you know, and cuz, like he got the best of me.”
When he said that I could have sworn I saw him shrink a few inches.
“So then what happened?”
“When we was leavin’ they started bustin’ at us—”
“Aw, cuz, since you been in jail them muthafuckas been trippin’. But Monster, I want that fool Macc. Cuz, just take me over there. We gotta do somethin.’ They made the ’hood look bad.”
I called up Stag and he came right over. I had Joker explain again what he’d told me. Stag was fuming. His solution was gunboat diplomacy, but I didn’t think that would mend Joker’s pride. He needed to battle Macc personally. I decided that we’d roll over into Hoover eight deep—four in each car, symbolizing the Eight Trays.
The Hoovers had recently consolidated themselves under a new dynamic program called “Hoover Connection.” Their foundation was crack, the new high-profit commodity. All Hoovers who were part of the “Connect” saw Eighty-first as the hub of their new union. Thus at any time of any given day there could be well over two or three hundred Hoovers in attendance. Eighty-first Street between Hoover and Figueroa was without a doubt Hooverland. Ground zero. Everybody would be armed with their weapons openly displayed. When night fell, this street made
We had been tight allies with the Hoovers since we’d both broken away from Tookie’s leadership. Their enemies—which there was no shortage of—became our enemies. We’d entered five wars with them as allies. We went to war with the Neighborhood Blocks, the Underground Crips, the Rollin’ Nineties, the Watergates, and the Raymond Avenue Crips, who had never killed any of our homies. But on the strength of our alliance we’d taken up the call to colors and gone to war on their enemies. When the Hoovers and the East Coasts fell out and began their shooting war, the Hoovers automatically thought we’d go to war with them against that gang. When we opted to sit that one out, it soured our relations with Hoover. To get involved in the Hoover—East Coast conflict could be potentially disastrous for us, as our neighborhood had blood relations in both the East Coasts and the Hoovers. As a result of our nonaggressive posture and steadfast refusal to support either side, emotions were strained all around. It was in this climate that we rolled into Hoover Connect for a head-up fight.
In my car was Stagalee, Joker, and Preacher. In Li’l De’s car was Li’l Stag—since removed and replaced with a firmer soldier—Bink, and Cyco Mike. We rolled to a stop in the midst of some fifty Hoovers standing in the street listening to music. We piled out of our cars. Herm from Eight Tray Hoover recognized me and came over with his hand extended. I took his hand and shook it.
“Where’s Macc at?” I asked, looking for signs of hostility in Herm’s face.
’Oh, cuz ’round here somewhere. Cuz, y’all seen Mace?” he asked of some of his Baby Locs.
“Cuz got point, there he go.”
Macc came strolling across the street with an ?-1 strapped across his back. When he saw me he broke into a wide grin. Me and Macc went way back together. When I got kicked out of Horace Mann and sent to Henry Clay, Macc was my road dog. He took me to his ’hood and made me an honorary Eleven Deuce. He and I were friends, and in this light I could not overstand his maltreatment of my li’l homie.
“What’s up, Big Monsta?”
“Ain’t nuttin’, just coolin’.”
“Eh, cuz, we fin’ to groove to the beach. You wanna bail?”
“Naw, cuz, we got problems. Check this out. Last night you slapped up my young homie, Joker, at X-ray’s party. Now that cuz ain’t bent, he wanna go head up wit’ you.”
“What?” Macc said in disbelief, easing the carbine around so that it was now across his chest.
“You know what’s up, nigga!” Joker blew up, coming through the crowd.
“Cuz, I’ll blow you’ brains out—”
“Naw,” I said, “ain’t gonna be none of that. Cuz wanna scrap head up.”
“Yeah, well, you know what? Like I would get down wit’ you, but my hands is all fucked up from beatin’ yo’ ass last night,” Macc shot back to Joker, but in his statement I heard fear.
“Macc,” shouted a Hooverette, “fuck that nigga up. He don’t come in the Connect talkin’ that shit.”
“Hoova!” shouted another voice. The situation was deteriorating to a lynch-mob atmosphere. The gathering crowd was getting larger and more hostile by the minute. I saw Li’l Crazy De and Stoney from Eight Tray Hoover shooting daggers at each other.
“So what up, Macc?” I asked, eager to turn Joker loose on him.
“Cuz, if you really want to scrap, let’s get it on.”
At that, Macc eased the carbine over his shoulder and handed it to Junebug. A circle was cleared and the scrap was on.
Joker tore into Macc with a vengeance. Macc was outclassed, out-punched, and almost out cold a few times. When Joker knocked Macc to the asphalt he attempted to stomp him, but the crowd surged and it was all we could do to keep from being swarmed. At that, I stopped the fight, which from the jump was clearly one-sided. The only reason that Macc got the best of Joker at the party was because Joker was sloppy drunk.
When Macc gained his composure he grabbed the carbine from Junebug, who had taken off his shirt like he wanted to fight. Macc, whose lips were busted and bleeding, was heaving deeply and looking hard at Joker, who was relaxing against my car.
“All right now, y’all shake hands. That shit is squashed,” I said, trying to break the deadly silence.
“Naw, cuz, this shit ain’t over. I’ma get you, Joker—”
“Naw you ain’t, Macc, ’cause should my li’l homie come up dead behind this, I’ma get
“Cuz, what you sayin’, Monster?”
This was Junebug piping in.
“Y’all on Hoova turf, cuz. Macc could blast y’ all right here right now, or Macc could call it cool. But it’s on Macc”
“Macc,” I started again, totally ignoring what Bug was talking about, “so what’s up? If you still got beef with Joker, y’all can scrap again, but this time it’s gonna be in
“Nigga, you ain’t said nuttin’. Saturday, three o’clock, St. Andrews!” Macc blurted out over swollen lips.
And with that we piled into our cars, but only after we heard several weapons being cocked and loaded. We drove off without incident.
For the entire week that followed we made sure we told everybody about the upcoming brawl with Macc and Joker. Given the tension of the previous Saturday, it could easily develop into a full-scale gang fight.
The following Saturday the turnout in support of Joker was tremendous. Old homies came out of the woodwork in short pants and sweatsuits. G’s nobody had seen in years were there. Hillbilly, Robert Finch, Bacot— who had just served eleven years—Hoodlum, Harv, and Captain Wino were there. Also present was Smokey Joe, Sodici, Sidewinder, X-con, Sneaky T, Bo-Pete, Red Bone, and Goat Mouth. The park was filled with three generations of Eight Trays ready to rumble. Joker was being pampered by the homegirls. Weapons were planted around strategically.
“Here they come!” shouted our sentry, who spotted Moo Moo’s blue truck bending the corner of Eighty-ninth Street. I saw it too, but it was the only vehicle to turn the corner. They were alone. It is not Hoover policy to do anything alone. Something wasn’t right.
The truck pulled to a stop and eight Hoovers came forth, one Hoover representing each street of the Hoover Connection—43nd, 52nd, 59th, 74th, 92nd, 94th, 107th, and 112th. As they lumbered out I recognized hardly any, except Bennose from 107th Street and Macc. But still something wasn’t right. Their faces were disfigured. All of them had been beaten, and bad.
“Cuz,” stammered Macc in barely audible syllables, “we came to squash that shit we got goin’ on wit’ y’all. We fin’ to get wit’ these Sixty niggas. Cuz, they mopped us at the Gladys Knight concert last night.”
“Damn, how many of ’em was it?” I asked.
“Man, they was like two hundred deep.”
“So what’s up then?” asked one of our Baby Locs.
“Come to the truck,” said Ben, and he turned and walked away.
“Bring a gat,” I whispered to Stag, who promptly retrieved the .45 from Bam. We followed the Hoovers out to
