by Askari
Blood of a Boss II
Lock Down Publications
Presents
Blood of a Boss II
The Streets Is Watching
A Novel by Askari
Lock Down Publications
P.O. Box 1482
Pine Lake, Ga 30072-1482
Copyright 2015 by Askari Blood of a Boss II
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in review.
First Edition March 2015
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Cover design and layout by: Dynasty Cover Me
Book interior design by: Shawn Walker
Edited by: Shelby Lazenby
Dedications
This book is dedicated to the memory of my loving mother, Mrs. Edith Annette Farmer. This book is also dedicated to my beautiful children, Dayshon Kapone Farmer, Keyonti Nikkia Farmer, and Quamar Preston Adams.
Shout outs to my family: My grandmother, Jeanette Farmer. Pop Pop and Grandma Zetti. My pops, Earl “Bigg Dawg” Farmer. My aunt, Mary “Dee Dee” Broomer. My sister, Chrissia Lindsay. My brothers, Tyron and Shamar Farmer. My nephews, Kanye and Noah Lindsay-Green. My niece, Sahala Lindsay-Green. My uncles: Nate “Bubbles” Farmer, Robert “Suggie” Farmer, Anthony “Tone” Broomer, George “Russy” Lindsay Jr., James “Uncle Jim” Lindsay, Leonard Lindsay, and Daniel “Jap” Minor. My aunts: Cynthia Basketbill, Carol Minor, Trina Lindsay, Tina McLauren, Michelle Farmer, Drema, Yolanda Orlina, and Tanga. My cousins: Robert “Cheese” Basketbill (Cheese fought me...made me tougher, love you for that my nigga, no matter what brah), Sheena and Glen Morgan, Gina “GiGi” Basketbill, Kaleena and Kennedy Farmer, Sabrina Farmer, Anyae and Nydia Broomer, Munch, Nonnie, and Kizzy Canada. Jared, Danielle, and David Minor, Jim-Jim and Lance Lindsay, Tiana Lindsay, Reese and George “Tockie” Lindsay, Lenia and Lenette Lindsay, Gregory “Nyce” McLauren, Andre McLauren, and Journey McLauren. Ms. Mona Davis, Keisha, Shana, Chanel, Lexi, Kori and Breanna Eaglan (Bre, I love you baby sis). Rickina “Pooh Face” Binns, Kareem Acevedo( I love you, lil man. Hold ya head) and Diamond. The Canada Family, The Benjamin Family, and The Kent Family.
Shout outs to The Crease Legends: OG Winky (R.I.P.), OG Boston (R.I.P.), OG Sid (R.I.P.), Lil Ben (R.I.P), Justin Winstead (R.I.P.), Jimmy Ford (R.I.P.), Jeff Green (R.I.P.), and Richard Saunders (R.I.P.)
Shout outs to my homegirls: Destiny Taylor (I love you, baby girl, and I'm proud of you) Toyia and Ms. Tonya, Nicole “Mookie” Vaughn, Precious, Yarnell, Shante, Erica, Niesha, Quita, Angel, Atiya, Yannie (R.I.P.), Butter, Sheena Gordon, Chenoa, Jamie, Davita, Yah Yah, Tamara Bell, Barbie, Jesse, Ebony Butler, Diedra Wilson, Shakiera Wilson, Whup, Leena (Sweety Raw), Noobie, Shantiera, Teahona Adams (May Allah continue to bless you. Ameen.), Carol Adams, Kimberly Sizer, Ms. Bev and Kelly Scott, Angie, Syd, Michelle, Tamieka Jefferson, Margret, Kreesha, Dita (Ms. Sonyia), Meeka, Yolanda “Lala” Jackson, Sakina Jackson, Flo, Treasure, Puff, Khaliyah, Summer, Boog, Kyra, Krissy, Sharita, and Taneesha.
Shout outs to my DAY ONE NIGGAS: Micheal “Muk Millionz” Vaughn, Jason “Goon” Vaughn, Anton “Skeeny” Orlina, Marlow “Biggie” Hariston, William “Billy Bear” Taylor, Roy “Pretty Boy” Jolly, Eric “E” Stubbs, Bobby “Boner Bob” Canada, Deshay Canada, Uncle Stevie Canada, Joey Canada, Carson, Wayne “Wiggz” Johnson, Reggie “Reg” Johnson, Cutchie, Kut, Bliz, Rock, Black Sam, Marty, Spunk, Nate, Shawn Pinkney, Shawn Peppi, Jacquan “Nasty” Carter, J-Rizzy, Micheal Richards, Hasan, Mole, Raz, Kirby, Vinny Raysor, Coldplay Wu and Rell, Gerald, Nick Knowledge, Kyle Fisher, Uncle J, Kio, Mal and Quanny, Lil Toney, Eric and Rashid Camp, Lhamar Smith, Craig (Banga), Tone (Muff), Lil Eddie, Jermaine “Pete” Martin, Uncle Hick, Javon, Nate Nate, Ceez, Fudd, Jimmy Bean, Rahfiq, Man Man, Tyrone “T.Y.” Groomes (R.I.P.), Ryan and Todd Flamer, Rock, Joezell, WeeLee, Alvin, and Beetle (R.I.P.)
Shout outs to my North Philly Family: Uncle Sonny Blue(Pop), Uncle Reese, Nassideen, Marty Stacks (Cousin BEAST), Briz, Cousin Meatball (I still love you bul), Peedi Crakk, Indy 500, Freeway, C4, Cousin Heemy (R.I.P.), Omillio Sparks, Kyree (hold ya head homie), Horsey and Boo Boo, Nyce, Footy James, Malik, Tauphiq, Parkay, Buttah, Lil' Veezy, Stizzy Mac, Nips, Shokka Bop, Doe Boy, Cam, Cheeks, Keeny and Fonze, Ted (Saubir), Toot, Uncle June, Charlie Mack, Johnny Ahk, Spanky (Shiest), Dev, Gooch, Hollywood, Ant Ant (R.I.P.), Man Man, Don Don, Cheeze Mean Money, Day Day From J-Street (hold ya head bro). Reese and Susquhanna, 8th and Diamond, Franklin and Diamond, Fairhill and York, Marshall and Montgomery, 7th and Clearfield, Richard Allen Projects (RAM SQUAD), Fairhill Projects, Lil Pat, Lil Reese, Lil Marty, Rob (Sheed), Jameel Capers, Cousin Squeeze (R.I.P.), Geez and Lil Weezy. T-Mac (R.I.P), 12th and Huntingdon, 12th and Cumberland, Delhi and Dauphin, Delhi and Cumberland, Lee Street, 11th and Diamond, and Erie Ave.
Shout outs to Team LDP: Cash, Coffee, Reds Johnson, Kenneth Chisholm, Damion King, Lady Stiletto, J Peach, Tranay Adams, Royal Nicole, Chance, Frank Gresham, Walt Johnson, Linnea, and Sa'id Salaam.
400 Saulte to all my Block Boys!!! Tali Da Don, Sunshine, F.T., K.K., Melly Whispers, OG Rah Dollaz, Pizzy Bishop, Kali Budd (B.I.P). Bishop Love to all my Bishops. East to da West!!!
Last but not least, I wanna give a special shout out to all of the FANS AND SUPPORTERS of LDP!!! I thank y'all so much!!! Y'all are the best!!!! We around!!!!
Preface
The Moreno Family Legacy
My name is Gervin Moreno and I was born to be a gangster. My bloodline is West African and Sicilian, and I’m Gabriella Moreno’s first child. My mother, an Afro-Cuban was rumored to be a descendent of Queen Nzinga. She was beyond beautiful. Her chocolate skin was reminiscent of her Angolan heritage, and her silky hair and aqua blue eyes were courtesy of the Spanish slavemaster who brutally raped her great-grandmother in the middle of a sugar cane field. I, too, have his eyes.
My father, Angolo Gervino, was a Sicilian-American. He had a rich olive complexion, wavy black hair, a chiseled face, and piercing black eyes. At 6’2”, 195 pounds, he was full of charisma and his body language exuded power.
In 1939, my father and his friends migrated to Cuba. Fulgencio Batista was the president, and he welcomed these Sicilian and Jewish gangsters with open arms. With the government tucked away in their back pocket, my father and his friends were given free rein to capitalize on Cuba’s underworld. In the Centro section, they extorted the small business owners, and had their hands in everything from prostitution to gambling. On the infamous Zanja Street, my father claimed ownership of The Bamboo Lounge, and it was there that he met my mother. The two of them fell in love, and I was born a year later.
By 1950, under the tutelage of a man named Lucky, my father and his friends became extremely wealthy. In Old Havana, they owned The Hotel Nacional, and on La Rompa they owned The Hotel Lincoln and The Hotel Biltmore. These hotels were the most extravagant in all of Cuba. I haven’t laid eyes on them in over sixty years, but I can vividly remember their opulence as if it were yesterday. They stood tall and prominent like Spanish castles, and were flanked by tall palm trees and elaborate gardens. American movie stars and famous athletes would frequent
these hotels, and on my tenth birthday, at The Hotel Biltmore, my father introduced me to my idol, Mr. Mickey Mantle.
Life was sweet back then. My mother was pregnant with my little sister, Angela, and my father built our family a small palace from the ground up. He would often travel back and forth between Cuba and America, but whenever he was home, he showered our family with love and affection.
By 1952, I was known throughout the streets of Havana as Ang’s boy. My father used to always tell me I had the blood of a boss, and that one day I’d be the boss of Havana. In order to make his dreams for me a reality, him and his friends taught me everything there was to know about being a gangster. They taught me rackets of all kinds, and the numerous ways of making and taking money excited me. His underboss, Micheal Picatti, was like an uncle to me. He trained me in hand to hand combat, and spent endless hours teaching me how to operate firearms. On Saturday nights, they would take me to their legendary poker games, and it was there that I met some very important men. I refuse to mention any names, but I’m quite sure that you’ve read about them and seen the movies that depicted their lives.
Essentially, Cuba made my father a powerful man, but toward the end of 1953, things began to change. A man by the name of Fidel Castro and his brother, Raul, were on the brink of a revolution. They openly despised the Batista regime and the American gangsters who controlled Cuba’s underworld. They made numerous attempts to overthrow the government, and in the process, they placed murder contracts on my father and his friends. As a precaution, my father packed up our family and flew us to America.
When our plane landed in Philadelphia, the first thing to grab my attention was the snow and the freezing weather. In Cuba, the weather was always hot, and to us, snow was nothing more than a prop in a Hollywood movie. But there we were, in the middle of a Philadelphia snowstorm, freezing our asses off with snow up to our ankles.
My Uncle Mikey picked us up from the airport in a black Lincoln Continental. He drove us to a small row home in South Philly, and my father told us that this was our new house. I remember feeling confused. In Cuba, we lived like royalty, and now we were standing in front of a row home that appeared to be smaller than our garage. My father handed my mother an envelope full of money, and then turned his back as if he didn’t even know us. We didn’t know it at the time, but on the other side of Broad Street, in Little Italy, he had a wife and a son. From that day forward, my life as Ang’s boy was over, and in my new country I was just another nigger. A light skinned, curly head, blue eyed nigger.
Initially, it was hard for my family to adjust. In Cuba, my mother was a famous singer, but here in America she could hardly keep a job. My father was long gone and the only person who helped us out from time to time was Uncle Mikey. I just turned thirteen, and as the man of the house, I was forced to take action. My only problem was that my peers considered me an outcast. Aside from my light skin, curly hair, and blue eyes, I spoke with a Cuban accent and mostly kept to myself. My only friend was next door neighbor, Russell Fitzgerald, and together we dealt with the constant bullying of some neighborhood kids who called themselves The 20th and Carpenter Street Gang. There leader was this stocky brown skinned kid named Ant Man, and with his gang always around to back him up, he treated me and Russell like shit.
On my fifteenth birthday, my life changed forever. It was July 3rd, 1955, and my mother bought me a new bike to help me with my paper route. I took it for a spin around the neighborhood, and when I reached the corner of 20th and Carpenter, I ran smack dab into Ant Man and his gang. Without saying a word, Ant Man cracked me upside the head with an empty wine bottle, knocking me to the ground. He kicked me in the ribs, and then rode off on my new bike.
About an hour later, I was sitting on my front stoop when Uncle Mikey pulled up in front of my house in his Lincoln. He hopped out of the car and approached me. I was embarrassed to say the least. After all the time he spent preparing me for combat, I should’ve handled myself better. I could’ve easily broken Ant Man’s face, but for some strange reason I was afraid.
He pointed at the two inch gash above my right eye.”Gervin, what happened?”
I lowered my head. “I was playing basketball, and this kid elbowed me by mistake,” I lied.
Uncle Mikey shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, Gervin. What am I friggin’ idot ova here?” he asked in his Sicilian accent. “Tell me what really happened. And pick up your head while you’re at it. Didn’t I teach you to always look a man in the eyes when you’re talkin’ to him?”
“Yes sir,” I said while lifting my head to lock eyes with him.
“Alright, now tell me what happened.”
“It was this kid from the neighborhood named Ant Man. He hit me with a wine bottle,” I shamefully confessed.
Uncle Mikey’s face turned bright red. He reached behind his back and pulled out a nickel plated .357 Magnum. He handed me the gun. “Gervin, whenever a man is violated by another man, the man who was violated must do everything in his power to make sure that the man who violated him never violates again.” He looked at me like I was pitiful, and then returned to his Lincoln. As he started the engine and pulled off, I examined the pistol that was clutched in my right hand. I knew what I had to do to earn my respect. In order for me to get my point across, it had to be done in front of my entire neighborhood.
The next day was the 4th of July, and The 20th and Carpenter Street Gang was hosting their annual block party. I decided to make an appearance. Dressed in a black T-shirt, a pair of black shorts, and my tattered Chuck Taylors, I posted up by the record player. The smell of barbecued chicken was in the air, and the sounds of Chuck Berry had the intersection jam packed with people dancing. Ant Man was in the middle of the street doing The Freak with this girl from the Tasker Projects. I sized him up. He was six inches taller, and forty pounds heavier than me, but with a .357 tucked in the small of my back I felt like a giant. His gang was scattered throughout the block, but due to the festivities none of them noticed me. After watching Ant Man from a distance, I decided to make my move. I cut off the music, and everybody stopped dancing. They looked in my direction and pointed. Ant Man took the bate. He stormed toward me and pushed me in the chest.
He screwed up his face. “What the hell is you doin’ at my block party chump? I ought to whup yo’ ass!”
Everybody laughed at me, but I smiled at Ant Man. This was my moment. I was determined to make every one of them mutha’fuckas remember my name.
Ant Man looked at me like I was crazy. “What the hell is you smilin’ for, chump? Oh I get it, you must want another bottle upside yo’ mutha’fuckin’ head!”
Before he had the chance to utter another word, I pulled the .357 with my right hand, and grabbed the front of his T-shirt with my left. I pulled him towards me and placed the barrel underneath his chin.
Boom!
His brains burst out the top of his head, and he crumbled to the ground. Loud screams permeated the area and everybody scattered including his gang. They didn’t even stick around to see his body drop. Enraged, I kicked him in the face, and then fired a few more rounds into his chest.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The barrel of the gun was smoking. My hands were trembling. My chest heaved up and down. His warm blood was on my face and T-shirt. I didn’t care. I’d made my point. The stage was set.
Later that night I was arrested and charged with Ant Man’s murder. I was ultimately convicted, and the judge sentenced me to juvenile life. I took it in stride. To me, prison was a conduit to something much greater. While serving my time, I built up my body and developed my mind. I was exposed to the philosophies and opinions of Marcus Garvey, intrigued by the war tactics on Tsung Tsu, and infatuated with the will and ambition of Genghis Khan. But most importantly, I learned the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.
In July of 1961, I was finally released from prison. I was twenty one years old, and my dreams were as big as the sky. When I returned to my South Philly neighborh
ood, I quickly discovered that my old friend, Russell Fitzgerald, was running the show. Apparently, when I went to prison for murdering Ant Man, Russell received all of the benefits. The entire South Philly knew we were best friends, and they assumed that just like me, he wouldn’t think twice about blowing a mutha’fuckas head off. It didn’t take long for Russell to figure this out, and he used my new rep to enhance his street credibility. The first thing he did was take over Ant Man’s gang. After extracting the strong from the weak, him and his new crew opened up a number’s house, a whore house, and flooded the streets of South Philly with a new drug called heroin. I didn’t mind that Russell had made his bones off of my rep because when I came home he did the right thing. He blessed me with a brand new Cadillac, and even purchased a new house for my mother and my little sister. He also stepped down as the gang’s leader, and rightfully handed me the position.
In two years, with the grooming I received as a child, I elevated our game to the next level. From Broad Street to 31st Street, from Center City to Oregon Avenue, we robbed, extorted, kidnapped, and murdered. I literally gripped up the black section of South Philly, and in turn the streets named me Grip.
Our territories began to expand. Our leather jackets and Jeff caps turned into full length minks and wide brim Stetsons. Our Cadillacs and Lincolns turned into Mercedes Benzes and Rolls Royces. Our South Philly row homes turned into mansions. Our legacy in Black Philadelphia was solidified.
On the east side of Broad Street, The Gervino Crime Family began to hear stories about the niggers from Carpenter Street. Initially, they paid us no mind, but when a story about a light skinned nigger with curly hair and blue eyes reached my father he sent for me. It was January 10th, 1963, and I was relaxing at The Reynolds Wrap Lounge on 18th and South Street. Russell was at the bar talking to a broad, and I was sitting at my private table drinking a club soda. My Uncle Mikey and another man entered the bar. I noticed them immediately and waved them over to my table.
