“Naw, I don’t wanna hear that shit, fool. Yo’ punk-ass homies blasted me up, killed my homeboys Twinky, Roach, and Tit Tit. Now you wanna talk that ’hold it’ shit? Get yo’ bitch ass up!
I stepped back so he could get up, but still he wouldn’t move. The half cigarette was now a butt, and he was nervously sucking on it through clenched fingertips. I walked back up to him and put my left foot up on the bench next to him. He would not look me in the eyes.
“Who killed my homeboy Twinky?” I asked, figuring to pump this lame muthafucka for all the information I could before I downed him.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh yeah?” I began. “Who killed my homeboy Roach?”
“I don’t know,” he responded, looking straight ahead. I think he began to ease a bit under questioning, believing this would be my only intrusion.
“Who shot me?”
“Look, I ain’t supposed to tell you who shot yo’ homeboys,” he said, as if he were reminding me of some set rules of warfare agreed upon by both countries in Geneva. This taking of the Fifth would perhaps have been admissible in some American court of law, but in our circle it was not acceptable.
“Muthafucka,” I exploded, “I’ll tell you who shot
“Who killed Zinc?” he asked.
“I killed Zinc!”
“Who killed Popa T.?”
“I killed Popa T.!”
“Who killed Baby O.?”
“Me, muthafucka, me!”
I went on to name a few others I had pushed off this planet, all the while trying to incite him to violence.
“Now,” I said calmly, “who killed Twinky?”
“I don’t know.”
Out of control now, I grabbed him by the collar.
“Sissy, I’ll slap yo’ goddamn head off.”
“If you do I’ll still be from the big Six-O,” he said.
I reared back as far as I could and slapped the hell out of him hard across the face. His hair net flew off from the blow. With little choice he stood up swinging, but he was just a gunfighter and had little skill with his hands. I beat him pretty bad. One of my uppercut blows landed directly in his eye, knocking his head back. He stumbled to a corner holding his eye and pleading for me to stop. I did only because he ceased to resist. All the while his homeboy said nothing, so I stepped over to him.
“What’s yo’ name?” I asked.
“Shakey,” he replied. A fitting name, I remember thinking.
“How long you been from the Sixties?”
“ ’Bout nine months.”
“What you in here fo,’ shootin’ one of my homies?”
“Naw, fo’ shootin’ some Brims.”
In a flash one of the Bloods jumped up and said, “I’m a Brim,” and rushed the Sixty with blinding quickness. For a moment I stood indecisive. After all, the Sixties were Crips. Shouldn’t I help him get the Blood—which was
The rumbling was too loud against the door so the soldier-cops came in and seized both Shakey and the Blood. At this time the other Blood spoke up and made his exit to safety with his comrade. T-Bone stayed, and I pumped him for all the information I could.
That day in court my trial date was set. T-Bone was remanded to the custody of the sheriff’s department, which meant he was coming to the juvenile tank. When he arrived the next day he had miraculously stopped banging. He was put on Able row. His eye was so discolored and bloodshot that he was given the new name of Tangle-Eye. After that, whenever any drama of significance took place with our ’hoods on the street, I beat Tangle-Eye for it. When Li’l Crazy De was shot—for the third time—I hurt Tangle-Eye bad. To offset my wanton abuse of him, Cyco Mike got Tangle-Eye claiming he was with Main Street, and because we had no beef with Main Street, he was able to enjoy a bit of immunity.
In the course of our slob game late one night we found the real Bloods. I was feeling at a loss for someone to beat up. One of the Bloods was Bingo from Bounty Hunter and the other was Weeble Wooble from Mad Swan. Both were from the east side of Los Angeles and neither had killed any of my homies, though we had suspected the Swans of desecrating our homie Cocaine’s body while it lay in wake near their ’hood. We’d arrived late to find that Cocaine had been stabbed repeatedly in the face with a screwdriver and that multiple red flags had been thrown into the casket. But their part in this was mere speculation.
The most eager to put hands on the two Bloods were the Grape Streets, whose worst enemy was the Bounty Hunters, and the East Coasts, whose worst enemy was the Mad Swans. Those poor Bloods. Up until the following day we had them believing that we were all Bloods. We’d lead into a topic about so-and-so having been shot, and they’d finish the story off. When our rumors proved false, they’d correct it for the record: “Uh-uhn, Blood, that was my homie so-and-so who kilt that crab.” This went on through the night. We even signed off with “Blood love” before going to sleep.
The next day was Doomsday. We fell into the dayroom that evening feeling ecstatic, excitement in the air. Right up until we began tying blue flags around our knuckles, the Bloods thought they were among their own. No one said anything, everyone just prepared. The Grape Streets moved on Bingo first. The sight was inexplicable: within seconds he was unidentifiable. This was a standard beat-down. The other, however, is worth detailing.
Weeble Wobble was a stocky little guy with a full beard. Monk, from East Coast, said his name had a little weight to it on the east side. He, like the rest of us, had a murder. He had little beady eyes that darted around nervously, and the left side of his mouth quivered. I doubted it was because he was scared, though, because he didn’t seem to be. He answered all our questions in an even voice.
Monk had a bit more tact than the Grape Streets, who just pounced on Bingo. Monk questioned Weeble Wooble at length about people, places, and events that had transpired over the years between their ’hoods. Weeble Wobble, as if knowing his fate and wanting to confess his sins, spilled his guts. But he did so admirably, proudly conveying the missions he had been on and who had fallen by his hand. Just as I admired Monk’s professionalism in handling this prisoner of war, I had to acknowledge the sincerity of the prisoner. Not once did he falter during his debriefing, not once did he stutter.
When Monk was satisfied that he had bled him of all that he needed, he called for Dirt to bring a cup. Everyone looked baffled. It was enough to be civil in questioning the prisoner, but to now offer him a drink was a bit out of our range of diplomacy. Nevertheless, we all waited to see what Monk had up his sleeve. Monk had done some irrational shit in his day and was not beyond pulling a twist. When he got the cup from Dirt (Dirt’s brother’s name was Mud; they were both there for killing Jessie James from Blood Stone Villain) it was empty, which didn’t seem to bother Monk too much. He simply pulled out his dick and filled the cup. And then, as if it were beer, he nonchalantly handed it to Weeble Wobble who, to our surprise, took it. Well goddamn, I thought, this shit was going too smoothly, almost as if rehearsed.
“Drink it,” Monk ordered. Only now did his voice show strains of anger, betraying the cool look on his face.
“Wait a minute, Monk, I—”
“Drink it!” Monk exploded with fury, completely out of control now.
Without further protest Weeble Wobble drank the acrid liquid, spilling droplets on his beard as he tipped the cup. Once he had finished and put the cup down Monk tore into him with a vengeance. Everyone wanted to rat-pack him, but Monk insisted on it being head up. Weeble Wobble tried to dance about and put up a little resistance, but he had been so demoralized by the debriefing and the urine drinking that his response was simply no match for the swiftness and physical skill of Monk. Every punch Monk threw was with pinpoint accuracy, splitting Weeble Wobble’s lip with a left jab, then doubling back with an overhand right, opening a gushing wound above his right eye. Body
