Eastside

by Caleb Alexander

  EASTSIDE

  A NOVEL

  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  http://www.streborbooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  © 2007 by Caleb Alexander

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5970-2

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-5970-1

  LCCN 2007923506

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  This novel is dedicated to the Mothers

  and to the Survivors

  IN MEMORY OF

  CHAD L. DAVIS

  A righteous soldier, who lost his life

  in an unrighteous war.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost I want to thank the Almighty Creator. It would take an entire novel for me to list all of the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. I know that it was during some of the darkest moments of my life, that He carried me. I am a living witness to His kindness, forgiveness, charity, and compassion. He’s real, and His mercy and greatness is bottomless.

  I want to thank my brother Theron, for giving me my imagination. He helped to develop and foster my creativity. He has an imagination and wit that is uncanny. If he ever picks up a pen and starts writing, the world is in for a treat. I want to thank my grandmother, Lillie. There are no words that could even begin to convey my feelings there. She is my heart. I want to acknowledge my wife, Jennifer; my sons, Curtis and Caleb; and my daughter, Cheyenne. My mother, Gwen; and my dad, Charles.

  I want to say thank you to Zane, and Charmaine, and to the best agent in the world, Tracy Sherrod. Big ups to Keith Saunders for the cover design. Thanks to Shayla Cobb for her typing skills.

  Shout out to: Stacey Wynn, Cornell Cleaver, Syidah Shaheed, Omar, Maleek, Momma Robinson, Big Lou (Sheffield), Greg Palmer, Wayman Goodley, Bart, Twin, Fresh Reggie (Williams), Magic, Stag, Unc, Tuck, Tyrus Foster, Charles Deese, Mo-Mo (Elmo Johnson), JP (James Peters), Terance Spellmon, Quentin Henry, Wynell, Stephen, Theron Duncan, Edward Brown, Timmy, Skibo (Dashawn Batts), Chrissy Barefield, Baby Ray Mathis, Dimebox, Charlie Hustle, Buggy (Albert Gistard), Shawn Butler, Smoke (Keith Theus), Ron Johnson, Ced Quigley, JR, Keith Franklin, Black, Jesse Brooks, Fred and Sharonda Carter, Tyshea Wagner, Julon, Jarveon, Low Life (Stacey Robinson), Nick Clay, Nikki Smith, Monekka Smith, Jo Ann Smith, Dwayne Pleasant, Ernie and Valerie LaCour, Mike LaCour, Brian Green, JV Green, Can't Get Right, Kenneth Macracken, Shawn Macracken, Staci Denise, Erin, Polly, Cibon, Greg, El ijah, Kennedy, Arboni, Janice, Devean, Kelvin, Michelle Monciaviaz, Nicole Hood, Teke Beck, Jason, Pat, Joe Linton, Quick (Terry Williams), Grave Digger (Donnell), Billy Pen, Anthony Frisco, Tony and Olga Owens, Dana, Deon, Ronnie, Marcus, Thomas, Lisa, Mildred, Betty, Matthew, Bubba, Marshall Simmons, Rene Simmons, Tony, Daphane, Briana, Ebony, Belinda, Avante, Amaya, Audrey, Darlene, Jimmy, Keanna, Deandre, Jennae, Juwan, Gail, Rodney, Ivory, Sylvia, Uncle Jerry, Aunt Libby, Aunt Joyce, Cookie, Pam, Uncle Richard, Uncle Thomas, Uncle Billy, Aunt Fanny, Thad, Comfort, Big Cibon, Trisha, Anna, Gloria, the Smith Family, the Spellmon Family, the Williams Family, the Lacour Family, the Washington Family, the Small Family, the Luna Family, the Gafford Family, the Small Family, the Stephens Family, the Hearn Family, the James Family, the Bailey Family, the Sheffield Family, the Dawson Family, the Childs Family, the Huff Family, the Owens Family, the Shaheed Family, the Moorman Family, the Zumalt Family, the Hernandez Family, the Gordon Family, the Capprietta Family.

  Those of you who I forgot to mention, it was not on purpose. Please forgive me. I owe so much to so many, and I sincerely thank you all for being there for me all of these years

  FOREWORD

  This is the book Eastside. It is an extremely accurate and violent portrayal of inner-city life, particularly the gang warfare that accompanies it. This book is not for the faint of heart.

  I chose to set this book in the Eastside of San Antonio, Texas, for several reasons. One, San Antonio typifies the average American city; and two, I am intimately familiar with the city.

  The characters in the book run the gamut. They are varied and rich, as this is a character-oriented book. The language is graphic, and there is a lot of slang. These are necessary in order for me to properly convey the feelings of the characters, and to instill a genuine feeling of authenticity within the book.

  When you read this book, do not do so from a purely entertainment aspect, but also view it as an informational tool. Let it be your window into another world, a world that is still very much in existence today, although this book is set in the early nineties.

  In the end, I hope that you are left shocked. I hope that this book shocks you into picking up the telephone, calling your local Big Brother or Big Sister program, and volunteering.

  The story is about two years in the life of a young man named Travon. It is about the things he endures, the people he meets, the family that supports him, and the obstacle he must overcome on his journey toward manhood. There are Travons in every major city in America, as well as Cooneys, Little Fades, Dejuans, Mrs. Davises, Tamikas, and Shielas.

  The characters you will come to know in this book will touch on every emotion. You will laugh with them, you will cry with them, you will cheer, you will hate, and you will love. Some who you thought were good, will ultimately show themselves to be evil, while those thought to be evil incarnate will ultimately find redemption for themselves and others. However, none of the characters in this book are innocent, as they are all human, and subject to all the fallibilities and frailties that their humanity entails. A common theme prevalent throughout this book is the wrong execution of the right idea. As we all know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  I wish that I could tell you to enjoy your reading, but deep down, I do not want you to. I want you to be confused, and upset, and disturbed once the last page has been turned. I want you to question what was said, what was not done, and in the end, ask what needs to be done.

  I thank you sincerely for your time and patience, and for your support. And now, I would like to welcome you to the…

  Eastside.

  The San Antonio Police Department recorded 1,262 drive-by shootings in 1993. It was the first year that the department began compiling the statistics. It was also the year that San Antonio officially became known as the capital of the drive-by shooting.

  Those of us who lived on the city’s eastside at the time, know that 1992 and 1991 were even worse.

  “The responsibility of a writer is to excavate the experience of the people who produced him.”

  —James Baldwin

  CHAPTER ONE

  Travon smacked his lips. “Man, you’re stupid.”

  “Why?” Justin asked, shifting his gaze toward Travon. “Just because your brother got killed don’t mean I will. Besides, it’s for the hood.”

  Travon exhaled, and lowered his head. “I told my brother that he was stupid too, and now he’s dead.”

  The boys continued around the side of the old red-brick school building toward the back. Staring at the ground, Justin haphazardly kicked at gravel spread along the ground beneath his feet.

  “Yeah, Tre, but at least Too-Low went out like a soldier,” he replied.

  They were headed behind the middle school to a pair of old wooden green bleachers that sat across the well-worn football field. They could see the others standing just in front of the peeling bleachers waiting for
them. Travon shifted his gaze from the waiting boys back to Justin. He started to speak, but Justin interrupted him.

  “Tre, what’s up with you?” Justin asked. “You ain’t got no love for the hood? Your brother was down; he was a straight-up G. Don’t you wanna be like that? Making everybody bar you and catch out when you step on the scene?”

  Travon stared at Justin in silence. His silence seemed to only anger his friend more.

  “I know that you’re still trippin’ over your brother getting killed, but he’d want you to ride for the hood!” Justin shouted. “He’d want you to be down!”

  Travon halted in mid-step, and stared at Justin coldly. “How do you figure that?”

  Like a precious family heirloom, Travon considered his brother, his brother’s thoughts and wishes, as well as his memory, to be sacred. They were his and his alone.

  Justin paused to formulate his reply, but one of the waiting boys shouted. “Y’all lil’ niggaz hurry the fuck up! We ain’t got all muthafuckin’ day!”

  Now filled with even more nervous anxiety, Travon and Justin quickly ended their conversation and hurriedly approached the waiting group. A tall, slender, shirtless boy stepped to the forefront. His torso was heavily illustrated with various tattoos and brandings, while his body was draped in gold jewelry, glimmering brilliantly in the bright South Texas sun.

  “So, y’all lil’ niggaz wanna get down, huh?” the shirtless boy asked.

  Another boy anxiously stepped forward. “Say, Dejuan, let me put ’em on the hood!”

  Dejuan, the first boy, folded his arms and nodded.

  Travon walked his eyes across all of the boys present. There were six of them, all adorned with large expensive gold necklaces, watches, bracelets, and earrings, and all of them had gold caps covering their teeth. They were members of the notorious Wheatley Courts Gangsters, or WCGs for short. The WCGs were one of the most violent drug gangs in the State of Texas. Their ruthlessness and brutality was legendary.

  Travon nervously examined the boys one by one. Those who were not shirtless were clad in burnt-orange University of Texas T-shirts. Burnt orange was the gang’s colors, and the University of Texas symbol was their adopted motif. It stood for the location of their home, the Wheatley Courts. It was their municipality, their ruthless domain, their merciless world. It was a place where their will was law, and where all those who disobeyed were sentenced to death.

  The Wheatley Courts was a low-income housing project where drugs and violence were the rule, and not the exception. It was also a place where many more than just a few of its occupants had made millions in their professions as street pharmacists. Perhaps worst of all, the Courts were home to the WCGs, a gang of ballers, and stone-cold murderers.

  Travon shifted his gaze to his left; Justin had begun to remove his T-shirt. He looked back at the group of boys, to find that several of them were removing their shirts and jewelry as well. The festivities were about to begin.

  “Let me whip these lil’ niggaz onto the hood!” Tech Nine asked Dejuan again.

  Without waiting for a response, Tech Nine walked away from the group and onto the football field, where he was quickly joined by Quentin, Lil C, and T-Stew. Once out on the field, the boys turned and waited for Justin.

  Hesitantly, Justin made his way to where Tech Nine was waiting patiently and cracking his knuckles. Once Justin came within striking distance, Tech Nine swung wildly at him. The blow slammed into Justin’s face.

  “Muthafucka!” Justin shouted. He quickly charged Tech Nine and tackled him. Both boys hit the ground hard.

  Lil C approached from the side and kicked Justin in his ribs. Justin cried out and rolled over onto his side. Justin tried to lift himself from off the ground, only to be met by a fist from Quentin. Justin grabbed his bloody nose.

  “Wheatley Courts Gangstas, you punk-ass bitch!” Tech Nine shouted, as he charged Justin. “This is WCG, nigga!”

  Lil C delivered a kick to Justin’s back, just as Quentin swung at Justin again.

  “Get that muthafucka!” Dejuan shouted from the sidelines.

  Justin was able to roll away from Tech Nine’s lunge, but had to take another blow from Quentin. He was able to make it to his feet just in time to receive another punch from Lil C. Although tired and out of breath, Justin was able to sustain the blow and remain standing.

  “WCG for life!” Quentin shouted, advancing again.

  Lil C swung at Justin again and missed. Justin, however, was unable to dodge a kick from Tech Nine. It landed directly in his groin.

  Justin stumbled back, and Tech Nine kicked again, this time missing Justin and striking Lil C.

  “My bad, man!” Tech Nine shouted. “I was trying to kick that little muthafucka!”

  “Shit! Aw, fuck!” Lil C slowly descended to the ground while clutching his groin.

  This brief intermission gave Justin time to recover and go on the offensive. He quickly dropped to one knee and punched Quentin in his groin, just as Quentin was about to swing at him.

  “Aaaaaargh, shit! Punk muthafucka!” Quentin fell to the ground clutching his crotch.

  Tech Nine maneuvered behind Justin, and threw a hard punch to the back of his head.

  “Yeah, muthafucka, this is Wheatley Courts on mines!” Tech Nine shouted.

  Justin rose, stumbled forward, and tripped over Quentin’s leg. Tired, he hit the ground hard; this time, he could not find the energy to get back up. Tech Nine hurriedly approached and began kicking.

  Justin, unable to move, curled into a ball and waited for the pain to be over.

  “Punk muthafucka, fight back!” Tech Nine continued to kick brutally. He kicked Justin until he became tired, and retreated to where the others were standing.

  Dejuan turned to Tech Nine. “Do you think that’s enough?” he asked laughingly.

  Tech Nine, sweating profusely, swallowed hard before answering. “I think he can get down. I think he’s got enough nuts.” He shifted his eyes to Travon. “You lucky I’m tired today, but tomorrow, I’m going to enjoy putting hands on you.”

  Travon’s heart slowed to a semi-normal pace once he realized that they would not be jumping on him today. He quickly walked to where Justin was lying curled in a ball on the ground. Travon dropped down to his knees beside his friend.

  “Justin, are you all right?” Travon asked.

  No answer.

  “Justin.” Travon grabbed Justin’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Justin.”

  “Yeah, I’m cool,” Justin answered weakly.

  “Leave him alone, he’s all right!” shouted Lil C, who was slowly rising to his feet again.

  Tech Nine shifted his eyes toward his friend. “Say, C, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, muthafucka,” Lil C answered. “Just watch where in the fuck you kicking next time.”

  Justin slowly uncurled, and pain shot through his body as he tried to brace himself to stand. Travon helped his friend off the ground.

  “Yeah, you WCG now, baby!” T-Stew shouted.

  Quentin, Tech Nine, T-Stew, and Dejuan quickly surrounded Justin.

  “You WCG for life now, baby!” exclaimed Dejuan.

  “Gimme some love, homie!” Tech Nine shouted.

  “It’s all about that WCG!” Justin declared weakly.

  “Yeah!” T-Stew shouted. He extended his right arm into the air and made a W by crossing his two middle fingers. Doing the same with his left arm, he cupped his hand and formed the letter C.

  “Wheatley Courts, baby!” Lil C shouted, as he and Justin embraced.

  “Wheatley Courts!” T-Stew repeated, maneuvering into position for his embrace.

  Dejuan swaggered away from the group, over to a pile of T-shirts lying on the ground. He lifted up a burnt-orange University of Texas T-shirt and examined it. On the front of the shirt rested a large white T. On the back of the shirt, printed in Old English script were the words Wheatley Courts for Life. Dejuan turned and walked back to where the boys were waiting, and Travo
n watched in fear, disbelief, and a slight bit of jealous envy as Justin was given Dejuan’s very own Texas T-shirt to put on.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Weeks Later

  Tonight, like every other night since his brother’s death, Travon dreamt of him. Sweating profusely in the blistering South Texas heat, he tossed and turned as his last conversation with his brother was replayed inside his head.

  “How do you like these Jordans, Tre?” Too-Low asked.

  “They’re pretty clean.” Travon nodded. “Are you gonna let me sport ’em?”

  Too-Low smiled at his younger brother. “I gotta stay on the cuts all night, ’cause tomorrow’s the first. If I make enough ends, I’ll take you to the mall and get you some.”

  “Cool!”

  “So, how are your grades in school?” Too-Low asked.

  “They’re all right.”

  “All right? They need to be better than just all right.” Too-Low leaned forward and jabbed his finger into Travon’s chest. “You better not be fuckin’ up in school!”

  “I’m not.” Travon frowned. “My grades are okay.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Too-Low told him. “I’ll spring for some fresh gear for school this fall, if you do well the rest of this year.”

  “Put me down, and I can buy my own shit,” Travon replied.

  Too-Low slapped Travon across the back of his head.

  “Fuck!” Travon shot a venomous glance toward his bother. “What the hell was that for?”

  Too-Low jabbed his finger into his younger brother’s face. “Tre, if I catch you anywhere near this shit, I’ma put a foot in your ass! Do you hear me?”

  “You’re doing it, so why can’t I?” Travon replied. “You won’t even let me get down with the hood! That shit ain’t fair, Too-Low!”

  Too-Low kicked a crushed beer can that was lying on the ground near his foot, sending it tumbling noisily across the roughly paved street.