Mack Daddy Legacy of a Gangsta Read online

  MackDaddy

  Legacy of A Gangsta

  by

  Ghetto Child

  Smashwords Edition

  © 2003 by Ghetto Child.

  PUBLISHED BY PUBLISHAMERICA, LLLP www.publishamerica.com Baltimore

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be included in a review.

  ISBN: 1-4137-0698-3

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my Great Grandparents who Raised me to be that which I am today: William Bryan (Mr. Hamp) and Sarah Bryan (Mrs. Edna)

  MACK DADDY

  The harsh projects of “Fort Green”, Brooklyn. A cruel, unforgiving and treacherous environment in which two young brothers, DiAngelo and Paco Lovett learned as tender-aged grade schoolers, how to rob, steal and hustle as efficiently as seasoned criminals many years their senior. However, an abrupt relocation to the West Coast exposes the young New Yorkers to the dark andmurky depths of inner city Los Angeles. In time the teens are initiated into the circle of one of South Central’s most lethal gangs, thus beginning their tumultuous descent into a sinister world of gang violence, police corruption, drug trafficking, prostitution and murder. Journey, if you dare, into an underworld beyond the dazzling glamour of Tinseltown, and swank mansions of Beverly Hills where drug money is the name of the game. Where the players are expendable and power is not the exception… but the rule. This book is fiction.

  I remember my older brother well. He was a very popular and well-liked person. I looked up to him for strength and confidence. He was both a brother and father to me. Our pops, who was heavily into the teachings of the Elijah Mohammed and the Nation of Islam, was savagely gunned down by gang members years ago when I was just a baby.

  But my mother, like most black mothers, was like a rock: unyielding but also very warm and sensitive. I was the third of four children. Paco, aka “Snake,” was the oldest, then DiAngelo, myself, and our baby sister Shanté. Even though Paco was the oldest, I wanted to be like DiAngelo because the nigga was all that. All the hoochies used to sweat DiAngelo hard and he could handle himself well with his hands or any chosen weapon. He was what you’d call an O.G.: an Original Gangster. I never knew he was a gangbanger or that he sold drugs, because the one thing DiAngelo didn’t do was disrespect Ma’s household with drugs or those who associated with the gangs. Ma would kick his ass if he did.

  After I attended my best friend’s funeral, Lewis

  Tuppince, who was killed in a weekend drive-by near Crenshaw Avenue by members of the Piru Bloods, I was feeling hurt and angered by the incident and thought sincerely about avenging the death of Lewis. I went and spoke to a few guys who were members of the 8-Ball Crips, who knew me well and respected my knowledge of the streets and my ability to kick much ass. I was told by a nigga called Razorblade that a drive-by was scheduled for the weekend, most likely Saturday night.

  Everyone knew where the Piru Bloods hung out on the weekends with their bitches.

  “Yo Eric, we want you to be ready by Friday ta ‘do’ these niggas,” said Razorblade, flashing me a goldtoothed smile. “But first my brother, you need to be strapped.” And with that, I was given a Glock 17 9millimeter handgun and two fully loaded 17-shot clips. We exchanged gang-affiliated handshakes, and before we left we threw up our signs. Later that night, DiAngelo stepped into my room as I was lying on the bed finishing up my algebra homework.

  He sat down beside me and lit up a cigarette and calmly placed the Glock on the dresser beside the bed. DiAngelo stood beside the bed waiting for me to offer an explanation as to why I had the handgun in my possession. While he stood there waiting I simply ignored him, continuing my algebra studies. Suddenly my older brother closed the algebra textbook with a slam, loudly demanding an explanation for the gun.

  Jumping up from the bed, I got into DiAngelo’s face, asking him if he wanted to wreck.

  “You don’t want it, dawg… trust me,” DiAngelo retorted calmly, folding his chiseled and tattooed arms across his chest. My face flushed red with anger and I reacted by violently pushing DiAngelo up against a wall in the far corner of the small bedroom. DiAngelo stumbled awkwardly against the wall and adjoining closet, but quickly sprung back upon his feet to face me. Sensing an easy win I unwisely rushed headlong into a barrage of solid, well-placed punches delivered at blinding speed by my more nimble sibling. Though I was a lot bigger than my brother (me: 6’3, 248 lbs. and DiAngelo: 6’0, 210), I took his deceptive hand speed and graceful footwork for granted and painfully paid for it as a result.

  After about three tumultuous minutes into our brief free-for-all we called a truce, tended to our minor wounds and hopped in DiAngelo’s 64’ Chevy Impala – a midnight blue beauty which featured a plush leather interior, 20-inch gold dipped chrome ‘Dayton’ rims on awesome hydraulic shocks, and a deafening JVC sound system with a CD player that was constantly blasting out gangster poetry from the likes of Ice T, Ice Cube, Ghetto Boyz, and Too Short. In time, we were cruising through the city of Los Angeles, which at night is truly a wonderland of strange sights, sounds and yet stranger inhabitants. After idly driving around, we came back through the hood and stopped at a Chinese joint, got some food and then drove toward a small hill overlooking Compton. We both got out of the Impala, but left the radio on, and DiAngelo slipped in an old Average White Band tape in the cassette deck.

  The lonely spot came to life with its intoxicating ballads. DiAngelo then rolled two thick sinsemelia joints and we sat there in the cool of the night getting high and finishing off the Chinese takeout. DiAngelo sat staring out across the urban jungle known as Compton, one of the many stomping grounds of the South Central gangs. Sirens, gunshots, screams, and sobs were all the language of the twilight streets that we called home.

  The swift moving LAPD patrol cars which were more feared and hated here in the hood than anywhere else, along with the police choppers who broke all silence and slumber with their aerial wanderings, gave the police a more sinister standing with the ghetto citizens than a benevolent one. But more common and deadlier than both were the grim, four-wheeled silhouettes that slowly crept around corners and prowled down the nocturnal streets with engines in neutral and headlights out waiting to deliver swift and vicious death to any and all in their wake. These were the beasts and birds of prey that stalked the concrete jungle.

  After meditating for some time, DiAngelo took one last puff of the joint before he crushed what remained underfoot. He looked me squarely in the eyes and asked me if I had ever killed anyone before, the answer to which he already knew was no. I looked uneasily in the piercing gaze of my older brother. I fidgeted, but offered no response. He had me on the spot and he knew it.

  DiAngelo got up and went over to the passenger’s side, opened the door and went into the glove compartment. He came out with three items, a pack of cigarettes, a book, and my recently acquired handgun. As he sat back on the hood of the Impala, he opened the pack and shook out a cigarette. I knew that I was in for a lecture because the only time that DiAngelo fired up a “cancer stick” was when the brother gets either physically, mentally, or spiritually deep. The book was placed before me; it was an old worn copy of “The Book of Five Percenters.” With a photo of Clarence Smith on the cover, there was also the symbol of the Nation, the crescent, star, and the number seven. I remembered the photo. I had seen DiAngelo, along with some of our cousins from New York wearing tee-shirts with photos of Clarence 13 x on the front and the words “Poor Righteous Teachers” on
the back. It was all Greek to me back then, and even now I’m not keen on the teachings.

  Seeing that I was about to swamp him with questions on the subject, he quickly put a finger to my lips and said quietly, “Read the book, Dog, read the book.” Then the culprit of the day’s events was gingerly placed on my lap. The cold, ebony steel glistened like onyx under the moonlit sky. “I know what happened today was fucked up Gee, but if I had to repeat that act a thousand times over, I would,” said DiAngelo dangling the unlit cigarette from the corner of his mouth. He lit up the cigarette, took a deep drag then exhaled smoke from his nostrils and mouth.

  “Look here little brother, you’re only seventeen years old, you have your whole life ahead of you. You and lil Shanté, you both have everything that me and Paco didn’t. Both of you have good grades, straight A’s to be exact, ‘cept this semester; Shanté made the honor roll, but you were too busy screwing Morgan

  McDaniels and that Mexican ho Lolita Gonzales.”

  “You been listening to my phone conversations?” I asked. “Negro, I was doin’ the ‘wild thang’ when you were in Huggies!”

  We both laughed heartily then there was a long pause.

  “Why did you get this?” said my brother, pointing toward the pistol.

  “Cause,” I said hesitating.

  “Cause what? You wanted to peel some nigga’s cap because Lewis got smoked? Is that it?” I felt a lump in my throat. I tried but couldn’t speak. “This right here,” said DiAngelo taking the Glock and holding it in front of me, “never solved anything for anyone. I’ve shot and killed quite a few people in my life, yeah, that’s right, your brother DiAngelo Lovett, the ex-hustler, the exscum.”

  I was totally shell-shocked and at a loss for words, and for a time my sanity failed me. Here was the brother I had known all my life, as a tough but knowledgeable and peace-loving young man. I sat and listened in growing disbelief. DiAngelo took one last drag then pitched the cigarette butt into the inky blackness beyond.

  “Killing someone is not gonna bring Lewis Tuppince back. We all loved and miss the brother and may his soul rest in everlasting peace. But what happened to Lewis happens almost daily out there, you know that and I know that. Our father got smoked by gang members when you were just fifteen months old; Shanté wasn’t even born yet. Paco was sixteen years old, and I was eleven. I remember coming home from school that day. Policemen all over the house asking Mama stupid-ass questions, not caring that she was grief stricken. She just shook her head and tried to keep her composure. But the tears kept streaming down that sweet face. Paco could take no more. He flew into rage with the pigs. ‘Get the fuck out of my Mama’s house and leave us the fuck alone!’ Paco shouted, brandishing an old Louisville slugger. The cops looked on consternation at the audacity of my brother Paco.

  “‘Let’s go guys,’ said an older white pig. ‘We’ll be back later Mrs. Lovett. And, Oh yeah… you have our deepest sympathies.’ Yeah, I remember just like yesterday,” said DiAngelo reminiscing.

  “After our father’s funeral, Paco made me promise that we’d dedicate our lives to getting the SOB’s that killed dad. We eventually accomplished that. But on the way, we got caught up in the negative lifestyle of the ghetto. Gangs, money, drugs, whores, cars, and homicides. This was the life we lived, Paco and I. It’s not the life I want to see my little brother Eric Lovett lead, not at all, especially not when you are looked up to by ‘lil Shanté; you know she’s my heart. Just sit back and listen lil bro’ and you’ll learn a little something about heaven and hell. I should know, I’ve been both places.”

  *****

  “Long before you and Shanté were born, we lived in Brooklyn, New York. The year was 1972. Both me and Paco were little snot-nosed brats who grew up in the tough projects of Fort Green. At the tender ages of seven and twelve, we were already accustomed to the turbulent world of the ghetto. As I look back on our school days, I realize that we had to fight somebody damn near every fuckin’ day. With our high yellow complexions, hazel eyes, and curly, so-called “good hair” we were ridiculed, envied, and hated with a passion. We were outcasts. White boys, red boys, and half-breeds were names we were called. Of course, we’d end up swinging on our tormentors.

  “When we’d come home all bruised and banged up from scrapping with half of the neighborhood, Mama would bathe our hurts with Epsom Salt and herbs and prepare us something good to eat like meatloaf with macaroni and cheese, or a dish of fried chicken and wild rice smothered with thick mushroom gravy. Damn, that woman could cook! To this day she still can, just look at yourself, you big ox!” laughed DiAngelo nodding in my direction.

  “Anyway, back to what I was saying. It still puzzled both Paco and myself as to why the other kids on the block gave us so much grief. Mama would smile and tell us not to worry and that most of the neighborhood kids were poor, ignorant little pickaninnies anyway. One day Paco asked Mama why they called us names and colors like red and yellow. She smiled and hugged both of us warmly. Then she reached in her purse and came out with several pictures of herself and a tall, well-dressed, Puerto Rican gentleman.

  “Whose this man, Mama?” I asked, inquisitive as ever.

  “That man, dear sweet DiAngelo, is you and Paco’s father.” Paco and I looked at each other, eyes wide in wonderment, then back again at the pictures. Both of us were the spitting images of the big Puerto Rican.

  “Where’s our daddy now, Mama?” Paco asked.

  “I don’t know son,” said Mama sighing as she looked blankly at the old photos. “After DiAngelo was born, he just sorta disappeared; maybe he went back home to Puerto Rico.” Then I asked Mama his name. “His name was Miguel Rinaldo Lopez. The sorry-ass bastard,” said Mama thinking out loud. We both looked at her puzzled. “I’m sorry children, don’t mind ya Mama, I was just thinkin’ about somethin’. All right already, it’s way past nine o’clock and you all know I don’t play stayin’ up late on school nights. Let’s go!” said Mama playfully smacking our backsides and then kissing us both goodnight.

  Later that night, I awoke to go to the bathroom when I heard something unusual. I stopped short in the middle of the hallway and listened intently. I saw that Mama had the stereo turned on low listening to some old Motown records. She had a glass of champagne and the pictures we looked at earlier spread out over the coffee table. I heard her sniffing and saw her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. I wiped my eyes and backed away. I knew Mama was crying… Mama took good care of us without help from our father or any other man. We kept on fighting all throughout the summer months and the constant rumbling gave us fighting skills which made us streetwise and hard.

  When the fall season came around, we had quite a reputation on the playground and in school. Many were missing teeth, had bloody noses, swollen lips, and black eyes due to us. We had to fight for self-

  protection and then we gained the respect we deserved. We no longer needed to prove ourselves, but that’s when Paco started changing before my eyes. He began picking fights just for the hell of it. Just because someone stared at him, or because somebody brushed up against him in the hallway or on the school bus.

  Once while waiting for the school bus, this overweight slob named Bradley Hunt farted so loudly that we all thought he shitted on himself. The crowd at the bus stop erupted with laughter, all the while moving quickly from his immediate area. Bradley was standing there with a bag of chips giggling like a fool at his own disgusting act. That’s when Paco walked over and stepped to him.

  “Say excuse me, you big, fat, funky muthafucka!” Brad looked around at the suddenly hushed group. Then with his gaze resting firmly on Paco and a silly little smirk on his face, he let go with the most revolting belch I’ve ever heard. Everyone stared on in silence awaiting the inevitable. It happened… Paco let fly with one of his vicious haymakers, followed up by a quick left hook to the jaw. The two blows landed with such force that the entire group winced at the brutality of it. Blood was all over Brad’s face and clothing, and Paco’s
fists were crimson with it, but Paco continued pounding away at the poor fat fool until Chico and Lil’ Walt, two of Paco’s hoodlum friends, intervened.

  “Yo, Snake,” said Walt, trying to restrain my brother from any further assault upon the victim, “Let’s all get the fuck out of here man, this cat’s all messed up!”

  “That’s right, brah,” Chico hollered, “and the Man will be here too!” That’s when Paco grabbed me by the hand and whisked me away down the street behind Chico and Walt. We later learned that Bradley suffered a broken nose and fractured jaw. This was typical life in Brooklyn during the early seventies.

  “During the winter of 1971, Paco was failing school and hanging out more with Chico, Lil’ Walt and all the other little neighborhood thugs. Mama got sick and tired of bailing him out of jail and having to entertain the company of NYPD officers in her home. Paco went to school only to cut the fool, fight, gamble or mess with the chicks. More than once, I came home from school and found him boning one of the little skeezers from around the way. He’d jump up naked as a jaybird, thinking that he was busted. When he saw it was me, he would smile and go right back to wailing on that ass.

  “Our brother had tons of bitches, a regular twelve-year-old Casanova. Black, Puerto Rican, Italian, he didn’t care. As long as they had big tits, pretty legs, and a big fat ass.”

  “What if she was ugly?” I asked, interrupting DiAngelo’s vivid tale.

  “Paco used to say “Booty don’t got no face,’ said

  DiAngelo with a grin. “But he slipped up one Christmas Eve. Me, Mama, Aunt Jennifer, and Mrs. Piedmont who lived next door came home from doing our last bit of Christmas shopping and gift wrapping. I wanted a pellet gun, but Ma wouldn’t buy me one, but I knew that I’d still get some nice gifts under the tree. We spent half the day over Mrs. Piedmont’s with Ma and Mrs. Piedmont running their mouths and Aunt Jennifer boring the hell out of me with her many troubles.