pale one with sky-blue eyes, and chocolate brown hair. Preto was the short, stocky one with green eyes, tanned skin, and black hair in a crewcut. Cooney stepped in closer to Travon.
“What’s your name, nigger?”
Travon frowned, hesitated, and then stammered out his name. “Travon.”
“Travon what?”
“Travon Robinson.”
The officer turned to his partner and began snapping his fingers. “Robinson, Robinson, Robinson, hmmm. Seems like I know a Davon Robinson.”
Travon noticed the sparkle in Cooney’s eyes, and became hesitant to answer.
“Well, fuck face?” Cooney demanded.
“He was my brother,” Travon whispered.
“You gotta be shittin’ me!” Cooney shouted. He jabbed his finger into Travon’s chest. “You’re Too-Low’s little brother?”
Travon looked down and nodded.
The look of astonishment on Cooney’s face quickly turned to one of anger. “What the fuck are you doing hangin’ out with this fuckin’ slob?” he asked, pointing at Marcus.
“He’s my cousin!” Marcus shouted.
Cooney nodded. “Oh, that explains it! He’s slumming with the fucked-up side of the family.”
Preto laughed.
“Look here, Travon. Wait, what’s your nickname?” Cooney asked.
Travon shrugged. “Just Tre.”
Cooney stared at Marcus. “Y’all can’t even give the kid a decent nickname?” Cooney turned toward his partner and shook his head. “That’s why I hate Slobs.”
The officers shared another laugh.
“Look here, Tre. Let me give you some advice. Go back to The Courts, and make you some money. Slobs are fuckin’ poor. You are too good for them. Go back to The Courts right now, and I won’t tell the homies in the hood that you got Slobs in your family. Okay?”
Travon stared at him coldly.
“We got to add this one to the gang file as a Blood, but possibly a WCG,” Preto told his partner.
“Hopefully, we’ll add him as a WCG in the future. I need a new truck.” Cooney laughed, and turned toward Travon with a feigned look of care and concern. “Say, Tre. Work with me on this, and go back to The Courts. I’ll go easy on you; I’ll even put you on a flexible payment plan.”
Cooney and Preto laughed heartily, as they adjusted their gun belts and strolled out of the store. Travon, Marcus, and Mrs. Chang stood silently, in bitter, seething rage, until the officers climbed into t
heir vehicle and pulled away.
“Fuckin’ bastards!” Mrs. Chang shouted. “Here, take your beer, and here.” She handed the bag to Travon and the gun to Marcus. “Don’t forget to tell Lil Fade what I said about the guns. I think that he said that they were fully automatic, or that he was going to convert them to full auto. I forget which one it was, but either way, they’ll be just like he likes them. Don’t worry about paying me for the beer and cigarettes; I know those bastards took your money.”
Marcus slid the gun inside of his waistband, and grabbed the bag of beer from Travon. “All right, thanks, Mrs. C.”
“Later, Blood,” said a smiling Mrs. Chang, as the boys left the store.
Tre and Marcus headed down Palmetto, back toward Cactus Street. They were only a few blocks away from the store when a large white, late-model Mercedes pulled up alongside of them. Marcus quickly reached for his gun. Travon placed his hand over Marcus’s to stay him.
“It’s cool.” Travon nodded. “Trust me, it’s okay.”
The tinted window on the driver’s side slid down, and Dejuan stuck his head out of the car. His gold teeth were glistening brilliantly in the bright South Texas sun, while his long, curly, rubber-band-sectioned hair blew gently in the mellow breeze.
“What’s up, Lil Tre?” Dejuan asked.
“Shit, nothing much.” Travon shrugged. “Just been chilling out here with my kinfolk.”
Dejuan smiled. “I see that you’re doing better.”
A big, dark, muscular guy leaned forward in the passenger seat, and offered Travon a smile. “How you feelin’?”
Travon recognized him instantly: Big Mike, a member of thenotorious East Terrace Gangstas, or ETGs for short. What Denver Heights was to the Bloods, East Terrace was to the Crips.
When Marcus also recognized Big Mike, his hand began to twitch.
“Shit, I’m all healed up,” Travon told them. “Thanks for helping me out that day, Dejuan. I would probably be dead right now, if it wasn’t for you.”
“Shit, man, you’re my homie’s little brother. Plus, your brother was like my brother. He saved my ass a few times.” Dejuan paused, and then shook his head. “Damn, lil homie. I didn’t want you to move out of the hood. Man, that shit was all fucked up. Them niggaz be trippin’ too much. We at war with them fools right now.”
Eastside Page 4