On the afternoon of May 22, 1999, I had just finished helping Montel out with one of the various neighborhood clunkers sitting in Mr. Larry's cluttered backyard. It took us both the better half of two hours to overhaul the transmission of a 92 Plymouth Sundance. Mr. Larry, who was also something of a part-time grease monkey himself, offered Montel the lion's share of his auto repair gigs whenever possible, which was nearly all of the time. Montel had proved to be an invaluable asset to Mr. Larry's carpentry company, so as a favor, Mr. Larry allowed Montel to use his property to repair the cars, which originally were to be his projects. Mr. Larry also allowed Montel to keep the money he earned from the auto repair jobs he completed each week.
"Hey, Montel, I'm gonna need some more drywall, paint and plywood from Home Depot for that job out in the Valley tomorrow morning," Mr. Larry told him. "We're looking at one of our biggest paying jobs yet, so there's no way I'm gonna let something as simple as a lack of supplies sabotage that." Mr. Larry went into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "Here," he said. Mr. Larry handed over a ring of jingling keys to Montel. "Take the pickup downtown and do that for me, okay? I would do it myself, but I gotta make a couple of calls and round up a few more workers for tomorrow's job."
Montel slathered his grease-blackened hands with a citrus scented cleaning solution before wiping them free of engine scum. "I got ya," he replied, placing the keys in his pocket.
Mr. Larry patted Montel on his back, smiling at me as I wiped my dirty hands on the soiled towel given to me by my brother. "Oh yeah, just charge the supplies to my credit card, aiight?" He reached over to Montel and placed a platinum Visa card into his palm. "See you two in a few."
"C'mon, Cee, let's dip," Montel ordered.
We made our way to Mr. Larry's big, red Ford F150 that was parked beneath a long, slender palm tree at the corner. Montel pressed down on the key chain's button, releasing the locks. We both stepped up into the plush leather seats of the truck, then shut the doors behind us. Montel revved her up and we started on our way.
"I'm getting kinda hungry, Cee. How 'bout grabbing a fat burger after we pick this stuff up?" Montel asked me.
Of course, I agreed, being that I hadn't eaten since breakfast. We spent nearly forty-five minutes at a downtown L.A. Home Depot gathering up, buying, and finally loading up the truck with the building supplies. Shortly afterwards we drove back uptown toward south central in order to get a quick bite to eat. We went through the drive-thru of a local greasy spoon and ordered us thick, juicy, double-cheese fat burgers. I dug into the sloppy, succulent sandwich with gusto, hardly paying attention to my brother as he parked the truck and then stepped out.
"What's up?" I asked with a mouthful of food.
"I need to go exchange this sandwich. It's only a single cheese burger."
As Montel headed toward the carryout window, the pavement rattling tunes of D.J. Quick blared from the loud bass heavy speakers of a midnight blue '64 Impala. It bounced from side to side on switches. Its rowdy occupants whooped it up to the explicit gangsta lyrics before pulling into the restaurant's parking lot. I recognized the driver right away as Terrell Bush, A.K.A, "Baby," who was no more than maybe seventeen or eighteen years old.
Baby was Redrum's first cousin and a newly initiated member of the Santana Block 'SNB' Reapers. He had dropped out of high school two years ago and was now constantly running from the law for one thing or another. Armed robbery and car theft were his specialties, and it was these criminal skills that had gained him membership into the Reapers' evil fold.
Once the car came to a halt, an older cat exited the car from the passenger's side. He was a tall, lanky, dark-skinned hoodlum with a wicked looking scar etched across his narrow right cheek. He appeared to be between twenty-three to twenty-five years old. He, too, wore the typical black and white of the Reapers. A thick, shiny silver necklace with a diamond-encrusted skull and cross hung from his neck. His various tattoos, par- ticularly the half empty hourglass and the symbol #13 tarot card which stood for death was tatted on his forearm. This suggested that he was not only a high ranking member, but also an accomplished murderer.
The booming bass of the Impala suddenly went silent as did the engine. Baby got out of the car and the two gang members crossed the parking lot in route to the carryout window. The two thugs chatted and laughed loudly among themselves as they both approached the open window and stood behind my brother.
Both individuals ceased their chatter as they observed my brother slowly counting a wad of money before peeling off a bill. I assumed he was buying something extra, or they had only charged him for a single burger and he had to pay the difference for the double. Nonetheless, Baby's eyes narrowed and he pulled the older hoodlum over toward him, whispering into his ear.
The long, lean dude listened for several seconds, but seemed to be disagreeing with his homeboy as to what it was that was being told to him. Almost as quickly as they had arrived, the two Reapers were once again snaking their way back across the partially empty parking lot toward their vehicle, fussing with one another each step of the way.
Our pick-up was parked not far from where the Impala sat, so I heard the entirety of their conversation once they'd distanced themselves a ways from the carryout window.
"C'mon, Black! We can do this!" Baby spat. "So what, he's a little bit swoll; the two of us can take him. Plus, don't forget I got the sawed-off right here in the trunk if you just wanna bleed him before we roll."
"Naw, that ain't gon' happen. I'm tellin' you, dude is one of us. . .Skull and Bones Reaper black!" Baby's partner stated. "I seen my man before. You gotta read them tatz he got on them guns of his. That '86 on the hourglass tat, it means that he got jumped in the year 1986. And the barbed wire tats around his forearms means that he did time behind bars. That man is an original gangsta, Baby, and you don't mess with them; you show respect."
Baby defiantly threw caution to the wind, despite his partner's warning. "I don't care who he might be. I don't know him and I've never seen him before. As far as I know, he could be some ole busta perpetratin' a fraud."
Shaking his head with disbelief, the older hoodlum entered the car and leaned back against the cool vinyl of the passenger seat. He pulled out a partially smoked blunt from the glove compartment and sparked it up.
Baby frowned and busted his partner off with a quick sweep of his hand as the other thug offered him the smoldering blunt, but Baby refused it. His mind was set on something else as he decided against getting in the car, but headed back toward the fast food window instead.
I just couldn't sit there and let that creep rob my brother, so I hopped out of the truck and walked toward the window, all the while checking my rear to avoid a sneak attack from his homie. I slowed to a shuffle as I observed the surprisingly long line that had just recently formed outside the carryout window.
Montel patiently waited until the cute, smiling girl on the other side of the window brought him his correct order. He stepped aside, peering into the green and gold paper bag, making sure that his order was indeed right this time around. He paid little, if any, attention to the silent black clothed figure skulling up next to him.
Baby lit a cigarette, taking two or three drags off of the cancer stick before moving toward Montel. Brushing rudely through the line of customers in pursuit of his mark, I too followed Baby as he pursued my brother. Realizing that he was being followed, Montel stopped just short of the pick-up truck, turning to face his pursuer.
"S'up, Big Homie? What set you claim, Cuz?" Baby asked Montel.
Montel saw me walking up behind the gang banger and calmly waved me over to his side where he handed me the fast food bag and car keys, bidding me to return to the pickup.
"I don't claim no set, young brotha," I heard Montel say. "I used to, but not anymore."
"You don't claim no set, huh? Well, yo' tats say otherwise, my man. S'up, you tryin' to perpetrate somethin' you ain't, homie? I hope not, 'cause that's dangerous, dawg." Baby flashed the gang sign of the Reapers toward Montel.
My brother stared stoically at his young, brash counterpart, nodding silently before answering with his own gang sign hand movement.
"S'up, Black. This here is Baby reppin' Santana Block Skull and Bones Reapers 4 ever, Cuz. Speak on it."
Montel adopted the aggressive stand of the infamous Compton Street gang. "S'up, Black. This here is Widow Maker, blood in 1986, dime piece duf in the BAY, boss playa O.G," he said in a solemn tone. "But now it's all over. I'm done, retired from the game forever. That's it."
Baby wrinkled his youthful face in confusion as he took in the words of a Reaper superior. "Say what? Retired? Naw, naw, see. . .you got it twisted, Black. Once you get in, you can't get out. It's Reapers 4 ever. Ya feel me?"
"Is that what you think? It ain't no way out? If so, then I feel sorry for you, young brotha." Montel shook his head. "Listen up, Baby, I'm not your enemy. I'm just another black man out here tryin' to make it just like you. When I was your age I didn't have a father figure because he ran out on my mama when I was just a little boy. The Reapers were my family; Pretty "T", Skippie Dee, DiAngelo, Paco Lovett and all the rest of the old school street legends of the past. Yeah, I slang rocks, pulled drive-bys, pimped hoes and robbed cats at gunpoint. All of that so-called gangsta stuff. And ya know what? I still ended up in prison. And inside the pen it was every man for himself."
Baby stood there listening intently, while I stood a couple feet away, disobeying my brother's initial orders.
"There was no kinda 'brotherhood'," Montel continued. "I saw betrayal on a regular between fellow Reapers. I even knew of homies who were marked for death by Reaper homies. I'm tellin' you, you have your own mind, brotha. Do you, and forget about pulling' the trigger of a gun for some warped idea, or insane sort of gang loyalty. You're just being brain washed to kill your brotha, another black man who may look just like you or me. There's no honor in that, Baby. You know it and so do I."
Montel turned away briefly from Baby and turned toward me. "Go on and crank up the ride, Cee. I'm coming in a second."
I gave Baby an evil stare before doing exactly what Montel had told me to do. Baby never once glanced over at me. His attention was totally consumed by Montel's words of wisdom. For a minute he even seemed to be considering the truthfulness of what he was being educated on, but then he returned to his street savvy persona.
"Man, forget all that crap you talkin'," he snapped. "You ain't nothin' but an ole busta! A sell out! You don't deserve them tattoos you got, fool! Matter o' fact, you don't deserve to live, dawg!" Baby raised his tank top, revealing the rubber grip handle of a semi-automatic pistol tucked into the front of his creased khaki pants. "I bet you scared now, ain't you, homie?"
Montel didn't reply. Baby chuckled, as if proud he'd instilled fear in an old G.
"Yeah, you ain't nothin' but a busta!"
Montel's eyes narrowed into slits as he eyed the gun bearing youth before him. He cracked his knuckles on each huge hand. He flexed the bulging pecks in his chest. He moved his head from side to side, cracking the bones in his thick, bull like neck like a heavy weight prize fighter preparing for a bout. It quickly became apparent that Montel's prison hardened aggression and bravery had now taken full control as he faced down his adversary with the courage of a lion.
For almost a full two minutes, Montel stared Baby down before he finally turned his back to him and walked toward the truck. A large crowd had gathered in the distance and mumbled amongst themselves as the tense parking lot show down ended in a bloodless truce.
Baby flashed Montel and me his middle finger and spewed a torrent of choice words our way before the crotch grabbing thug strolled triumphantly toward his '64 Impala. He threw up gang signs before entering the driver's side of the classic vehicle. Baby put the big car into drive after cranking up the engine and squealed out of the parking lot, bouncing along on hydraulic shocks as, once again, gangsta rap music blared from the interior before he disappeared down the distant South Los Angeles freeway.
"I hate that fool," I growled angrily, referring to Baby. "And tell me, Montel, why didn't you just beat him down? If I had known you'd just stand there, I would have whooped his punk butt for you." I stared with angry frustration at my big brother who simply stared forward at the highway up ahead.
For a split second, I thought of my brother as somewhat of a coward. But then I knew better. Montel Philips was never one to back down from any individual or situation regardless of how dire it might appear. He had, after all, survived a notoriously ruthless prison. It was now clearly evident that Montel, in deed, was a changed man. That was all good for Montel's sake, but Baby was another story, and something told me that our interaction with Baby would not be the last and any future run-ins might just result in bloodshed-or worse.