Chapter 7
The Chicano cat explained as best he could, which wasn't too good. When he had finished, the brother simply asked, "You a Crip?"
"Yep."
"Are you a real Crip?" "Yep."
"Here, then, paint your cast blue," he said, handing me a blue marker.
Perhaps this was a ploy and he thought I wouldn't do it because of my situation. Well, I did. I broke open that marker and painted my cast Crip blue. The brother just stared. The Chicano was visibly upset. I went back out into the dayroom and had no further problems that night.
The next morning I went to court and got arraigned on murder and attempted murder charges. Because of the serious nature of the crime, I was being tried as an adult. This meant I would face the same time as any adult would for the case. Sixty years to life was the maximum penalty. Also because of their decision to try me as an adult, I had to stay in East Lake Juvenile Hall, also known as Central. Los Padrinos did not house juveniles who were being tried as adults. This was cool with me because Crazy De and other homies were at Central. I've always preferred it over L.P. anyway.
I was put in unit E-F. Central, like L.P., designates their units by alphabet. E-F and G-H were where all the hard-core bangers were housed. In E-F we had staff from South Central who treated us like family. There was Brother Blackburn, who let Crazy De use his radio so we could go into the unit library and jam. He also let us go into the unit office and lift weights. There was Brother Doc, who gave us phone calls all the time. He let us stay back from school and just kick it. He also tried to flirt with our mothers during visiting hours. There was Stewart, Heron, and Cryer, but our favorite cat was Brother Gains. He was a strong brother with a genuine concern for people of color. He was the source of all power in unit E-F.
De and I were on the same side, E side. Central was packed with future Ghetto Stars from both sides of the color bar and varying divisions therein. It was also packed with soon-to-be-dead gang members. Many who were there in 1981 have since been gunned down in street battles. Others were sent to prison and killed there. Few, very few, have lived since then in any prolonged state of peace.
Who became Ghetto Stars? There was Devil from Shot Gun Crips, Fish from Outlaw Twenty Bloods, Fat Rat from Five Deuce Hoover, Roscoe-a Samoan-from Park Village Compton Crips, Taco from Grape Street Watts, Mace from Eleven Deuce Hoover, and Kan from Black P. Stone Bloods. Each is of the highest level of banger. Even if any of them do not subscribe to banging today, their mark is firmly planted in their respective 'hoods.
Sundays in juvenile hall were perhaps the most exciting day of the week. Not only was it visiting day, but it was church day. No religious strings whatsoever were attached to church. On the contrary, church was a place to see the girl prisoners, and to see all your homies who were in different units. Chicanos and Americans went to the Catholic service, and New Afrikans went to the Protestant service. This was to be my first church service and, seemingly, everyone knew I had been shot, though all sorts of rumors had muddied the waters about my well-being. I readied myself for my first appearance the night before by "pressing" my county khaki pants with soap and laying them under my mattress. I had procured a fresh baby-blue sweats.h.i.+rt that had a Central juvenile hall emblem on the front. I carefully cut the left sleeve off at the elbow to fit my cast. This, too, I slid under the mattress for pressing. My hair had been freshly cornrowed, and I had some new bubble-gum tennis shoes. The next morning I got dressed with all the enthusiasm of a student on the first day of school.
Unit E-F was the last to arrive at church that morning. With all the other units already seated and situated so the staff could halfway keep an eye on them, we came through the door. Juvenile hall policy dictates that all unit movement be conducted in columns of two and in silence. De and I headed up our unit. When we came through the chapel doors all heads turned to catch our entry. Standing in the doorway briefly, De and I scanned the pews like lords looking upon their subjects.
"There he go, that's Monster Kody in the cast," said a faceless voice.
"d.a.m.n, cuz got a blue cast," said another.
After being told by the staff where to sit, we moved in and took our seats. De pointed out friend and foe. Because we weren't allowed to talk or communicate to each other, our hatred and happiness were transmitted by stares and quick hand gestures. Only when the preacher began the service did the whispers cease.
I was the talk of the hall. Later in the week I met Sam from Shot Gun-the Shot Guns had recently killed a Rollin' Sixty-who was going with a female from the Sixties named Goldie. I had never met her. He said he had heard about me being shot from her. He then went to his room and brought back a letter for me to read. It was from Goldie. It was really a paltry little letter that ended with, "Oh, yeah, my homies killed that tramp Monster Kody last night." My heart skipped a beat when I read that. It was one thing to hear someone say it. Words spoken could be shaken off with a laugh or some other move that didn't make the effect of what's said last too long. They were just words in the air. But seeing it written was another thing. Unlike threat legends of getting killed spray painted on walls, this was written in the past tense, as in already happened. It was a bit eerie. I quickly folded up the letter and gave it back to Sam. I didn't comment on what she wrote, but I did store her name for future reference.
When I woke the next morning I was in terrible pain. My stomach was in knots. No sooner had I gained consciousness than I started vomiting. I tried to eat, but I could not keep any food down. This went on most of the day. De said that I should go to the nurse, but I declined. The next morning I was vomiting blood and the whites of my eyes had turned yellow. That evening I turned myself in to the nurse who, in turn, alerted the doctor. One look at me and he called for an ambulance. I was rushed back to the U.S.C Medical Center-also known as General Hospital-and operated on immediately. When I woke up the next day I was in the same old pain of three weeks ago, the same tubes running here and there, the same machine next to my bed. My stomach once again looked like twisted and torn railroad tracks. The only difference now was that I was chained to the bed by my ankle. Two days went past and I got a visit from my mom. We talked a bit, but when I showed her my stomach, she left.
Two weeks later I was transported back to Central. When I got there the place was in an uproar. Staff members were running here and there, obviously stressing. I quickly learned that a friend of mine had escaped. Q-Tip from Geer Gang had broken out. I was happy for him. This was Valentine's Day, 1981.
I was placed in the infirmary until my st.i.tches were removed. On that day, February 21, I walked around the corner from the infirmary to the connecting unit R and R-Receiving and Release-to exchange the hospital gown I had been wearing for facility clothing. Coming in were Li'l Monster, Rattone, and Killer Rob. All three looked haggard and distraught.
"What's up," I asked Li'l Bro with a light hug.
"Aw, man, we think Li'l Capone snitched about the murders," he said in a very tired voice. They were still dressed in street clothes. Bro had on one of my Pendletons.
"Y'all in here for murder?" I asked, looking from one to the next.
"Yep," Rattone replied.
"I think he told 'bout some s.h.i.+t you did, too," Killer Rob said, "'cause the police was askin' me 'bout some bodies left in the Sixties." Killer was speaking as if he were simply saying "Yo, man, your shoe is untied." Murders were that commonplace.
"Yeah, well, dude don't know s.h.i.+t 'bout me 'cause I wouldn't steal a hat wit fool," I spoke up, trying to put a good face on this dreary news.
"Scott," a staff member called out, so both Li'l Monster and I went to the desk. He was referring to Bro, so that he could be dressed in, but since we were both Scott and we both needed to be dressed in, he let us go together. Stepping into the next room, we rapped about family, Mom, and our neighbors.
When I took off my gown Bro said, "d.a.m.n, they f.u.c.ked you up," and broke into tears. Through sobs and sniffs he said that he had never seen me that skinny.
"We'll get 'em," I said.
"That's right," Bro replied.
We talked some more and then I was sent to my unit. Because Bro, Killer, and Rattone had murders, they had to go to solitary for a week. When their seven days were up only Rattone and Li'l Monster remained. Killer had been transferred to the county jail because he'd turned eighteen while in solitary. Also captured were Li'l G.C., Al Capone, and Li'l Capone. Slim had gotten away.
Bro was put in unit M-N, across the field. Mom came the following week to see us both. The week after that I tore my cast off in the shower and began lifting weights.
When I went to court for a preliminary hearing, I was transferred to the county jail to be housed in the notorious juvenile tank. To this day, I still don't know why I was sent to the county jail. I hadn't even gotten into a fight yet. But this was par for the course for my entire life. It only served to irritate me further by allowing me no stability. I was a bit uncertain about L.A. County after hearing so much over the wire, especially because of my weakened physical condition. Fighting now would be quite a task.
It took an entire evening for me to be processed into L.A. County. I arrived in 3100, the juvenile tank, after midnight. Now, I'm told, the juvenile tank is located in the old hall of the Justice Building, but in 1981 it was still in the new jail.
All the lights were out when I came on the tier, and there was no noise, no sound. With an almost terrifying clang, my cage was opened and I was told by the deputy to step in. Once locked behind the steel bars, I surveyed my surroundings. There were two tiers consisting of Able row and Charlie row. Each tier had twenty-six cages on it. Each cage was single occupancy, very small, very dirty, and very cold. There was a toilet and sink in each cage, as well as a light that the soldier-cop controlled. There was a rickety desk that hung halfway off the wall with no stool. I didn't remember seeing anyone awake or moving in any of the seven cages I pa.s.sed to get to mine. I was number eight. This was a ploy, but I knew nothing of it then.
"Blood, where you from?" a voice shouted from the back of the lower tier-Able row. Its sharpness startled me momentarily, but my instincts overrode any delay in responding.
"North Side Eight Tray Gangster Crip."
"Aw, Blood," said another voice from the opposite direction. "We got one."
And then, as if from the adjacent cage to my right, number nine: "We gon' kill yo' m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' a.s.s in the mo'nin', crab."
"f.u.c.k you slob-a.s.s m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kas, this is ET m.u.t.h.af.u.c.kin' G, fool."
"We'll see 'bout that in the mo'nin'. Let the gates be the bell."
Another fine mess I had gotten myself into. s.h.i.+t. I had no idea of how I'd get out of this one. Amazingly, I never once thought of rankin' out, pleading, or otherwise backing down. Even in the face of insurmountable
I was awakened by the heavy sound of moving metal, cages being opened and closed. I quickly got up and put on my tennys and stood ready. Able row was being let out first. Looking down over the tier I saw a crowd gathering along the wall. Most faces were staring up into mine, though no teeth were being shown. No happiness lived here.
I didn't know any face down in the crowd and none, I guess, knew me. No one said anything to me, nor did I say a word to them. They began to file out to what I guessed to be the chow hall. Charlie row was next. "Let the gates be the bell" was fresh in my mind. My neighbor to the right had said that last night. So it was best, I thought, to tie into him immediately.
"Charlie row watch your gates, gates opening," the soldier-cop called down the tier.
With some effort the cage door began to slide open. When there was enough room to squeeze out I made it through and was on the tier in what I reasonably thought to be Blood 'hood. But when my neighbor in cage nine came out it was a familiar face: Bennose from 107 Hoover. Ben recognized me and broke into a wide grin. But still I was tense. Next I saw Levi from 107 Hoover, then Popa and Perry-who I didn't know, but had seen on the news-from Harlem Crip. Taco from Grape was there, too. It had all been a test to register my commitment level when in dire straits. I pa.s.sed with flying colors.
They had already known that I was coming, perhaps long before I did. The grapevine could be very efficient at times, and at other times it failed miserably. I found out quickly that above and beyond unit E-F and G-H in Central juvenile hall, this was where they housed the "worst of the worst." I fell in step and was right at home. Both Able row and Charlie row were Crips. There were Chicanos housed there, as well. No Americans could survive on Able or Charlie row, nor could any Blood. Later I fixed it where Sixties were excluded, too. Bloods, Americans-there were very few-and victims lived on Baker and Denver rows, or P.C., Protective Custody.
The "slob game," as it came to be known-played on me to test my courage-was also used to uncover and weed out real Bloods. Because every American put into the tank was severely beaten or in some cases raped, the entire populace of American soldier-cops despised the juveniles of Able and Charlie rows with a vengeance. Often we'd get beat for the most trivial things. And, of course, there was inter-rivalry.
When I got there, Cyco Mike from Main Street Crips was supposedly in charge. He was a tyrant, taking food and other things from people, especially those on Able row, without so much as a word in return. He was a big, dark-complexioned cat with long hair. He, like the rest of us, had a murder charge. From day one he sensed my potential to threaten his tyrannical rule. It wasn't leaders.h.i.+p he was providing. He had gotten his position not by popular support but by brute strength. On his team he had Green Eyes from Venice Sho-line Crips, Eric from Nine-Deuce Hoover, his homies Killer Rob and Cisco from Main Street, and Handbone, who was also from Venice Sho-line. They were all on Able row. The other Crips on Able row were simply cannon fodder. The rumble between Cyco Mike and me was inevitable. All the while I kept lifting weights and training for that day.
"When two totalitarian powers make war on each other, the anger and hatred that arise can be appeased only by the death of one or the other. More than this, such killing is profoundly satisfying. Anger and hatred are 'fulfilled' in destruction insofar as such emotions know satiety. The more lives the soldier succeeds in accounting for, the prouder he is likely to feel. To his people he is a genuine hero and to himself, as well. For him, war is in no sense a game or a dirty mess. It is a mission, a holy cause, his chance to prove himself and gain a supreme purpose in living. His hatred of the enemy makes this soldier feel supremely real, and in combat his hatred finds its only appropriate appeas.e.m.e.nt."
J. Glenn Gray The juvenile tank has got to be the most blatant exercise the state has ever devised for corrupting, inst.i.tutionalizing, and creating recidivism in youths. At the behest of a judge or on the recommendation of the probation officer or district attorney, these youths can be whisked from a structured program monitored by a civilian staff-who attempt to counsel the captured youths by developing a healthy, human rapport with them and their parents-and dropped into a prisonlike setting with not so much as an inkling of counseling or adult support or the benefit of any meaningful, structured program to aid them in correcting whatever problems they may have. Removing them from a program designed for immature, unsophisticated youths and hurling them into a highly compet.i.tive, one hundred percent criminal population and setting-where the only adults are the very same police deputies responsible for their initial capture-is clearly a way to breed a criminal generation.
Probation officers and deputy district attorneys ultimately decide who will be tried as an adult. This decision is based on what the P.O. and D.A. call "maturity of the circ.u.mstances surrounding the crime." This, of course, is euphemistic and, when examined from my side of the bars, means "If you're New Afrikan or Chicano and have a murder charge, regardless of the circ.u.mstances, you are mature enough to be treated as an adult."
It went without saying that most any American youth captured for murder would never be tried as an adult. His crime was surely not "mature enough" to warrant such harsh treatment, even if the hard evidence surrounding the case clearly ill.u.s.trated that. For example: a shotgun sh.e.l.l had been secured to a rat trap by a U-nail and deliberately left in Mrs. Goldberg's mailbox. When she opened the box to retrieve her morning mail a wire was tripped, letting loose the swing arm of the trap, which in turn hit the primer of the low-base, high-charge.12 gauge sh.e.l.l, killing Mrs. Goldberg instantly. Or, while dropping hits of acid at a social gathering, a group of friends uncovered an intruder from another planet who had somehow broken their circle and was surrept.i.tiously plotting to execute the town fathers or, more important, the connection. So, based on a Ouija board identification of the intruder, he is sacrificed and eaten. Sophisticated? Mature? Premeditated? Of course not. "This," the P.O. and D.A. will explain to the judge, "was a simple case of a good child destructively influenced by the violence of television." Or, deeper still, "a victim of the drug plague, simply needing a psychiatric evaluation. But," the D.A. would continue, "to try this young person-our very future-as an adult would be tantamount to treason!"
But the juvenile tank is filled to capacity with New Afrikan and Chicano youth, who more often than not have been charged in an alleged crime against one of their own. A New Afrikan youth in jail, charged for murdering another New Afrikan in most any form-sophisticated or not, and usually it's not-will be tried as an adult and given the stiffest sentence possible, which, without fail, will be life.
I found myself behind bars for the first time at age sixteen. Not a door, not a window, but bars. Since then I have had an indelible scar on my mind stamped "criminal." All my years of watching TV told me that righteous criminals went to jail behind bars. Wasn't Al Capone put behind bars? The Onion Field killers, Charles Manson, and Sirhan Sirhan? So by environment alone I came to look upon myself as a stone-cold criminal and nothing else. Not then overstanding the political machinations involved with me being housed in such a place, I simply a.s.sumed that my reputation had preceded me and a more secure setting was needed to hold me.
Without a doubt, I was engaged in criminality. But my activity gravitated around a survival instinct: kill or be killed. Conditions dictated that I evolve or perish. I was engaged in a war with an equal opponent. I did not start this cycle, nor did I conspire to create conditions so that this type of self-murder would take place. My partic.i.p.ation came as second nature. To be in a gang in South Central when I joined-and it is still the case today-is the equivalent of growing up in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, and going to college: everyone does it. Those who don't aren't part of the fraternity. And as with everything from a union to a tennis club, it's better to be in than out.
So it goes that the American youths tried as adults-an insignificant number, not enough for a percentage-stayed in juvenile hall. The few that trickled into our wardom had simply been thrown away by the system. Because of our youth and political immaturity we would vent our anger, frustration, and hatred of the system-whatever that was-on them. It was totally beyond our overstanding that they were just like us: castaways condemned to an existence outside of the system. Potential allies were torn to shreds like b.l.o.o.d.y meat in a shark tank. Not one walked out, and few live today unscarred.
We stayed locked in our paltry little cages most of the day. For an hour a day we'd all be let out into the dayroom-a huge room, un.o.bserved save for a small portion that was manned by a lookout. We watched them attempt to watch us. The demarcation was set: us and them-that is, the soldier-cops. Unlike the staff in the hall, who posed little or no threat, the deputies were outright racist dogs who always wanted a confrontation with us. We thought that as we were juveniles, they could not beat us. How naive the young mind can be. Levi was the first to be beaten. I can't recall the circ.u.mstances surrounding the altercation, but it was awfully messy. They beat him bad. Blood was everywhere. The more they beat him the more frantic they became, every one of them Americans, with the exception of one Negro. It blew my mind to hear the American deputies calling Levi "dirty n.i.g.g.e.r" and "nappy-headed motherf.u.c.ker" while the Negro deputy held him for his cohorts. Even Levi looked to the Negro for some sort of explanation to this contradiction. None was given. That was heavy to me. Little did I know that the load would get heavier.
It was in Los Angeles County Jail that I learned that Americans have a thing for attacking our private parts during a scuffle. Every incident I've been involved in or witnessed, the private parts of the beatee would be viciously attacked without missing a beat, as if some personal grudge existed between them and our d.i.c.ks. Later on I learned that it did. We nursed Levi back to health and began to avoid direct confrontations with the deputies. We'd f.u.c.k them in other ways.
Charlie row had coalesced the strong into a united front and violently purged the weak. Able row, which was now Cyco Mike's territory, was also being formed into a front; however, he worked through force and violence. Most of those with him felt physically intimidated by his size and prowess. Our unity on Charlie row came as a result of a common enemy: Cyco Mike. He had little idea that we were plotting his overthrow. We were taken to the roof thrice weekly and allowed to lift weights. Both tiers went together, so we on Charlie row feigned affection for Mike in his presence and continued to prepare for his destruction in private.
Mike had, at one time or another in the course of his climb to the top, talked bad to, beat up on, or taken something from almost everyone there. What's striking here is that when our generation picked up the gun, we began to use our hands less and less, so more than a few gunfighters amongst us had no ability to down Mike physically. Most folks talked behind Mike's back. When we said anything about him it was in questioning his strong and weak points, who would really go down with him on Able row, and who were just hostages.
I myself was only beginning to gain my weight back. I trained with the weights like a mad Russian. The second operation had really set me back, and since I was only out of the hospital three days before being captured, I hadn't had the proper nutrients to supplement my diet to stimulate growth. I had to suffice with jail food-ugh! Nothing was less healthful.
The Los Angeles County juvenile tank was not all humdrum, tension, and war. We had some good times as a captured family, making light of our dismal situation. Next to 3100-the module we were housed in-was 3300. On Able and Charlie rows of module 3300 there were queens and a few studs. On Baker and Denver rows were snitches cla.s.sified as K-9s. The queens used to s.h.i.+ne our shoes, braid our hair, and, if one wished, do a few other things. We had never seen queens and were awestruck by them, just as much as they were with being so close to throbbing, young, naive juveniles. One afternoon, Chicken Swoop from Long Beach Insane persuaded a queen named Silky to come over to our tier gate. Once Silky had come close enough to our gate, High Tower and Wino from Grape Street Watts grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. They subdued him and hustled him down the tier to an open cell. After having their way with Silky, who had long ago ceased to resist, they let him go. With the excitement seemingly over for the day, we all fell into a somber sleep. But late in the night we were awakened by Chicken Swoop's loud screaming.
"Ahh! Ahhh!"
"What's wrong, cuz?"
"Ahh! Ahhh!"
"Who is that?" a disgruntled voice asked.
"Cuz, that's Swoop. Somethin' wrong wit' him," someone answered.
"I wish he'd shut the f.u.c.k up," said yet another voice, through the cold and darkness.
"What's wrong, Swoop?" asked Green Eyes from Venice Sho-Line.
"Cuz," Swoop began, "my d.i.c.k is green."
"Yo' what?"
"My d.i.c.k, m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, my d.i.c.k!"
And just then from down on the other end of the tier came another scream.
"Ahhh!"
"Who is that?" someone asked.
"Aw, s.h.i.+t!" High Tower stammered. "My d.i.c.k green, too!"
The whole tank was awake now and out came the comedians. No one got any more sleep that night. We stayed up and clowned all night and into the next afternoon, right up until the medical crew came and hauled Swoop, High Tower, and Wino out of there. Later that afternoon a lieutenant came and gave us a s.e.x talk about men who have somehow been twisted into thinking they are women and that we were all queers. He ended his sermon by calling us the sickest youngsters he had met in a while.
Light moments such as this tended to ease some of the stress that we were under. Once eight or nine of us were in a cell just telling war stories and joking around when someone claimed he could e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e faster than anyone else in the cell. Well, this was cause for a showdown. Within seconds everyone had their d.i.c.k in their hand and was pumpin' away. The self-proclaimed champ did not blow off first and was clowned as just wanting to see our d.i.c.ks. We threatened to urinate on him.
Our rule was simple: the sets that were there first and remained firm were "in," This meant that any set that came in that any of the "in" sets didn't get along with, no set got along with. They had to go-violently. This was even true of the Chicano sets.
When I was s.h.i.+pped to County, Li'l Monster was still in the Hall. Shyster was basically running the Rollin' Sixties in Central, and I thought he might try to do something to my li'l brother to get some points. Li'l Monster was in there for killing Shyster's homies, and Shyster was there for killing one of our homies. Since Shyster was being tried as an adult, he faced the very real possibility of coming to the juvenile tank. So I wrote him a letter saying basically that should one finger be laid on Li'l Monster in my absence it would be brought to bear on him when he arrived at County. I told him of our structure there and for authenticity I had everyone sign it. Li'l Monster went unmolested his entire stay.
In early March one of Popa and Perry's homies from Harlem Thirties was killed by some Brims at Manuel Arts High School. True to tradition, the alleged killers were tried as adults and rushed to the juvenile tank. They went directly to Baker and Denver rows P.C. We plotted and planned on a way to get over to their cell and kill them. In April our chance came. Ironically, Popa, Perry, Insane, myself, and both the Brims were taken to court together. We knew that as juveniles we'd all be put in the same court holding cell and then, as planned, we'd beat the two Bloods to death. The juveniles who were being tried as adults but kept in the Hall were also to be housed in this same holding cell awaiting court.
Our shackles were removed, and we filed into the cell on the bas.e.m.e.nt floor of the Criminal Courts building in downtown Los Angeles. The county jail juveniles always arrived approximately thirty minutes before those from the Hall, so even though we were all in the small cell, we didn't pounce on the two Bloods, who by now knew we were getting ready to jump. We wanted to wait until the others arrived, so no one would be coming by for at least two more hours. When the door opened for the others from the Hall to enter, I was removing the braids from my hair. If the t Bloods were going to make a dash for it, now was the time. We expected them to, but not a quip was heard from either. This meant one of two things: the Bloods were not afraid of us, as we had antic.i.p.ated and surely had always believed, or they were naive enough to think that we were not going to smash them. I was relieved that they had not gone to the soldier-cops. I guess I felt a bit of respect for them, as well, because to stay in a ten-by-twenty-foot cell with four members of the opposition who had been charged with killing took a certain amount of courage. I also felt sorry for them. The ignorant b.a.s.t.a.r.ds had no idea of how we planned to mistreat them.
Two juveniles from Central entered the tank. Both were New Afrikans and both were Rollin' Sixties. I didn't know either by face, nor did they recognize me. Popa eased over to me and whispered that the light-complexioned one was T-Bone. The other one he just knew as one of their homies. T-Bone's name carried a little weight in his 'hood. A second-level member who had shot a few people, he had recently been shot five times by the Black P. Stone Bloods. He had a slight build, short hair, and a fixed frown. When his eyes swept the cell they telegraphed contempt. He wore a black hair net down over his forehead like a sweater cap. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a half-smoked cigarette, fumbled in his other pocket, and retrieved a match. He struck the match on the concrete floor, lit his cigarette, and sat back coolly on the bench. His homie stood across from him near the entrance. Because I didn't know who he was, I worried little about him. I walked over to T-Bone, who was concentrating on his hard-core stare, and stood before him. I had completely forgotten about the Bloods.
"Where you from?" I asked, already knowing but wanting to hear him say it.
"Rollin' Sixties," he responded proudly.
"Get up, homeboy. We gotta get 'em up."
"Fo' what?" he asked, visibly disturbed.
" 'Cause I'm Monster Kody from Gangsta."
"Wait, man, hold it. We ain't even gotta trip that."
"Naw, I don't wanna hear that s.h.i.+t, fool. Yo' punk-a.s.s homies blasted me up, killed my homeboys Twinky, Roach, and t.i.t t.i.t. Now you wanna talk that 'hold it' s.h.i.+t? Get yo' b.i.t.c.h a.s.s up!
I stepped back so he could get up, but still he wouldn't move. The half cigarette was now a b.u.t.t, and he was nervously sucking on it through clenched fingertips. I walked back up to him and put my left foot up on the bench next to him. He would not look me in the eyes.
"Who killed my homeboy Twinky?" I asked, figuring to pump this lame m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka for all the information I could before I downed him.
"I don't know."
"Oh yeah?" I began. "Who killed my homeboy Roach?"
"I don't know," he responded, looking straight ahead. I think he began to ease a bit under questioning, believing this would be my only intrusion.
"Who shot me?"
"Look, I ain't supposed to tell you who shot yo' homeboys," he said, as if he were reminding me of some set rules of warfare agreed upon by both countries in Geneva. This taking of the Fifth would perhaps have been admissible in some American court of law, but in our circle it was not acceptable.
"m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka," I exploded, "I'll tell you who shot yo' homeboys!"
"Who killed Zinc?" he asked.
"I killed Zinc!"