George Pelecanos (21 page)

I
can't pinpoint exactly when the high affection for my brother began its
decline, but I do remember when he dropped out of high school in the tenth
grade and started hanging out on the street with his friends instead of being
at home. Both matters led to major arguments between him and my father,
which
months later erupted into a horrendous fight--right
smack in our living room, as me, Mama, and Nanny looked on and begged them to
stop.

Daddy
ended up knocking Junior to the floor--then started shouting at him: "Nigger,
get yo' ass up and get the fuck outta my house. You don't wanna go to school,
you don't wanna work. Get the fuck out and don't come back until you get some
sense."

Junior
slowly got up off the floor, walked straight out the door, and I didn't see him
again for months. He was sixteen years old at the time and I'd recently turned
twelve.

Junior
would drift periodically back into the house. During the few weeks or months
that he was home, we'd share some good times. But something was missing. Things
just weren't the same. The streets had taken over Junior, and I could see in
his eyes how extremely anxious he was to get back out there to do whatever he
was doing.

As
I entered my teen years, my life became humdrum. My hero Junior was no longer
there to play with, learn from, and help me to stay on course. My father
continued to work two jobs and was too tired to do anything other than eat and
sleep when he got home, and Mama had become much too strict and demanding for
me to try to talk over anything with her. Nanny was rapidly aging. I was still
her "precious little pumpkin," even
as early stages of
Alzheimer's
set in.

Gradually,
boys became the excitement in my life.
Boys, boys, and more
boys.
I had to have them. I had a crush on this particular seventh-grade
classmate named Richard Armstrong. This was one cool, ultrafine manchild. His
coffee-with-a-splash-of-cream complexion fit so well on his handsome face. And
his slim, trim yet muscular physique simply turned me on. Plus, he had this
roguish, street-smart attitude and confidence about himself--with a sexy-ass
swagger that immediately started my juices flowing whenever I saw him. Every
girl in my school, Langley Junior High, worshipped this boy, and rumor had it that
an estimated ninety-five percent of the young ladies who were virgins upon
entering the school all became virginless within ninety days, and that Richard
was single-handedly responsible for a whopping percentage of the deflowering. A
fact for sure, though, is that I am a statistic in whatever Richard's true
percentage is, because I happily lost--no, gave--my cherry to him at the ripe age
of fourteen.

Word
travels quickly, I learned, when a female is promiscuous. My brother was the
first in the family to find out about my sexual activities and
sneak-off-partying lifestyle. Even though Junior himself had completely adopted
sinful ways, he still looked down on me and started to lash out. We would run
into each other at various places, and every encounter turned into a fierce
battle of nasty exchanges. He even smacked me so hard once that I discovered
how a person can literally get the taste slapped out of her mouth. My hero
didn't exist anymore.

My
mother and grandmother died the same year, 1966, two months and three days
apart. My mother had undetected diabetes--she suddenly fell into a coma and just
as suddenly passed away. Nanny died of a heart attack.

After
their deaths, nothing inside of the Taylor home was the same. Daddy went into a
shell. He quit one of his jobs and merely went through the motions of working
the other. We seldom talked or did things together, and it wasn't long before I
was out on the streets nearly all the time, completely falling in love with the
games, drugs, and fun.
But equally so with a very powerful,
handsome, and sexy new man.

I
met Zack Amos when I was sixteen years old through my girlfriend Kim, who was
his cousin. I knew about him and had seen him on a number of occasions, but we
hadn't actually spoken until the day Kim told me that Zack was interested in
meeting me, and that he'd arranged a gathering of four at his favorite club,
Evelyn's. The four would be me, Zack, Kim, and her man, Oje Simpson.

Kim
was very street smart and knew just about everybody in D.C., particularly all
the major players in the hustling world. She was gorgeous, of the Pam Grier
nature. It became very easy for me to function smoothly on the streets after
being taken under her wing and taught the tricks of the trade.

Zack
Amos was twenty-five then and he had already taken over much of the drug trade
in D.C., which he inherited from his uncle, Hazel "Cookie" Ferguson. Cookie had
been busted under the Rico Conspiracy Act three years earlier and is now
incarcerated at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary serving a life sentence.

Zack
stood six-foot-two and had the same glorious physical traits as my former
teenage lover, Richard Armstrong. But where Richard was a sexy manchild, Zack
was a superman in every way, and I instantly fell in love with him.

Located
at the corner of 9th and U Streets, N.W., Evelyn's Nightclub was a modest
facility, unlike its counterpart, the Fantasy, which was a monstrosity of
width, height, glitter, and raucous activities. Evelyn's was a classy spot that
catered to a sophisticated and older jazz-loving crowd who also enjoyed a dose
of mellow R&B.

By
age fourteen, I'd developed a voluptuous, womanly body, and I had little
trouble getting into any of the "adult only" places. Where Kim was considered
by many to be dropdead gorgeous, I was the star of the show when it came to
physical traits. And yes, I proudly flaunted my stuff. Yet I will also admit
that the main reason I was always allowed inside of Evelyn's was because I was
the invited guest of "The Man," as Zack was known in private circles.

Kim
and I were driven to Evelyn's by Oje in his spanking-new, money-green Eldorado
Caddy. Oje was a ranking member of Zack's crew. He was deathly in love with
Kim, and wished the feeling was mutual, but that's another long story and no
time for that. Briefly, though, he was not the pretty-boy type that Kim
preferred, but she still kept him under lock and key, basically to provide
protection. Anyway, Zack was waiting at Evelyn's when we arrived, sitting at
his reserved table in front of the stage.

It
was at Evelyn's that night that I got my first real lesson on jazz. A local
group calling themselves Miles's Boys did several of Miles Davis's magnetic
tunes. Another local song-stress named Brenda Mcphey took my breath away with
what Zack later told me was a splendid version of the great Nancy Wilson's
"Guess Who I Saw Today." That was just the beginning of a lot of things that I
would learn from Zack.

I
had a wonderful time and told Zack without hesitation that I would be more than
happy to join him for a nightcap and whatever else at the Washington Hilton,
where he'd reserved a beautiful and cozy room. The confidence and surity of
that man was amazing.

Zack's
lovemaking sealed it for me that night.
Unspeakably perfect
pleasure.

I
knew from the beginning that I wasn't the only female in Zack's life. His
womanizing reputation in D.C. was as legendary as his suspected crime
involvements. None of that particularly bothered me. I knew what I wanted, what
I needed, and where I was going. We talked openly about his desires and his
need for multiple partners in his life. Women played major roles in his
criminal activities and he needed strong, faithful people to keep things
working smoothly. He had a deep yearning to be financially successful, and I
envisioned a lucrative future as Zack's leading lady. I'd fallen madly in love
with this fantastic man and nothing would tear us apart.

Zack's
main woman when we first met was the beautiful Sarah Ward. Besides being
gorgeous, she was a selfish, greedy, sneaky, no-good bitch. When I came aboard,
friction instantly erupted between us. She had her sights on staying number one
in Zack's life and complained constantly to him about me. Always telling him
that I couldn't be trusted and that being involved with the sister of a
competitor would eventually hurt him. Once she stole some product from one of
Zack's drug houses and tried to blame the shit on me. Zack investigated the
matter and found that one of his workers had seen Sarah take the package. Zack
showed her mercy, but she'd fallen way down on his list of people he could
rust.

I
don't know exactly when Sarah and Junior started sneaking around. By then my
relationship with my brother had deteriorated to the point that we hardly saw
each other, and the few times that we did cross paths, we rarely spoke. We had
virtually become enemies, and rightly so, because I was now the woman of his
hated rival--my Zack Amos!

By
the mid '60s, Junior started to make a big name for himself. He'd formed a crew
of stick-up boys who robbed banks, jewelry stores, and out-of-town drug
dealers. Junior and his crew were nearly as feared as Zack and his
organization.

In
the spring of 1969, one of Zack's drug houses got knocked off by several masked
men. Over $100,000 in cash and drugs were taken, and a few workers were badly
pistol-whipped. There was no evidence of who the robbers were, but Zack kept
saying that he had a gut feeling Junior was responsible. Zack kept his calm,
though, and simply took it as a loss.

When
word got around that
Junior
and Sarah had been seen
partying at the famous Cecilia's Restaurant & Club at 7th and T Streets,
N.W., adjacent to the Howard Theater where all of the major singers and
comedians performed, Zack erupted with harsh words: "That bitch and brother of
yours is crazy! Think that they can keep
chumpin'
me
and get away with it. Gonna fix their asses," he told me.

Zack
and I had recently visited Cecilia's for a night of fun.
In
popped Junior and Sarah, accompanied by several of my brother's crew.
Men like Zack and Junior hardly ever traveled outside of their safe zones
without protection, and Zack had his guys positioned throughout the club.

Neither
man acknowledged the other at first, but as Junior, Sarah, and their entourage
passed our table, the bitch looked down at me and had the nerve to say,
"Whatcha lookin' at, ho?"

For
some reason I had a flashback to that day Junior smacked me so hard I
momentarily lost my taste. I jumped up before Zack could say or do anything to
stop me, but instead of smacking this heifer with my palm, I balled up my fist
and knocked the living shit out of her. I tell you, the bitch went straight
out.

That
nearly led to a major confrontation right there between Zack and Junior, but
the club's security stepped in and defused the matter. Plus, Zack had high
respect for Cecilia and didn't want further mess to spread.

Junior
cut menacing eyes our way, but didn't say a
thing,
he
just helped bring Sarah back to consciousness. Zack decided it was best for us
to leave, and as we made our exit, he hollered back at Junior: "You get a pass
this time, nigga. Best you keep yourself and tramp in line!"

Chemically,
blood is thicker than water, but in the case of me and my brother, a series of
painful experiences had transformed that chemistry. Our hearts became harder
and the blood diluted behind our sufferings. In our respective pursuits of
foolish material gain, we had lost the love and care.

The
year is now 1975, five years since the murder of Sarah Ward. Perhaps this is a
shocking revelation to the reader, but I am writing this story from prison. A
reporter named Frances Parker from the Washington Post contacted me and asked
me to tell my story--she said she would cowrite it and turn it into a short
story for her magazine. She also offered me a handsome fee. As I told Frances
when I first met her, money is no longer important to me. At this stage of my
life, I only want to clear my conscience and be granted God's forgiveness for
all of the evil that I've done. I've grown close to Frances Parker since our
first meeting of a year ago when she came to this prison and asked me to do a
story. Initially I said no, but she kept coming back. A story to generate
income for
herself
had been her original reason for
contacting me, but after a year of really getting to know each other, we have
become good friends. She has encouraged me to lift my burden and let the folks
in D.C. and the rest of the nation know exactly what happened that night inside
the Fantasy Club.

The
night that Sarah was murdered, she had accompanied my brother to the Fantasy.
Zack had invited them to this gathering under the pretense that a truce and the
possible joining of crews would make all of our lives better. I was a willing
accomplice to this deception.

Unknown
to anybody other than Zack and
myself
, an undercover
D.C. police officer was planted in the club. He was a personal friend of Zack's
and one who was very well paid to be there that night. His name was Ted
Jenkins.

Zack
and I were sitting at our reserved table at the Fantasy that night, sipping
drinks and watching the dancers move creatively to the beat on the dance floor.
The DJ was playing high-energy sounds to keep up with the lively and frantic
mood.