the truck. When we got there Macc pulled back a burlap covering to reveal a cache of rifles. Not shotguns, but rifles! There had to be at least two dozen there.
“Cuz, is it Hoova-Gangsta or what?” asked Macc to the crowd.
“It’s Gangsta-Hoova, if anything!” someone yelled back.
“Well, let’s show these Sixty niggas what it’s like!”
At that, homies started climbing into the truck, grabbing weapons, and running to their cars. Some stayed in the back of the truck and rode with the Hoovers. When we pulled away from St. Andrews Park, the caravan was sixteen cars deep, with the Hoovers heading it up. The week that followed would be one filled with rumors of sheer terror and mayhem.
It was Sunday, August 27, 1984. As we headed out we ran into Ping from Santana Block, who had two females with him. After we explained to him that we were on our way to the races, the females asked if they could ride with us. I said no, but Li’l Harv simultaneously said yes. We ended up letting them roll with us. We introduced ourselves as Monster and Li’l Harv, which is all it took for them to link us with Eight Tray. They were Sixties and never told us.
When we got to the races, which were largely huge Crip meetings, we asked the two females if they wanted something to eat from Golden Ox across the street. They declined and we walked over to the restaurant to get some food. In front of Winchell’s Donuts we met up with Li’l Marstien and Godfather from 69 East Coast. We talked for a while to Baby Gangster, Twin, and Mondo from Santana Block and when we returned, the females were gone. Harv was upset, as he felt they owed us some pussy for the ride. I said “Fuck ’em” and settled down with my pastrami sandwich. I hadn’t taken two bites before I was frozen stiff with fright.
“Aw, shit!!” is all I heard Li’l Harv say.
And damn, right in front of us was Li’l Fee—Tyquon Cox—and at least twelve other Sixties dressed in all-black suits walking toward my car. I was sitting in the driver’s seat with the door wide open, eating on the pastrami, and Harv was next to me in the passenger seat. By some stroke of good luck they walked right past and never looked our way. The slightest look to the left would have meant a bullet to the head. My weapon was not even reachable from where I was seated. I recognized not only Li’l Fee, who looked like a reptile with almond-shaped eyes that were green or hazel—depending on his mood—but Crazy Keith from Harlem Thirties, who had brought me the horrible news of Tray Ball’s death while we were in Y.T.S. Back then, only a year before, he was talking that “Tray love” shit, using semantics, knowing that Harlem’s allegiance as Thirties was not to the “3” but to the “0,” which automatically allied them with the Sixties and Nineties. On his own, Crazy Keith was likable. But now I saw his true colors.
“Cuz, let’s go. We can get away!” said Li’l Harv, excited, relieved, and happy that we had escaped.
“Fuck that,” I said, reaching for my .38 under the seat. “You know they up here lookin’ fo’ me.”
“Yeah, but they ain’t seen you. We can—”
“Shut up! Listen, take my car to the end of the alley and wait fo’ me. I’ma give these niggas what they come fo’.”
“We could get away.” Li’l Harv was mumbling more to himself than anything else as I got out and he slid over into my seat.
I went into the alley the same way they had and walked to the end, looking slowly out. There I saw two cars parked, both drivers facing the same way. I thought about blasting the drivers, but opted for bigger fish instead. I eased back into the alley and waited for the group to come back my way. It didn’t take long. I heard them laughing and talking amongst themselves and let them all walk past. I let them get about twenty-five feet before standing and taking aim.
“GANGSTA!” I yelled, and squeezed the trigger.
Some ran, some fell, and others hollered. One turned and fired back. It was Li’! Fee. But he had a revolver and was out-gunned. I squeezed off nine rounds then broke across the alley, dropping the clip and pushing in a fresh one. I fired four more shots before the others found the heart to return fire. The big blue dumpster I was behind was catching hell. I spent my remaining five rounds and discarded the empty clip, then slammed in another one and continued my assault. When I had three rounds left I began my retreat.
Their shots came far apart now. I heard screeching tires and screams all around us. A siren wailed in the far-off distance. The Seventy-seventh Division of the LAPD is less than five minutes from Florence and Main. When I was out of danger and able to stand and run, I bolted to where I’d told Harv to wait. He was gone!
I ran back around the side, taking fire from those who were retrieving their wounded, and out onto Florence Avenue. Luckily, I saw Whiteboy Eric and flagged him down for a ride. Back in the ’hood I found Li’l Harv sitting in my car in front of Tray Ball’s house. I opened the door and immediately started pistol whipping him. Disgusted at his cowardice. I left him in the street and went home.
All that night I thought about Crazy Keith. The next morning I called around and got April’s number. She had resurfaced and was supposedly claiming Harlem. If that was the case, I knew she had a line on Keith. I got in touch with her and asked where Keith lived. She claimed not to know, but added that he’d be over her house at eight that evening. Before I hung up she said, “Monster, don’t kill him at my house,” which sent chills through my whole body. If she had set up Twinky, had she been that cool about it?
I called Stag and ran down the previous night’s episode. He was hot. I told him of my plans for that evening and he was all in. Just then Tamu rolled over.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothin’ really. Just gettin’ at Stag.”
“About what? And what did you do last night?”
“Oh, just shot a few people.”
I knew that would stop her from asking questions, and it did.
I took a shower and watched some cartoons with Keonda. She asked if I’d take her to the park and I said I’d see. She was so pure, so clean, so honest. We contrasted sharply. I hoped then that she’d never know her father was a monster, a hunter, and often the hunted. I watched her more than I did the cartoons. Fatherhood. How? When? And most importantly
“… did you hear me?”
“Huh? What?”
“I said, are you hungry?”
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Babes, what’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” I said, and went on watching Keonda watching TV. But I knew what was wrong. I just didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to worry her. I was back in the thick of it and knew that after tonight there’d be no turning back. My neighborhood right, my neighborhood wrong. Right or wrong,
At 7:30 P.M. Stag and I rolled out in the red Toyota Tercel for undercover purposes. I had the .38 in my waistband and Stag had the .44 Bulldog. We headed north on Western Avenue. Our intentions were to correct Keith with minimal damage to others and space back to the ’hood.
We pulled to a stop on Thirty-ninth across from April’s house, facing west. Crazy Keith pulled to a stop in front of her house facing east. He was in Baby Brother’s white ’61 Chevy. We waited to see if he would notice us. He exited the car with a bag that appeared to be a forty-ounce bottle of beer and began walking up to April’s house. The very real possibility existed that April could be setting us up—after all, we weren’t the best of friends—so we moved cautiously.
When his back was turned we left the car and began to creep up on him. He never heard us coming. The only thing that saved him was April answering the door and calling our names. He turned in surprise, so we had to play off like we were just seeing how easy it was to get him. After that he began to relax, never thinking that he had been clocked last night with his cohorts in pursuit of me.
“So, what the Tray like, homie?” he said, popping the top on the Olde English.
“E-T-G, R-S-K!” I said without humor, reminding him I was a Rollin’ Sixties killer. His fake smile started to fade.
