Turning right on Harvard Boulevard, I saw two Chicanos leaning against a brown Gremlin, talking. Both, I guessed, were from FI3. We had no beef with them. Further down the block I saw three cats who looked my age leaning against a van, talking and drinking beer. Bingo—enemies. I rode to within a house distance, approximately twenty to twenty-five feet, and made a circle to make sure they saw me. On my final loop I came up blasting.
DOOM! DOOM! DOOM!
“Ah, Blood, I’m hit!”
“Run!” screamed a distant voice. “Just keep running’!”
One Blood lay motionless in the street. The other two were pinned behind a tree. The van took the majority of my rounds.
DOOM! DOOM!
The .45 had the low, slow baritone of a big bass.
When I heard no other noise, I took off, retaining one round. Peddling as quickly as possible straight down Harvard, across Gage Avenue, and into the peripheral interior of my ’hood, I felt like a Native American on horseback retreating back to my camp after slaying the enemy. I made a left on Sixty-seventh Street and relaxed a bit. On Denker I turned right and made my way home. I put the bike in the garage and entered the house. I went to my room and fell asleep. I slept very well.
“You may tie your shoes in the morning, but the mortician may untie them at night,” Alma, Crazy De’s mother, was telling us as we waited for De to gear up. She knew we were up to no good.
Dressed heavily and in dark gear, Diamond, Tray Stone, and I sat on the couch, oblivious to anything Alma was saying. Our minds had long been locked on our upcoming mission. For once in a long time, we had gained the initiative in the conflict with the Sixties. We knew we had to keep up the pressure. Tonight would be but another offensive strike in a series of military maneuvers we had been conducting in the Sixties ’hood to wear down their resistance. We had made so many successful runs in and out of the Sixties that we arrogantly began calling ourselves the Demolition Squad. We had been seen so often by so many civilians that as of late we were getting waves and head nods. We simply waved back.
Our missions were successful largely because we had logistical help from the LAPD CRASH units. For four nights in a row now, we had been getting helpful hints from “our friends” in blue—as they liked to refer to themselves. “But,” they’d quickly add, “we are from the Seventy-seventh Street gang, which just happens to not get along with the Rollin’ Sixties.”
Ignorant, very eager, and filled with a burning hatred for the “enemy,” we ate that shit up. We never realized that the Seventy-seventh Street gang didn’t get along with anybody in the New Afrikan community.
“Hey, Monster,” a tomato-faced sergeant said, “I tell you, them goddamn Sixties are talking about murdering you on sight.”
“Oh yeah, who?”
“Peddie, Scoop, Kiki, and a few others. If I were you I’d keep my gun close at hand, ’cause those boys seem mighty serious.”
“Yeah, well fuck the Sixties. They know where I’m at.”
“Yeah, but do you know where
“Naw, you?”
Then, calling me to the car in a secretive manner he said, “They on Fifty-ninth Street and Third Avenue. All the ones I just mentioned who’ve been bad-mouthing you. I was telling my partner here that if you were there they’d be scared shitless. If you get your crew and go now, I’ll make sure you are clear. But only fifteen minutes. You got that?” he added with a wink and a click of the tongue.
“Yeah, I got it. But how I know you ain’t settin’ me up?”
“If I wanted to put you in jail, Monster, I’d arrest you now for that gun in your waistband.”
Surprised, I said, “Righteous,” and stepped away from the car.
We mounted up and went over to Fifty-ninth and Third Avenue. Sure enough, there they were. And just as he had said, we encountered no police.
This was our fifth night out in collaboration with “our friends” in blue. We had a .22 magnum that shot nine times. I had loaded it myself with long hollow points. But first we went in search of a car to use on the mission. Jack at gunpoint for a vehicle with the .22. Once the vehicle was secured, we’d go and get more heavy weaponry for the mission.
It had been two weeks since I was released. China was complaining that I didn’t spend enough time with her, that all I did was think about the Sixties. Since Li’l G.C.’s capture for murder, she seemed to have lost some of her ability to be confrontational with the enemy. She still walked, talked, and dressed gangster, but since my release she had not gone on one mission with me. In 1980, she was putting in much work. Now she wanted to be loved in a way that I could not approach seriously. I loved her, for sure, but I was far from being a romantic. I felt threatened by romanticism, thinking that perhaps I’d like it more than banging. So I shied away from it.
So much had happened since the start of the conflict. Before the war, we—as a set—were more like a family than a gang. Picnics, collective awareness, unity, and individual freedom abounded. Sure we struck out at foes, but it was all in keeping with traditional Red and Blue rivalries. Business, strictly business. We had one dead, one wounded.
Now, in 1981, we had three dead at the hands of the Sixties and numerous—too numerous to note— wounded. As soon as the war started, freak accidents seemed to befall us. Cocaine was killed by Mexicans in a burglary attempt. Bam was allegedly killed by one of our own. Dirty Butch was run over by a car. D.B. was stabbed to death by a wino. Some Bounty Hunters kicked in Joe Joe’s door and shot his mother and brother.
Also, many had been captured. G.C was given fifteen years to life. Big Spike, Dumps, Fred Jay, and Li’l Jay received sentences ranging from four years to twenty-five to life. Madbone had been captured for murder and given seven years straight. Time Bomb and Harv Dog had also been captured for murder.
Gangster Brown’s house was being shot up three nights a week, and the summer hadn’t even come yet. The set sagged miserably under so much, so fast. In as little as a nine-month period, we had gone from being a happy extended family with an infrastructure capable of meeting many of the needs of those driven to the street, for whatever reason, to an exclusive military machine. By June 1981 those who had stuck it out were well-seasoned veterans who could be compared to Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol Soldiers in Vietnam. There was nothing else for us but war, total war.
After no success whatsoever in finding a vehicle to commandeer, Crazy De, Tray Stone, Diamond, and myself found ourselves clear up in the Rollin’ Nineties—not one of our more cordial neighbors—before we decided to double back toward the ’hood. Diamond was in control of the strap. We walked down the adjacent alley off Western Avenue in twos, ever on alert. When we got to Eighty-ninth Street, we crossed Western hoping to catch a victim in Thrifty’s parking lot. There were none.
We decided to try St. Andrews park. We walked the length of St. Andrews to Eighty-seventh Street, and there we found a civilian waxing a custom van. Just the thing we needed—a van. This meant more shooters could be secreted inside. More shooters meant more deaths. We stepped to the vic—the victim.
“Hey, man,” I began spiritedly, as if I were really impressed by his van. “This is a clean van.”
“Yeah, you like it?” said the civilian, who stood about six foot three and looked to weigh about three hundred pounds.
“Hell, yeah,” said Tray Stone, “this muthafucka’s tight.”
The civilian then took in our attire and demeanor and, amped on adrenaline, looked everywhere but at his van.
“Yeah, I work hard for my things,” he said nervously and then, as if expecting something, he added, “too hard.”
At that, Diamond swung into motion. It all seemed rehearsed, we had done it so many times. One step back, draw the weapon, and instruct the vic to lie down on his stomach. Then, either Tray Stone or I would frisk the vic, taking anything he had. We treated the women much better than the men. We’d never rape the women, nor would we take the whole purse.
But this time when Diamond swung into motion his action was countered, as if the vic was a mind reader. When Diamond made his step backward the vic took one step forward, and when Diamond reached for his
