thought, would overrun the ’hood if no one rallied the troops. Then, too, I felt an obligation to Tamu. She hadn’t got pregnant alone. Besides, the child would be a totally innocent party in this matter and deserved a fair chance.
In those months of consternation I shot more than a few civilians as my concentration was continually broken with zigzag thoughts of my future. On July 28, 1980, I got a call from the hospital.
“I’m in labor,” I heard Tamu’s voice squeak over the phone. “Are you coming here?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I’m comin’,” I responded as all my confusion and indecisiveness boiled up and over the brink of comprehension.
I got my coat out of the closet in a complete daze, not knowing exactly what to do. I reached under my pillow and took hold of my 9 millimeter, checking the clip—fourteen shots. I was past the days of half-loaded weapons. Shit had escalated to the point where individuals were being sought for extermination. I, of course, was on at least three sets’ “most wanted” lists. Walls told the story. In fact, enemies spray-painted my name on walls in death threats more often than I did to advertise.
Wearing my fresh Pendleton shirt, beige khakis, and biscuits (old-men comfort shoes, the first shoe officially dubbed a “Crip shoe”), I threw on my black bomber jacket and stepped out into the warm summer night. I walked up Sixty-ninth Street to Western Avenue and took a car at gunpoint. Still in a state of indecision, I drove toward the hospital.
I intentionally drove through Sixties ’hood. Actually, I was hoping to see one of them before I had made it through, and what luck did I have. There was Bank Robber, slippin’ (not paying attention, not being vigilant) hard on a side street. I continued past him and turned at the next corner, parked, and waited. He would walk right to me.
Sitting in the car alone, waiting to push yet another enemy out of this existence, I reflected deeply about my place in this world, about things that were totally outside the grasp of my comprehension. Thoughts abounded I never knew I could conjure up. In retrospect, I can honestly say that in those moments before Bank Robber got to the car, I felt free. Free, I guess, because I had made a decision about my future.
“Hey,” I called out to Robber, leaning over to the passenger side, “got a light?”
“Yeah,” he replied, reaching into his pants pocket for a match or lighter. I never found out which.
I guess he felt insecure, because he dipped his head down to window level to see who was asking for a light.
“Say your prayers, muthafucka.”
Before he could mount a response I blasted him thrice in the chest, started the car, and drove home to watch “Benny Hill.” Bangin’ was my life. That was my decision.
The next day I woke up feeling good. I got a call from China and we talked briefly about my decision. She had been totally bent out of shape by the fact that I had gotten a civilian pregnant. She felt disrespected, as she thought she was all I needed in a woman—lover, comrade, shooter, driver, etc. She didn’t overstand.
I have always been intensely private, or at least I’ve always wanted a side of me to remain private. Being with Tamu in her world afforded me this opportunity. It was an escape to a peaceful enclave for a couple of hours. The places she took me, bangers didn’t frequent.
This was before the influx of narcotics, primarily crack. We were all of the same economic status—broke. Now, with so many “ghetto rich” homeboys from every set, no place is beyond the grasp of bangers. I needed those escapes to maintain sanity. Often I felt that I was carrying the weight of the whole set on my shoulders.
On a chilly October night in 1980, about twenty homeboys were assembled in front of the blue apartments on Eightieth Street when a ’64 Chevy came barreling down the street with its occupants hanging out holding guns— long-barreled shotguns. Instinctively, we took cover. Instead of shooting, they just hollered their set—Sixties— disrespected ours, and kept on going.
Though I didn’t know it at the time, simultaneously, four blocks away on Eighty-fourth Street, Twinky and his girlfriend were arguing. April wanted to go home that night instead of spending the night again. Twinky had no problem with that, but it was almost midnight. April insisted on being walked to the bus stop. Twinky gave in. Taking his .25 automatic along, they made their way to the nearest bus stop, at Eighty-third and Western. April lived on Sixty-second and Harvard in Blood ’hood. Once at the bus stop, they stood and talked about different things concerning the set. April was China’s road dog, and a homegirl, too.
Suddenly Twinky spotted the Chevy, which we had identified as Pretty Boy’s car. He pulled out his weapon to fire on the car, but April grabbed his hand, saying he should let them go on, they weren’t bothering anybody, and that they probably hadn’t even seen them. Twinky put away his strap.
Not three minutes later, the Sixties crept up from behind and fired one round from the long-barreled shotgun, striking Twinky in his upper left side below the armpit—basically a heart shot. Twinky, in shock, ran across the street and collapsed. The shooters sped away. Twinky’s mother and younger brother, Jr. Ball—also a homeboy— were retrieved. It’s been reported that in his last moments Twinky said repeatedly, “Mama, I’m gonna be good, I ain’t gonna bang no more Mama, I’m gonna be good.”
He died soon after with buckshot in his heart. Twinky was fourteen years old. At approximately 3:00 the next morning I was awakened by a call from Twinky’s mother. I still did not know of his death.
“Kody,” she said in an icy voice unfamiliar to me, “they killed my baby last night, they killed my James last night.”
Then she started screaming frantically. “Who?” I managed to say through her screams.
“The motherfuckin’ Sixties! Come over here
I dressed quickly, strapped down, and rode my bicycle the twenty-four blocks to her house without so much as a care about security or the wind-chill factor. I had not put Twinky on the set, but I dug him. He was a stalwart soldier and would have been a Ghetto Star.
On Thanksgiving, 1979, he, another homie—Li’l Doc—and I were walking down the street. I was strapped with a .22 revolver and Li’l Doc had a .44. No sooner had I handed the gun to Twinky than the police rolled up on us. Twinky was captured with the strap; Doc and I ran. He had just gotten out of camp, and now he’d been murdered.
Grieving, I made my way up their drive and knocked at the door. It was opened by Jr. Ball with a fixed expression of grief and anxiety on his face. Stepping inside, I could feel the tension. In the living room I saw four guns on the coffee table—two shotguns and two revolvers. I looked from the guns to Twinky’s mother, her face a mask of steel, eyes burning like hellfire. Doc came in after me. Once both of us were seated, Twinky’s mother got to her feet and walked around to us.
“Those guns belonged to James,” she said, picking up one revolver and then another. “He would want you to have them. He would also want you to use them. You were his homeboys, his friends, and because of this I have called you two over here to tell you personally… I don’t want to ever see you again if you can’t kill them motherfuckers that killed my boy! You bring me newspapers, you make the news, but you better do something to avenge my son’s death!”
I just sat and looked up at her with total admiration. Damn, she was down.
“But first,” she continued, “I want you two to come to April’s house with me.”
She grabbed her car keys and we both followed her out to her car. Once inside the car she explained that Jr. Ball had been unnerved by Twinky’s death and had, that night, abdicated his oath to the ’hood. He could not be relied on for a retaliatory strike.
In front of April’s house we sat momentarily, then Twinky’s mother got out… with a revolver. Standing widelegged on April’s grass, she opened fire, emptying six rounds into her house. I thought about doing likewise, but I felt she needed to do that alone.
Back in the car she said she honestly felt that April had set Twinky up to be ambushed and that, she added, we should kick April off the set. I told her I’d talk to China about it.
Rumors about April’s survival and Twinky’s death spread. “Why hadn’t April been shot?” and “Why did she instruct him not to shoot?” Rumors and ill feelings intensified when April went into hiding. Not long after that she was specifically targeted and a hit was put on her.
We made the 5:00 P.M. news that day and the day after. On our third night we found the Sixties ’hood empty.
