by Joy, E. n.
Montel stepped forward to stand in between us and the Reapers. I boldly stepped up beside him as he stood eye to eye with the scowling gang members.
"Naw, Cee. I'm gonna handle this one myself," Montel told me.
Everyone there had heard of my brother's past exploits many times over. He had become a hood legend to the young generation of Compton heads, so now to be present during a confrontation, which might very well prove or disapprove all of Montel's hype, kept everyone giddy with excitement.
"S'up, young brothas? How can I be of service to y'all today?" Montel asked them.
The seven gang members stood side by side seemingly sizing up Montel as he stood with arms folded across his chest awaiting a response. Other teens along the boulevard fell silent as they all either came over to where we were or simply climbed atop garbage bins, parked cars or whatever was available in order to catch a glimpse of the brewing conflict. Redrum stared past my brother fixedly in my direction, as his homies began to mouth off on either side of him. Montel cleared his throat loudly, which caused Redrum's evil eyes to suddenly leave me and begin focusing in on Montel.
Several voices from the crowd rose above the raucous gangsta rap music blaring from the caddy's speakers, egging us on to start fighting. Even still, Montel and Redrum were much too preoccupied with each other at the time to hear anything or anyone.
Two Rollin' 60's Crips in their mid thirties came forth through the crowd flashing their gang signs to both Montel and Redrum as they walked up on them. Both men greeted the elder and the junior Reapers with firm hand shakes and hugs before speaking up.
"My homie and me been peepin' y'all out for a minute or two, and it seems like y'all got some static goin' on between y'all," one said. "Now I know you, Montel. I remember when you used ta bang. I remember when you got locked up, and I do know that you ain't bangin' no more, which is all good, 'cause you done paid ya dues." He turned his attention to Redrum. "And you, Redrum. I know you too, li'l homie. You been putting in big work out here on these streets, slangin', bangin' mashin' on fools for their jewels and what not. You a straight up "G" on the come up, right?"
"Dang on right," Redrum replied while starring at Montel.
"It's all good, 'cause it is what it is. But peep this, li'l homie. We know that you and your partnahs is strapped, but we can't let y'all peel nobody's cap back, specially not my man Montel, 'cause he's a Reaper O.G. If ya don't know, well now ya know. Crip nation and Reaper nation is one nation, and ain't no way I'm gon' sit here and watch a rookie take out a vet befo' my eyes.
It would be a violation of the G-code, pimpin'."
Both Crips had drawn Uzi machine guns and held them down at their sides as the speaker concluded his statement. Redrum brushed off the words of his elders by responding with bold nonchalance.
"Cuz, I don't need to cap this big bubbled up fool to let him know who's boss," Redrum spat and then looked at me. "Yeah, Cee, you ain't hard without your brother, homie. You think you're gonna whup up on my cousin and not have to eventually see me?"
"You know what?" Montel replied before I could. "I'm 'bout tired of playing with you toy soldiers. Y'all ain't no real thugs, but I'm 'bout to show you and ya homies what it feels like to get rocked by a true Reaper O.G!"
In an instant, Montel was no longer Montel; he was once again the dreaded 'Widow Maker' who knew no fear and whose heartless acts of crime filled his enemies with terror. His hands quickly clutched Redrum around the neck, lifting him up with ease while simultaneously tossing him up against a garbage dumpster. Upon letting him go, his limp body flopped to the pavement, moving only slightly while he groaned out in pain. His six friends came in to engage the angry Montel with swinging fists, taking him backward onto and across the hood of a parked car.
I stepped forward to aid my brother, but he put his hand up to stop me. "No, Cee. I need to show these fools what a true gangsta is all about." So with that, I stepped back.
The six teens were able to match Montel blow for blow as they piled on top of him. Petey was viciously stomping and kicking away at Montel's upper body in a concentrated attempt to land a fatal blow to his temple while the five other hoodlums wrestled with him along the ground in a frenzied whirlwind of grunts, groans and knuckle blows. Montel seemed overwhelmed at first as the young gang bangers stood above him ostensibly crushing him underfoot. However, in reality, Montel was simply buying time in order to strike at the right moment.
Swift as lightning, Montel swung his right foot out, tripping one of his attackers who stumbled backward onto the parked car, bowling over one of his fellow gang members in the process. A loud gasp, followed by resounding laughter echoed from the ghetto spectators as they watched the two thugs topple over one another up against the car and onto the street below.
Redrum dragged himself up from the pavement and was shaking his head free of the cobwebs which still clung to his senses like a wet blanket. Through the fog of his hazy awareness, he made out the blurry images of his remaining homies locked in a brutal fist fight with the legendary ex-con.
Montel's energy never wavered though he was several years older than the youths that he fought. He took their best shots in stride, wobbling slightly once or twice, but delivered more than a few blows of his own, which caused considerable damage to the recipients themselves.
Petey, who proved to be the hardest of Redrum's gang, was also the first to be dropped by one of Montel's power punches. The remaining two hoods quickly glanced at each other, then back at the heavily breathing, sweat drenched Montel as they slowly backed away from the fight toward the edges of the crowd.
Somewhere within the crowd of onlookers, the crash of shattered glass sounded and a partially broken bottle of gin was tossed to one of the youths from an unidentified spectator. The youngster caught the make shift weapon in midair and lunged headlong toward Montel, swinging the jagged edge of the broken bottle with deadly intent. Miraculously, Montel swayed backward just as the razor sharp points of glass cut through thin air, missing his chest by mere inches. The very momentum of the swing itself left the gangsta severely unbalanced and at a major disadvantage, causing Montel to seize upon the opportunity to land a muscular elbow down with brutal force upon the dude's lower back. The thug fell hard onto the pavement, bruising himself up badly as he skidded along the gravel.
No sooner than he'd polished off that cat, did the final member of Redrum's little posse attack. This one was a heavy set, dark skinned hooligan of about eighteen or nineteen and weighing what seemed like 240 or 245 pounds. He charged into Montel with the velocity of an angry linebacker. Both of them crashed headlong into a row of metal garbage cans, all the while grappling furiously upon the weather beaten sidewalk, with each combatant desperately trying to gain leverage during the struggle. The stout kid was getting the better of Montel for a few seconds and the crowd gasped in antic- ipation of a knock out punch landing any minute up against Montel's square jaw.
"Knock him out, dawg!" Redrum snarled out as the two men threw punches at one another amidst the din of the noisy crowd.
After rocking Montel with one hard punch after another, the stocky boy made a crucial error when he decided to charge Montel as he stood on unsteady legs, teeter-tottering from side to side. Though dazed, Montel sidestepped the rushing opponent seconds before contact. The young thug's momentum carried him harmlessly into the throng of onlookers, who helped him to his feet only to toss him back into the fray. By that time, Montel had gotten himself together and met the strapping youngster with a quick knee to the groin, which felled the ruffian like a pine. When the black clad Reaper slumped to the ground holding his privates in agony, Montel was sucker punched from behind by a scowling Redrum.
Unbeknownst to Montel, the set leader had fitted a pair of shiny brass knuckles to his scarred right hand, and it was these, which nearly floored him. Luckily for Montel, the first blow merely grazed off of the back of his head, enough to hurt but not to K.O. him.
"Watcha go'n do now, big
homie?" Redrum quipped, snickering sarcastically as he circled in on a wobbly knee Montel. He darted in swinging a sharp right hook at Montel's jaw with the brass knuckle encircled fist. The punch was accurate and solid , landing a mighty blow against Montel's jaw, knocking loose a tooth or two in the process.
At that point, I didn't care what Montel said, I couldn't stand to watch my brother being beaten like that anymore, so I sprung toward my ex-comrade with clenched fists and eyes seeing red, only to be snatched backward by a strong hand. Mr. Larry had arrived on the scene out of nowhere. He seemed out of place in his old, dingy overalls with dried splotches of paint all over it among the chick, jewel laced teens who'd gathered to watch the brawl. An unhappy frown formed along the corners of his wide mouth as he surveyed the after math of the street fight.
Mr. Larry noticed Montel down on one knee bleeding from the mouth, and trying to steady himself from falling. Then, without warning, the old man lunged forward, pimp slapping Redrum with enough force to have broken his neck. Redrum sank to the street below, holding his reddened face and wincing painfully. The other Reapers were all slowly but surely recovering somewhat from their wounds and fight inflicted vertigo.
Slowly the bruised and battered gang members backed away into the crowd as they watched Montel being helped up from his kneeling position by the old carpenter. A few of the onlookers booed and threw debris at Redrum's homies as they made their way back toward the chromed out Plymouth sitting along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Montel stood wobbling about on unsteady legs before finally gaining his balance. He dabbed at the blood, which trickled from his loosened teeth, while spitting a glob of red tingled saliva to the ground. Silently, he turned to view the surrounding crowd through black and blue, swollen eyelids.
The onlookers slowly began to fall back, leaving only myself, Mr. Larry, and the two Crips standing by stoically alone in the middle of the lot. Montel grimaced slightly from the pain of his various cuts and contusions before coming over and wrapping a sweaty arm around my shoulder. As he hugged me, he began to cry. Not a weepy, sorrowful cry, just a silent, stone faced shedding of a tear or two. . .or perhaps three. Tears of frustration and anger at himself for losing control of what little discipline he'd taught himself to adhere to. Anger at himself for not being able to utilize his so called 'street creed' for ending violence instead of giving in to it. And finally, frustration with the state of affairs in the hood, which hadn't changed one bit since he'd been impris- oned a decade earlier.
Redrum was approached by the older gang members who ordered him to relinquish both his brass knuckles and his pistol before he limped away, bruised and battered across the street, toward his equally exhausted and beaten homies. Mr. Larry came over and embraced both Montel and I simultaneously before offering to drive us both to Cedars-Sinai in order for Montel to have his wounds properly dressed and treated. My brother kindly declined, as he was commended by the two Crips who'd acted as referees of sorts.
As a young boy, I had never really seen my brother engage in any real acts of violence against anyone, with the exception of a shoving match. And that had only been against one of his friends during a heated crap game. His love and respect for his family forced him to keep those dark tendencies of his at bay whenever he was around us. But now I, and dang near the entire city of Compton, had seen the legend himself in action.
By now Montel's mouth had pretty much stopped bleeding once he'd soaked the majority up with a bandanna that had been given to him by one of the Crip homies. As Montel, Mr. Larry and myself began walking toward Mr. Larry's pickup, we all spotted two LAPD squad cars parked a few feet away with their sun shade wearing occupants staring motionless in our direction.
Mr. Larry threw his arms up in exasperation to this newly developing issue. "Man! This is just what we need! The cops! This is not good, not good at all!"
Laughter escaped the mouths of the two Crip O.G.s as they listened to Mr. Larry rant and rave about the cops who seem to do little else but stare at us occasionally, even waving at us once. "Calm yo' nerves, Pops," one said. "Five-o ain't gonna do nothin'. They know us and we already told them 'bout what was going down. Trust me; they want these young riders off the street just as bad as y'all do."
"Yeah," the other Crip agreed. "We still rep Crip, but me and my homeboy don't rob, steal or kill folks no more." The two gang members then followed us across the street to the awaiting pickup.
Montel acknowledged the words of his Crip ally with quiet dignity. "I appreciate everything y'all did today, but as of today, I'm truly and officially out of this gang crap."
Montel opened the door to Mr. Larry's F150 and ushered me in first before he slid his aching body in afterwards. Mr. Larry got in on the driver's side, started the engine and slowly pulled away from the infamous Crenshaw Boulevard toward home.
We stopped at Mr. Larry's first, and it took over an hour for Montel to get cleaned up before he felt comfortable enough to step out. After a long, hot shower and the application of a few bandages, it still did little to hide the fact that he'd been in one heck of a fistfight. His face resembled that of a prizefighter who'd just finished a 12- rounder. His knuckles were also scarred and raw with dried blood on them and he wore dark Rayban shades to cover his puffy black and blue eyes.
We arrived at Compton Community Park just in time for the fireworks. Mama was understandably peeved at each one of us, including Mr. Larry himself for coming so late and missing most of the food from off the grill, not to mention news of the fight which had occurred earlier. Mama pretty much chewed both me and Montel out behind that one. Luckily for us, her vicious ten minute tongue lashing was largely drowned out by the racket of the exploding pyrotechnics above.
Montel took the entire blame for the incident. Miss Shante was feeling sorry for Montel at this point and quickly took the time to intervene. After speaking with Mama for a few minutes, she asked Montel if he would take a ride with her in order to let Mama cool off somewhat before returning. He agreed and off they went in her hooptie toward God-knows-where.
As far as Miss Shante's baby daughter, Nadia was away visiting her father in San Diego and would not return until late summer, so Miss Shante had the house all to herself and no babysitting issues to concern herself with, so I'm certain she intended to take full advantage of this prime opportunity to spend quality time alone with the apple of her eye.
Chapter Nine
July passed with relative ease on into August. The heat of the Southern California midsummer evenings was humid and relentless. The gangs seemed to react with much less violence than ever before. Montel's legend grew even though he rarely, if ever, hung around his old Reaper homies. Redrum ended up in jail for the third time in five years for armed robbery, and with his arrest and conviction, most of his little bandanna wearing lackeys lost interest in gang activity and wound up pursuing more constructive activities.
I noticed that after spending time together Fourth of July, Montel and Miss Shante shared a special closeness. They now appeared to be dating seriously. In fact, Montel had moved in with her and little Nadia. Surprisingly, no "I told you so," came from Mama.
I was enjoying the summer mainly because I had somehow ended hooking up with Fatima after all, who proved to be a jewel in the rough as a gal pal for me. Mama, too, had a pretty good summer as well. She had just received a raise on her job.
Alone at the house playing Playstation, I rolled up a few blunts and called over a couple of my boys to play a few games for some money. Within twenty minutes, five of my best homies walked up in the crib carrying their own game controllers and a pocket full of cash. We began our virtual football battle against each other on the big screen. The house was filled with the loud trash talk of pubescent boys and simulated stadium crowd noise echoing from the television speakers. Buttered popcorn, colas, and friendly put-downs flowed freely while twenty dollar bills were exchanged from hand to hand as losers relinquished their controllers to the victors.
After thirteen total games, my winnings amounted to over $200. I turned off the Playstation and TV before walking my disheartened pals to the threshold of the door, thanking them for their time and money as they filed out one after the other. I recounted my quick winnings, smiling proudly from the small stack of twenties and tens that I held in my hand. As I stuffed the wad of cash down into my sagging khakis, I noticed Fatima waltzing up the sidewalk. She picked up the pace of her gait when she saw me standing on the porch. She rushed toward me, squealing with delight with her arms outstretched. We held each other tight and passionately locked our lips together in a sloppy, teen kiss.
Our raging hormones tugged at us both to take advantage of the empty house. But common sense won over adolescent lust, and fortunately so, because Montel and Miss Shante pulled up with Mama, after an afternoon of grocery shopping, as Fatima and I stood chatting on the porch.
"Y'all had better not been doing nothing nasty while I've been gone," Mama said jokingly as she exited Montel's new Thunderbird.
Both Fatima and I laughed as we rushed off the porch to embrace Mama simultaneously before helping with the groceries. An hour after we had gotten all the groceries in the house and got settled in, the sound of a familiar vehicle came rumbling up along the curb in front of the house. Irritation immediately replaced my ebullience as the powerful engine just outside the window came to a halt. Montel, as calm as always, sat back flipping slowly through the pages of the old Testament book of Judges.
"Mama, it's Leon, and I betcha he's drunk, as always," I presumed. "But I'm gonna ask you with all due respect, Mama; please for me; for us all, do not argue with him, okay?" The last thing I wanted was for Mama and Leon to get to going at it in front of my girl.
"I promise you he will not make a scene, 'cause I won't let him." Mama rolled her eyes a bit She sighed audibly before raising up from the couch to get the door just as Leon lumbered up the walkway and onto the steps leading to the entrance.
