Monster: The Autobiography of an L.A. Gang Member Part 2

China's well-kept house sat smack in the middle of the block on Eightieth Street, our newest possession in our latest recruitment drive. I would imagine that our aggressive conquering of territory in those days, and still today, resembled Hitler's sweep through Europe.

The apartment complex on the left end of the block off of Normandie Avenue became our base for this block. We have since referred to it as the "blue apartments." We had "lost" the "white apartments" on Sixty-fifth Street to Bloods while I was a prisoner in youth camp. The battle, I'm told, was fierce, but not worth the price. Although we suffered no fatalities, our wounded and MIA list grew steadily. Besides this, the Brims, whom the battle was with, had called in reinforcements from the Rollin' Twenties Bloods. The white apartments thus pa.s.sed to the Reds and new ground was sought.

Eightieth Street was just one street out of many that fell under our jurisdiction. The mechanics involved in taking a street, or territory, is not unlike any attempt, I would a.s.sume, on behalf of early Euro-American settlers. Send in a scout, have him meet the "natives," test their hostility level, military capabilities, needs, likes, and dislikes. Once a military presence is established, in come the "citizens"-in this case, gang members. Those who are not persuaded by our lofty presence will be persuaded by our military might. All who are of fighting age become conscripts. The set expands, and so does our territory. Sometimes there is resistance, but most of the time our efforts are successful. China's younger brother was one of our first recruits from Eightieth. Recommended by China and sponsored by me, he became Li'l G.C.

"Listen now, Kody," Ben continued in a deep baritone, p.r.o.nouncing every syllable of every word. "You have got to stop p.u.s.s.yfooting around with your life. We are quickly becoming a technological country, and computers are going to overtake manual labor. What that means is-"

A shot rang out, cutting Ben's monologue short. For an instant I thought he himself had been hit; he was belly down on the floor. Another shot resounded, this time a shotgun blast.

Jumping to my feet I headed to the front door, opened it, and ran out onto the porch. My heart was pumping, but my adrenaline was urging me on. Looking first to the right, toward the blue apartments, and then to the left, in the direction of Halldale, I spotted a burgundy Cutla.s.s creeping down the street, a shotgun barrel in the pa.s.senger's hand barely visible through the open window.

Jumping the Creeping Charlie plants on the porch, which grew in huge flower pots, I darted into the street. Pulling out my chrome .25 automatic, recently put on the set by a new recruit, I began firing at the car. The car sped away. I kept firing at its rear as it turned left on Normandie Avenue.

I turned and bolted toward Halldale to a.s.sess the damage of their ride-by. Once I reached that corner I heard Dee Dee, Butchy's sister, hollering. At first I couldn't make out just what she was saying in the midst of the escalating confusion. Civilians had come out of their homes, and homeboys were starting to gather in front of China's house. Then it dawned on me.

"Monster, here they come, they comin' back . . ."

d.a.m.n, I was out of sh.e.l.ls! No sooner had I turned to run and take cover, thinking I'd be shot in the back, then a black-and-white police car hit the corner and all but ran into the shooters' car. The police pulled their weapons and ordered the occupants out of the car and face down in the street. We all gathered to identify our enemies-not to help the police, but for our own intelligence.

There were three occupants, a .38 service revolver, and a pump shotgun, sawed off at the barrel for a spraying effect and sawed off at the stock for stealth and close combat. One shooter we knew-Bank Robber; the other two were obviously new recruits, probably putting in work for the first time. They were members of the Rollin' Sixties. My response went virtually unnoticed by the police, though I saw two holes in the pa.s.senger door. No one inside was. .h.i.t. The shooters were taken away amid death threats and shouts of revenge. In the absence of the police, the car was promptly torn up and set ablaze. Ten minutes later the impound came and scooped up the remains.

On my trek by China's house on my way to the blue apartments I encountered Dot and Ben on their front lawn.

"Kody." Dot started in on me first. "You don't be runnin' toward no gunfire, you run from it. You could have been killed!"

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, grateful that they hadn't seen me firing on the car. Apparently Dot had dived for cover as well, joining Ben on the floor. "I just thought that one of my friends had been hurt."

"Well, G.o.ddammit, you are not Superman, boy," Ben said. "You could not have possibly helped anyone in such a crisis." He p.r.o.nounced crisis like Nixon speaking on the energy crisis.

"You're right, Ben, I lost my head," I replied and put one foot in front of the other, trying to exit the conversation and get to the blue apartments to mount a retaliation.

"Where you going now?" Dot retorted with genuine concern. "Ain't nothin' but police out here."

"To the apartments to check on my little brother," I lied and kept on stepping.

At the apartments I was congratulated by the homies for a proper response, but I shook their flattery off. s.h.i.t, I wanted to know how, after I had alerted everyone to enemy presence, the shooters were still able to make it off the block and come back around to shoot again? Heads dropped and gestures of dismay abounded. I looked on in disgust, thinking then that I was the only serious one in this.

For the past five years I had gotten up every morning and ironed my gear with thoughts of nothing else but doing propaganda for the set. I did this with all the zeal of a religious fanatic.

Until I was nine years old we had lived on Hillcrest Drive in the Crenshaw district. This is a moderate middle-cla.s.s neighborhood of block after block of spa.r.s.e lawns, well-paved streets and shady trees. My mother and stepfather had lived there since 1965. This neighborhood is now Rollin' Sixties 'hood. Up until 1980 my mother still shopped at Buddah Market on Slauson Avenue, owned and operated by Orientals.

In the summer of 1980 my mother asked me to accompany her to Buddah Market to shop. I refused with vigor, but my resistance was in vain. Mom didn't overstand the complexity of our conflicts with other gangs. We are trying to kill each other. Up till then she always took my spiel about our seriousness as melodramatic exaggeration.

I went to Buddah Market with her that day-and I weighed two pounds extra. I had a Browning 9 millimeter with fourteen shots. It was an unusually bright afternoon, and I recall feeling light and almost happy, content actually. Riding up Slauson past Crenshaw I remember tensing and cringing as I read line after line of their graffiti on walls and buildings. Amusing myself, I jokingly asked Mom to pull over so I could cross them out. In return I got a "you d.a.m.n fool" look. Then I noticed Mom's face cloud over with what I took to be utter helplessness. Ironically, I never gave stopping an inkling of a thought. This was my career, my "calling," as church folks say when someone does one thing real well.

We traveled further west past West Boulevard, pa.s.sing our old street. We both looked to the right briefly. Turning into Buddah Market's parking lot, I tightened my belt and gave my appearance the once-over. G-down (short for "gangster down," or dressed in gang attire) in my gear, I had on blue khaki pants, white canvas All-Stars, and a blue sweatshirt, with my hair in braids. Brownies-brown garden gloves worn by gang members for fighting and shooting-hung halfway out of my right back pocket, and a blue flag hung out my left. Crips wear their left ear pierced and their flag in the left back pocket. Bloods are on the right.

"Why don't you tuck in that old rag," Mom blurted out while she gave herself the once-over.

"It's not a rag, Mom, it's a flag," I said, wishing she would for once see my seriousness here.

This was not some awkward stage of my life. This was a job to me, and I was employed full-time, putting in as much overtime as possible. Life from that vantage point seemed to be one big test of show and prove, pick and stick.

Mom went through her usual greetings with the Orientals. They had known each other for years.

I was on point. Not only was I in jeopardy, but with me I had Mom, who I was sure would try to talk an enemy into doing an about-face. Fat f.u.c.king chance of that happening, I remember thinking.

"You remember my son Kody, don't you?"

"Yes, yes," I heard the Oriental woman saying amid other comments such as "he's so big, so strong looking." After a few other exchanges we started down an aisle. Canned goods, no interest here.

"Mom, I'm going over to the cereal section," I said and stepped quickly so she couldn't call me back.

Turning the corner at the end of the aisle, I felt relieved to be alone, both for my safety and Mom's. I had every intention of going to the cereal section when I was distracted by a nice-looking young lady in produce. I made a beeline for the vegetables, and that's when I saw him. d.a.m.n! Enemy! Enemy! My adrenaline alarm was going off. Sonic booms of heartbeat filled my ears. My throat got tight and my movements became automatic. We both reached for our waistbands simultaneously. The young lady had still not looked up from her inspection of the vegetables, yet the tranquil surroundings of an otherwise routine shopping trip were about to explode around her.

I managed the drop and drew first. He was still drawing his weapon. s.h.i.t, had this been "Baretta," or "Barnaby Jones," he would have thrown his hands up and surrendered. Not bothering to aim, I fired.

BOOM!.

Confusion and chaos swept the aisle like buckshot, screams following in quick succession. d.a.m.n, I'd missed!

I fired again and hit him in the torso. The bullet knocked him back, and his weapon discharged into the air. He had what sounded like a .22, a small-caliber weapon. Folks now knew that two weapons were involved-one loud, my 9 millimeter, and one not, his .22. I shot at him three more times to create an atmosphere of intensity, then turned and went in search of my mother. Since my last encounter with the ride-by shooters, where I had emptied my clip and was left vulnerable, I had learned to keep "exit" or "safety" sh.e.l.ls.

Running aimlessly about, frantically looking for Mom, I totally forgot I had the gun in my hand. I tucked it while jogging down the household appliance aisle. Not finding her there, I panicked, remembering how I had been locked in the surplus store. I made my way then to the door and there, among the other scared-to-death shoppers, I found Mom. She was grief stricken and with her nerves in shambles; I grabbed her arm and ushered her away from the crowd.

"Boy, was that you?" she said, hoping against hope that it wasn't. "Kody, what happened?"

I made no attempt to explain. My sole intent was a timely escape. We drove in silence, block after block. We never even looked at each other.

Back across Western Avenue I began to breathe better as I finally reflected on what I had done. f.u.c.k him, he was going to shoot me. I justified my shooting of him with self-defense. This thing was very dangerous; we all knew one another. It's like the CIA and the FBI going to war. There's no escaping once sighted.

I thought for sure I'd be captured for this one. After all, the Oriental knew me, and folks had seen me with the strap (gun). However, my arrest was not forthcoming.

After getting out of camp in 1979, I met Tamu through my brother Kerwin and sister Kendis, who all worked together at the Thirty-second Street Market. Tamu was a looker, tall and graceful with a smile that shouted for attention; I was naturally attracted. However, she was older than I. In fact, we had nothing in common. She was tall, I was short. She had a job, I was an armed robber. She liked jazz, I liked funk. She had a car, I had a bicycle. She was drug and alcohol free, I smoked pot and PCP and drank beer. We clicked immediately.

Today she'll say she didn't chase me, but in actuality she did. Once she and I began to go steady, she'd let me drop her off at work and keep the car until she got off. Her shift was from 3:00 P.M. till 11:00 P.M. My attraction was not just physical, but to the fact that she was not of my world. She was a civilian. To me, that was most appealing. She was not with me because of my reputation or clout, but for me as an individual. So when I went around her I would present myself as Kody, without the Monster persona. I'd take my shades off, tuck my flag, and not let her know when I was strapped. I also would douse myself with some of the expensive cologne Mom had bought me. Later, Tamu told me that I had been using too much but that at the time she didn't want to embarra.s.s me, for she saw that I was trying to impress her.

I would take Tamu up to the market and kiss her goodbye, drive to the corner, make sure she was inside the store and out of view, then reach for the glove compartment. I'd open it, pull out my flag, put on my murder-ones (dark shades, also called Locs or Locos), b.u.t.ton the top b.u.t.ton on my shirt, put my strap in my lap, and drive on to the 'hood. I did so many ride-bys, drive-ups, drive-throughs, and chase-aways in her car that it's a wonder she didn't either go to jail or get shot. I guess everyone a.s.sumed the car was stolen. Then, too, we left few witnesses.

Tamu and I continued to date up until the time she told me she was pregnant.

"Pregnant?" I asked in disbelief.

"Yes, pregnant," she replied matter-of-factly.

I felt so young at that moment, just a baby myself. I panicked. Anything but a child. Things had gotten too serious, out of hand. I began to dodge Tamu.

"Tell her I ain't here," I would tell family members when she called or came by.

Mom, however, adored her, and they would sit for hours and talk. Often I'd come in from a hard day of campaigning, shotgun slung over my shoulder, and Tamu and Mom would be in the front room talking. I'd acknowledge them with a nod, then head on down the hall to my room and fall out in a dead sleep. I began not to care if she saw me as Monster or not. I tried to push her away with the raw reality of who I was. She wasn't budging. Besides, Mom hated China for reasons I never knew-perhaps because she saw that she and I were on the same path, whereas Tamu could be a positive influence in my life.

I wasn't by any means ready to have a child, though. To me that meant settling down, another obligation. I already had pledged my allegiance to the set, so I was in a rough spot. I had to pick either Tamu and my unborn child or my career in the set. This ate away at me for several months. Sure I liked Tamu, but not enough to forfeit my stature in the set. All I had worked so hard to build would be left to dangle in the wind, unfinished. Enemies, I 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. s.h.i.t 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 pa.s.senger 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, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka."

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 a.s.sembled 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 motherf.u.c.kin' Sixties! Come over here right now, Kody, right now!"

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 h.e.l.lfire. 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 motherf.u.c.kers 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. d.a.m.n, 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 gra.s.s, 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. Weaving our way through the streets we found it hard to believe that they had knuckled under. Not a soul was in sight. We drove down Third Avenue by the Fifty-ninth Street school, where they hung, circled the school once, then pulled to a stop and sat idle, peering into the darkness of the school yard. The Sixties had yet to procure a park and were using the Fifty-ninth Street school as a meeting place.

"Hit the corner once more," Frogg said from the pa.s.senger seat, a .357 magnum sitting firmly in his lap. Li'l G.C. sat on edge behind me. He had a .22 Remington rifle with eighteen shots.

Starting off around Third Avenue again we picked up a tail. Keeping my head straight, so as not to seem panicky in case it was the police, I surveyed the front grille and lights. No, it wasn't a police car. The police, at least the Seventy-seventh Street Division in our 'hood, were driving Furys. This car behind us was a Chevy, a '66 Impala.

Keeping my head straight I spoke softly to Frogg. "Cuz, you know why we can't find these fools?"

"Why?" Frogg answered.

" 'Cause these m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas is behind us!"

"Don't look back," Frogg mumbled and adjusted his rear-view mirror. "Just keep straight, keep straight. Now speed up a little and turn left on Fifth Avenue." Frogg was instructing me like a driving instructor. "At the first driveway, bust a U-turn."

Speeding up to Fifth Avenue past Fourth, I thought about the danger of clocking (continuously, nonstop, as in time) these cats three days in a row. Perhaps we had put too much on it. No doubt, they were out on patrol and were possibly heavily armed in hopes of finding some intruders, just our f.u.c.kin' luck. Frogg was fresh out of prison and already on the campaign trail. He loved the set intensely.

Turning left on Fifth Avenue I made another hard left into the first driveway. No sooner had I backed out and come to a rolling stop at the corner of Fifty-ninth and Fifth, than the other car slowly bent the corner in front of us. Had they been good military tacticians they would have stopped in front of us and prevented our forward motion, while simultaneously having their shooters try to take out the driver to leave the occupants stranded and on foot to be hunted and killed. But no, this was not their tactic. They drove slowly around, coming alongside us, but facing the opposite direction.

As they inched closer and closer I said to Frogg, "Shoot, shoot these m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas, man!"

"Hold on, hold on," he said. Both of us were sitting still in the front seats like we didn't have a care in the world. "A little more, a little . . ."

BOOM, BOOM!.

Frogg was leaning right over me, shooting into their faces. Powder and cordite flew into my face from the gun's cylinders.

Pac, pac, pac, pac I heard from behind my head. Li'l G.C. was shooting with the .22.

Caught by surprise, their driver panicked, punched the accelerator, and hit a light pole, which fell across the hood and roof of the car. We sped away down Fifth Avenue to Slauson and made a right. When we got to Second Avenue we turned back into their 'hood, heading toward our set. I saw two of their little homies on bicycles and ran one over. Well, actually not over, but I hit him and he flew a few yards-about twenty. He didn't get up before we had gotten off the block.