Not long after I received the tattoo I got more depressing news from the ’hood. C-Ball, who had been in the ’hood for years, had shot and killed Tray Stone. From what I was able to gather it was over a cassette tape stolen out of C-Ball’s car. But after doing a bit more research I uncovered a possible link in a relationship with a female whose brother was from the ’hood. It was my overstanding that C-Ball was jealous of Stone’s flirtations with the female and that he’d only used the tape issue as camouflage. Supposedly Stone was confronted on the north side by C-Ball, who was armed with a .32 caliber revolver, as Stone had grown too large for C-Ball to fight. When C-Ball asked after his missing tape, Stone became belligerent. C-Ball then fired one round at point-blank range into Stone’s torso. Stone fell to the ground and said, “Ah, cuz, he shot me,” as if he could not believe it. He died thereafter.
C-Ball turned himself in and received eight years. Now the debate was about what to do with C-Ball. Tray Stone was the highest level of combat soldier and was loved deeply by those whom he fought for and beside. C-Ball, while not a combat soldier, had been in service to the set for years, much longer than Stone. Those of us in the combat wing who favored Stone were calling for the on-sight execution of C-Ball, while the voices of the traditionalists in their armchair posture rang just as loudly for the forgiveness of C-Ball for slaying “Tray Stone the bully.” The set remained divided over this for quite some time. Even today there are those on both poles of the issue still debating what’s right and what’s wrong. I have let it rest. Stone was eighteen years old.
I was paroled out of Y.T.S. on March 7, 1984. Mom and Tamu were there to pick me up. Li’l Bro and I had been at Y.T.S. for one year.
8. TAMU
“Slow down!” I yelled at Tamu as she zoomed through traffic, dodging and darting between trucks and cars. I had been confined for three years and had lived practically at a standstill, moving from place to place inside the institution only by foot. Even then my stroll was slow and cool with an obvious sway of gang culture. But now here I was, stuffed into the back seat of this red Toyota Tercel with Tamu and Mom sitting up front, chatting away, flying along the Pomona Freeway headed for Los Angeles.
“Tamu, did you hear me? Slow this damn thang
“Babes,” she said, almost turning completely around in her seat.
“Don’t turn around, watch the road!”
“I’m only doing fifty-five. It’s the regular speed limit.”
“Why it seem like we doin’ two hundred, then?”
“’Cause you ain’t been in no car in years, babes.”
“I ain’t gonna never make it home, you keep drivin’ like this.”
“Oh, boy, relax,” Mom said. “You picked a fine time to be scared of something.”
“I ain’t scared, I just—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tamu said, giving Mom a we-really-know look.
I tried to relax, but I couldn’t shake the excitement of being out. The last thing I wanted was to crash on the way home and fail the mission of coming back. Besides, this damn Toyota was awfully small for me. I was huge, muscles bulging from everywhere. Tamu and I kept making eye contact in the mirror, both our gazes dripping with lust. What would it be like to be with her again, I wondered? Even that seemed a bit frightening.
Cars zoomed past, irate drivers flipping fuck-you signs in our direction. I looked over Tamu’s shoulder at the speedometer: fifty miles per hour. She had slowed down, but still we seemed to be moving at an alarming pace. Of all things to die from, I didn’t want to go out in a traffic accident.
We swooped through downtown and up and over into South Central. It was dusk, and the sun lay somewhere out beyond Venice Beach, slipping into the water and bringing the deadly night to Los Angeles. To my right I saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp hovering over the Coliseum. Perhaps there was some function there. It always amazed me to see that huge football-shaped airship floating effortlessly through the air, displaying an unspoken peace of nongravitational bliss. Over to my left I saw two helicopters dipping, dodging, and cutting through the air in violent twists that telegraphed their aerial pursuit of someone. One helicopter was labeled POLICE, the other SHERIFF. Peace in the air to my right and war above to my left. Good old South Central: nothing really changed.
When we got on Normandie I started reading the walls. The Brims, it seemed, had resurfaced with a little force. Once we passed Gage and moved into our ’hood, the writing became more pronounced, more violently scrawled on things, no doubt the sign of a neighborhood at war. Graffiti, although mainly used for advertising, can also function as messages to enemies—evil spirits—that “this territory is protected and it’s not like we didn’t give you fair warning.” BEWARE OF EIGHT TRAYS was written in several places along Normandie Avenue. I found that amusing. Turning onto Sixty-ninth Street, I felt a pang of nostalgia for the block, my stomping grounds—my space.
As we pulled into the driveway I felt a stab of pain and a sense of loss. None of the homies from my combat unit was there. No one. Although there were at least twelve people from the set, they were not of my clique. Tray Ball was dead, Crazy De was in prison, and Diamond, who I had seen go home from Y.T.S., was already back in for murder. Tray Stone was dead, and my li’l brother was still in Youth Authority. But I did see Joker and Li’l Crazy De, which made it a bit easier to deal with the group. A few people I didn’t know at all.
When Mom opened her car door, a horde of homies rushed to help her out. Someone held the front seat up so I could lumber out of the constricting back seat. Once I had gotten out and stood to my full height, the comments from the homies fell from everywhere.
“Goddamn, cuz, you swoll like a muthafucka!”
“Damn, check dis nigga out.”
“Cuz’ arms big as my head.”
“What was they feedin’ you, Monsta, weights?”
I stayed out front a while, answering some of their questions and asking some of my own. Once this grew tiresome I shifted and asked to speak to Li’l Crazy De and Joker alone. We went into the backyard and left the others to mingle out front.
“Cuz,” I began, “I need a gat.”
“Yeah,” responded Joker, “we got some shit for you.”
“Right, right.”
“So, what’s up with them niggas across the way? Y’all been droppin’ bodies or what?”
“Aw, nigga, I thought you knew!” said Li’l Crazy De. “Tell him, Joker.”
“Monsta, we caught this fool the other night in the ’hood writin’ on the wall. Cuz, in the
“I cut his ass down wit’ a thirty-oh-six wit’ a infrared scope!” interrupted Li’l De. “Aw, Monsta, I fucked cuz up! He was like all squirmin’ and shit, sufferin’ and stuff, so—”
“I put this,” Joker said, pulling out a Colt .45 from his waistband, “and KABOOM! To the brain, you know. Couldn’t stand to see the bitch-made muthafucka sufferin’ and shit.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Shit, we ain’t heard yet, but he was probably one of they Baby Locs, ’cause he looked young, you know?”
“Have they rode back?”
“Naw, not that we know of. Most of they shooters in jail like ours.”
“Who killed Opie?”
“Word is that Sissy Keitarock did it. Anyway, cuz in jail fo’ it.”
“Oh, but De, tell cuz how we to’ shit up fo’ Opie,” said Joker excitedly.
“Aw, cuz, we shot so many—”
“Cuz, I need a gat,” I said, trying to insinuate to Li’l De that I wasn’t really interested in his war stories.
“Don’t sweat it, big homie, we got some shit fo’ you, cuz.”
“Anyway—” Li’l De tried to continue.
