Fly, Lep, Huck, and G.C, who seemed to have lost their will to “get busy” when Tray Ball was locked up. So I went in search of a “road dog,” or best friend.
I had been seeing the name Crazy De written on walls for some time and had a pretty good idea who he was. While walking up the alley one day toward G.C.’s house, I ran into Crazy De. We formally introduced ourselves and I asked him if he wanted to kick it with us. Although he was already from the set, he kicked it with other people. A jovial cat of my age with happy eyes and a Hollywood smile, De became my road dog. He clicked right away with the others, too. I took him over to the “white apartments,” where we had everybody and their parents claiming or sympathizing with our set. He loved it!
From this point on, De and I were inseparable. The set was still relatively small, and everyone knew each other. (When speaking of small here, I mean approximately seventy-five to eighty people. That’s a small set. Today it’s not unusual for sets to be a thousand deep.) Though there were various sides and sections, we all met up at meetings in our park, though this usually occurred only when someone had been killed or some serious infraction had been committed. I continued to see and associate with G.C, Lep, and the others—but it wasn’t the same with Tray Ball missing. He was the glue that bonded us.
Besides this, I had escalated from little homie to homie, and was putting in much work and dropping many bodies. In fact, some shied away from me because I took things, they said, “too serious.” But Crazy De overstood me and my thirst for a reputation—the purpose of all gang members. For I had learned early that there were three stages of reputation to go through before the title of O.G—Original Gangster—would apply righteously:
1. You must build the reputation of your name, i.e., you as an individual;
2. You must build your name in association with your particular set, so that when your name is spoken your set is also spoken of in the same breath, for it is synonymous; and
3. You must establish yourself as a promoter of Crip or Blood, depending, of course, on which side of the color bar you live.
In 1978 I was fourteen, and still working on the first stage. But I had as much ambition, vitality, and ruthlessness to succeed as any corporate executive planning a hostile takeover—a merger was out of the question. Gangbanging in the seventies was totally different than what’s going on today. The gang community on both sides was relatively small, contained in certain areas, and sustained by the few who kept the faith in their belief. Although all gang members are in the military, all gang members are not combat soldiers. Those who are stand out, and
By now, of course, I had acquired my own weapon—a blue steel .44 Bulldog. It was small and fit into my pocket. I kept it on me at all times.
One afternoon my little brother and a friend (both later would become fierce combat soldiers in their own right) were eating chili dogs at Art’s. Frank—my brother’s companion—left his chili dog wrapper on the outdoor table, and it blew to the ground. Eric, who had been hired by Art as not just a cook but a watchdog, was a hothead already and needed little provoking to act like a complete fool. He told my brother to pick up the paper. When my brother explained that it was not his paper, Eric became angry and collared my brother and ripped his shirt. Angry and confused, my little brother went home and got my mother, older brother, and sister.
I was out on a ten-speed, patrolling the ’hood with, of course, my .44. Ironically, I was sitting on the corner of Florence and Normandie Avenue, across from Art’s, when I saw my mother’s car with everyone in it pull to a stop at the light. Here I was, waiting for some action, and it pulled right up—fate, I guess. My older brother signaled for me, so I followed them across the street to Art’s. No one knew I was strapped. As I rode up my older brother was standing there arguing with Eric. Then my brother hit Eric in the face, and they began to fight. I immediately dismounted and rushed up on Eric’s flank to get a hit in, but he was swift and struck me in the ear, knocking me back. All the while my mother was frantically shouting for us to stop, stop the fighting. Mad now, and insulted, I drew my weapon, aimed, and pulled the trigger. CLICK.
“Give me the gun, I’ll shoot him!” my brother exclaimed.
“No, let me shoot him!” I shouted back.
In our battle for control, the gun was now pointing at my mother’s chest.
CLICK.
My mother jumped, and momentarily I was paralyzed with fright. In this instant I let go of the gun and my brother turned and fired into the chili stand.
BOOM! The .44 sounded like a cannon.
CLICK: another empty chamber.
Eric had by now retrieved his shotgun and was on his way out after us. Seeing him coming, both my brother and I turned and ran. We had barely rounded the corner when the report from the shotgun echoed behind us. He chased us through several yards, firing and tearing up people’s property. He fired a total of eight times, but we escaped unscathed—except for our pride. My mother, sister, and little brother also escaped unharmed, though in great fear for us, for they knew not our fate.
After meeting back at home, my mother wanted to send us all out to my uncle’s house in West Covina. We protested and stayed. The next morning, however, while I’m standing at the bus stop waiting to go to school, Eric pulls up and mad dogs me. “What you lookin’ at, punk?” he shouts from the car.
“You muthafucka!” I respond, though scared because he may have a gun and I couldn’t get mine out the house, since after yesterday’s episode Moms was searching me. There were three young ladies standing there, as well, so my pride and integrity were also involved, not to mention my reputation. I had to stand my ground.
Eric leapt from the car, circled from the front, walked up, and hit me in the mouth—bam! I faltered and became indecisive. But in an instant I knew I needed an equalizer, because he lifted his shirt to reveal the butt of a pistol in his waistband. I turned and bolted. Running at top speed with tears streaming down my face, I made my way back home, went right in, got my gun, and trotted back to the bus stop. I was hoping the bus hadn’t come, so that the three girls who saw me get hit could watch me kill him.
Art’s chili dog stand has been on Florence and Normandie since the forties, and it was still in its original decor—open and primarily wood, with big windows facing onto Florence Avenue. The bus stop was across Florence on Normandie. Turning the corner on Seventy-first at a steady trot, I was relieved to find the three girls still there, almost as if waiting for me. Passing them, I heard one say to another, “That boy is crazy!”
I was taking no chances this time; with six rounds ready I stood in the street in front of Art’s on Florence Avenue. Commuter traffic was moderate, so I waited for the light to turn red. Once I saw that I could safely break back across Florence and then to a backyard, I opened fire on Art’s. BOOM! BOOM! Loud baritone echoes cracked the morning stillness, as chunks of wood and shards of glass flew off of Art’s with magical quickness. Cordite filled my nostrils and revenge filled my heart. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! Six shots I emptied into the tiny dwelling, hoping to have killed Eric, who had just opened up for business.
No such luck. I was captured the next day and given sixty days in juvenile hall, but actually only served nineteen due to overcrowding. Once out, my reputation was stronger than ever. Even Eric gave me my props, though grudgingly.
The very next week after my release for the shooting, De, myself, and two members of the Rollin’ Sixties Crips (later the Sixties and my set—the Eight Trays—would become mortal enemies) were on our way to Rosecrans Skating Rink, which was where everybody who was somebody in the gang world went to further promote their name and set. Walking up Manchester Avenue westbound, we passed Pearl’s Gym and Best Yet hair salon. Still within the established boundaries of my set, we came to a halt at the corner of Manchester and Gramercy Place, waiting for the light to change so we could trek on to Van Ness, where our bus was to depart. We heard two reports from what sounded like a .38. The sound came from the direction of Duke’s hamburger stand, which stood on the southeast corner of Gramercy Place off of Manchester Avenue. Duke’s had recently become contested territory, as the Inglewood Family Bloods had begun to frequent it regularly in hopes of establishing it as theirs. (Gangs tend to function as “states” in regard to taking or colonizing territory.)
We looked toward the sound and we saw Fly and Tracc breaking out of Duke’s, running right at us across the
