Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 17

"So then what happened?"

"When we was leavin' they started bustin' at us-"

"What?!" I said in disbelief.

"Aw, cuz, since you been in jail them m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas 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 New Jack City look like a boys' club.

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, n.i.g.g.a!" 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 sc.r.a.p head up."

"Yeah, well, you know what? Like I would get down wit' you, but my hands is all f.u.c.ked up from beatin' yo' a.s.s last night," Macc shot back to Joker, but in his statement I heard fear.

"Macc," shouted a Hooverette, "f.u.c.k that n.i.g.g.a up. He don't come in the Connect talkin' that s.h.i.t."

"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 sc.r.a.p, 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 sc.r.a.p was on.

Joker tore into Macc with a vengeance. Macc was outcla.s.sed, 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 s.h.i.t is squashed," I said, trying to break the deadly silence.

"Naw, cuz, this s.h.i.t 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 you. Now, if you-"

"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 sc.r.a.p again, but this time it's gonna be in Gangstaland at St. Andrew's Park."

"n.i.g.g.a, you ain't said nuttin'. Sat.u.r.day, 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 c.o.c.ked 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 Sat.u.r.day, it could easily develop into a full-scale gang fight.

The following Sat.u.r.day the turnout in support of Joker was tremendous. Old homies came out of the woodwork in short pants and sweatsuits. G's n.o.body 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 s.h.i.t we got goin' on wit' y'all. We fin' to get wit' these Sixty n.i.g.g.as. Cuz, they mopped us at the Gladys Knight concert last night."

"d.a.m.n, 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 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 n.i.g.g.as 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 Winch.e.l.l's Donuts we met up with Li'l Marstien and G.o.dfather 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 p.u.s.s.y for the ride. I said "f.u.c.k 'em" and settled down with my pastrami sandwich. I hadn't taken two bites before I was frozen stiff with fright.

"Aw, s.h.i.t!!" is all I heard Li'l Harv say.

And d.a.m.n, right in front of us was Li'l Fee-Tyquon c.o.x-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 pa.s.senger 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" s.h.i.t, 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.

"f.u.c.k 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 n.i.g.g.as 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 h.e.l.l. I spent my remaining five rounds and discarded the empty clip, then slammed in another one and continued my a.s.sault. 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 where? The park she knew was a vast gra.s.sland with a sandbox and swings. In actuality, it was a meeting and mounting place for one of many warring factions in South Central. It was a target area for rivals and a cemetery for the ignorant. She was oblivious to all that made up her surroundings.

". . . 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, my neighborhood.

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 s.p.a.ce 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.

"What's up, Stag?" he said, trying to switch-hit, hoping to find some humor in Stag, or at least a reprieve. I'm sure that at that point he suspected I knew, as I had said it.

"Cuz, what you got against me?" I asked Keith. April excused herself and went into the house. "Or, what you got against my 'hood?"

"Nuttin', Monster, you and me been cool. You know I ain't beefin' wit' you." He was taking big gulps of the forty, perhaps his last drink.

"Keith, Keith, Keith," I began, doing the Michael Corleone scene with Rocco, who had set Sonny up. "I saw you. Now don't lie to me."

"Cuz, they said it was just business. That's on the 'hood, they said it was strictly business-"

"Who said that?"

"Li'l Fee and the Raymonds. They-"

"Raymonds?!" asked Stag.

"Yeah, it was us, the Sixties, and the Raymonds. But cuz, it wasn't nuttin' personal."

"So it's just business when I blow your f.u.c.kin' brains all over this m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' porch, huh?"

"Uh . . . uh . . . "

"Huh?!"

"Naw, Monster, wait. I know where they be hangin' out at. All of 'em. Cuz, they there right now. They tryin' to start this syndicate thang on the west side and say you a problem, so you gotta go. It's for the betterment of the Crip Nation!"

"You believed that punk s.h.i.t? n.i.g.g.a, you out yo' f.u.c.kin' mind. They can't kill me, fool, I'm already dead, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka!"

I drew my weapon and grabbed Keith by the collar, putting the barrel to his temple. I watched the sweat pour down over his face.

"Monster, wait, please man, hold it. We can go right now and bust on them n.i.g.g.as. I ain't down wit' them."