IT BEGAN WITH MR. BIGGS. HE WAS THE ORIGINAL Miami gangster, in every sense of the word. Biggs wore khaki Dickies pants and a T-shirt. His legacy will be left in the hands of Miami historians to debate over. Law enforcement will view him as common dope-dealing hustler, an inner-city scourge who preyed on misguided young men in search of a father figure. He stood well over six feet tall with a laugh just as imposing. They will call the hood’s adoration for him a case of misplaced priorities. But in my hood we didn’t see doctors, lawyers, and teachers whom we could aspire to become.
In our imperfect world Biggs made do with what he was given. In ghetto politics the means most definitely justifies the ends. In the end he showed young guys and the community alike what a black man could turn from the hustle. In the absence of real economic opportunities, Biggs was a one-man enterprise. He started with a quaint gardening company and soon started building homes. He bought up real estate and employed young dudes who would otherwise find themselves stealing from working folks. The powder was good to Biggs and he was good to us.
When the local theater was in danger of shutting down, he bought the place and turned it into Heart of the City. It was one of the few times Biggs put his wealth on display. His foot-long, gold Rolls-Royce pendant looked like it weighed a ton.
Heart of the City was the most happening nightclub in the city back then. All the hustlers and ladies who flocked behind them came out. It was a lavish affair. For those couple of hours on Friday and Saturday night folks in the Beans escaped the urban grind, losing themselves in the music and booze. There in that tight space while bumping and grinding to the Funkadelics, folks found temporary respite.
A true dope man gives back to his community, and that’s exactly what Biggs did. When he went to prison, a lot of folks lost jobs and their livelihood.
His younger contemporary Prince Rick was also an old-school gangster, but with more flare. The home Rick built on two lots in Carol City was never before seen in the hood. That Scarface-style mansion was smooth. Inside, Rick had one of his Rolls-Royces on display. In Opa-locka, Freddy Ice, who folks called the real mayor, had opened a gym so the young dudes could take their frustrations out on punching bags. It was the closest thing to a Boys and Girls Club near the Triangle. It wasn’t unusual to spot a line of kids running up to Ice as he passed out wads of cash. The dealers were our Santa Claus.
Then of course there was Drop Top Mo. Mo turned wherever he went into a movie set. Everyone on the strip was his costar. He made us all dreamers. He cut the tops off all his cars and hung out in Las Vegas with Mike Tyson. Any hustler that could sip champagne with Iron Mike was a superstar in my eyes. Tyson, the most feared brother on the planet, was that guy every true hustler wanted to break bread with. Hustlers from up North came down to see how Miami’s hustlers lived. It’s who they were getting their dope from anyhow.
My father, Charles “Pop” Young, was also heavy in the streets back then. Pimping. Dope slinging. Gambling. You name it and Pop did it. Like Biggs, he was one of those original Miami gangsters, and sadly those hustling ways left him no room for the raising and nurturing of kids. Pop has too many sons to count. I think fate played some joke and birthed a whole flock of us who, up until this point in my life story, seemed genetically disposed to dope dealing as well. Only two of my brothers, Chuck and Ephraim, share the same mother.
My brother Derrick “Hollywood” Harris was Pop’s favorite son. He was the shining star among the younger breed of dope boys on the rise when those gangsters previously mentioned bowed out the game. If someone could paint a perfect picture of a tragic hero, it would be Hollywood.
The ladies loved his good looks. The hood loved his generosity, and the killers feared his gangster heart. I told more people Hollywood was my brother than I’ve told Pop was my father. Ironically, the anger we both shared for Pop is what drew us close. I don’t think any younger brother admired and loved his older brother more than I did Wood. He was only two years my senior, but in my eyes he might as well have been a superhero. He was truly one of Miami’s thug angels.