The Holy City

  Chapter 7

  Marcus had his block pumping with crack, heroin, and something didn’t too many hustlers had in the ‘hood at the time, some good mid-grain weed. Guys had to drive outside the neighborhood to get good weed. Smitty weren’t too concerned about Marcus having weed on the block as long as Marcus continued to get his supply of cocaine and heroin from him.

  Marcus stumbled across his own connect to supply the weed, a Mexican by the name of Puncho. Puncho was a fairly frail guy who stood about five foot three. He sported a ball head and had a few tattoos of teardrops falling from his eyes, which usually meant that they were affiliated and had put in a lot of work for the love of their gang. Puncho was a representative of the Latin Kings; their sets were across the railroad tracks along Twenty-Sixth Street. The tracks separated the blacks from the Hispanics.

  Before becoming acquainted, Marcus and Puncho very first encounter occurred on an unusually warm eighty-degree sunny October afternoon. While driving down Cermak, Marcus decided to stop at Diaz Muffler Shop, located on Cermak and Kedzie, deep in the Hispanic neighborhood. Marcus was having trouble with his Chevy’s exhaust pipes and needed a new muffler. Marcus was familiar with the shop because most big-timers from the ‘hood would go there if they need major work done to their cars. Marcus knew he was on unfamiliar territory but wasn’t too worried due to the fact he had his personal bodyguard on him, nina ross.

  “Aey, where Hernandez at?” Marcus asked one of the Mexican workers as he pulled into one of the open garage doors at the muffler shop.

  “O ye, Hernandez, hay un mayate aqui que te quiere, que bajes,” the Mexican hollered out, as his manager proceeded down the stairs.

  “Que pasa, primo,” Hernandez said while coming down the stairs to approach Marcus.

  “Come-on, primo, speak English, bro!” Marcus said as he smiled while shaking hands with Hernandez. “I need some work done to my baby, primo.”

  “Not this thing of beauty,” Hernandez replied. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The muffler scrapes the ground every time I hit a bump and I need some new dual pipes so this muthafucka can get up, you kno’ what I’m saying’, bro!” Marcus explained excitedly, while rubbing both hands together. They both walked over to the Chevy Brougham to examine the problem.

  As Marcus and Hernandez continued to converse, they both were interrupted by a ‘69 two-door candy-apple red drop-top Chevy Impala with gold day tons that had graphics of the character Chucky stabbing a knife through the paint from the driver’s side door to the back end of the car. The sound system was banging so hard that the garage doors were rattling. All you heard was the lyrics of Dr. Dre featuring Snoop Dogg’s Deep Cover soundtrack.

  “Yeeaahh and ya’ don’t stop ‘cause it’s 187 on a undercover cop . . .” was blasting through the four twelve-inch punch speakers in the Impala.

  Marcus and Hernandez turned their attention toward the Impala that was four deep with young Latin Kings.

  Fuck, I hope these fools don’t start trippin’, Marcus thought to himself.

  The young LKs adjusted the volume to their loud music as they settled into the shop. “Aey, holmes, check out that mayaté standing over there,” the LK in the backseat whispered as he tapped the driver on the shoulder. “I say we move on’em, essé.”

  “Puncho, my main man! What can I help you with today?” Hernandez asked with fear in his eyes, not knowing what Puncho and his wild crew was up to.

  Puncho . . . Marcus thought to himself. Damn that name sounds familiar.

  Marcus stood about five feet from the car alongside Hernandez; Marcus eyed each one of the LKs down with a cold stare in his eyes as they exited the Impala.

  “I jus’ stopped by to visit an ole friend . . . ,” Puncho said with a stale expression, with suspicion in his eyes. “Where’s Diaz?”

  “Ohhh . . . I . . . I don’t know, primó. I haven’t seen him in’a while,” Hernandez stuttered out while performing nervous hand gestures as he explained.

  Marcus stood across from Puncho, looking slightly puzzled as he listened to them converse. Marcus kept his hands close to his waistline while glancing back and forth at Puncho and his guys.

  “Somethin’ tellin’ me that your boss is avoiding me. I hope that isn’t the case ‘cause if so . . .” Punchó shook his head from left to right while making a ticking sound from his mouth. “God bless,” he finished his statement before flaming up a Newport. “Wassup, bro . . . ?” Punchó greeted Marcus suspiciously while exhaling a breath of nicotine smoke. “Where you from, holmes?”

  Marcus stood there for a few seconds, keeping his eyes focused on the LKs and Puncho at the same time before saying, “I’m from around here . . . !” Marcus replied argumentatively, “Wassup, it’s a problem?”

  “You a GD, holmes?” Puncho asked as he flicked the half-smoked cigarette to the ground. The other three LKs started easing their way closer to the conversation.

  “Hell naw . . . !” Marcus replied vigorously. “I’mma vice lord from out the Holy City!” His belligerent facial expression showed that he was beginning to feel agitated about the whole situation.

  Marcus knew if he was a GD, guns would’ve been drawn immediately; Latin Kings and GDs don’t coincide at all in the city. By Marcus being affiliated and a young black male in the wrong ‘hood, there was a chance that it still could go down.

  “Dig man, I ain’t ova’ here to disrespect y’all set. I’m well aware of where the fuck I’m at. I’m strictly ova’ here to get my car checked out,” Marcus explained

  “This yo’ Chevy right here, holmes?” Puncho asked, walking toward the front of the Brougham while checking it out.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Marcus answered while still feeling uneasy about the situation, not knowing what the esse’s next move was going to be.

  “Your job must pay you well?” Puncho asked sarcastically, knowing Marcus didn’t fit the profile of the working type.

  “It pays a’ight,” Marcus replied, matching his mockery.

  Marcus and Puncho continued to converse. In the midst of them talking, they found out that they both briefly attended Farragut High School, located a few blocks from Diaz muffler shop in the heart of the esse’s territory. Majority of blacks attended the school because it was one of the only high schools in the district. That’s where Marcus remembered hearing the name Punchó.

  Back then, young blacks that were affiliated had to fight different Mexicans everyday on their way to and from school. Puncho was the leader over every Latin King that attended Farragut at the time.

  A couple of months after clashing heads with Puncho at Diaz muffler shop, Marcus had started getting pounds of weed from Puncho off consignment.

  Marcus had a master plan in progress. All the hard drugs were sold in the alley and the weed on the front. Marcus only had ole-school addicts working the packs in the alley because he knew it would be a good cap off for when the detectives swerved through. Another thing, Marcus didn’t have to pay the workers much; a blow to wake them up and another one when their shift ended, they would work all day and all night, happily. Marcus had the young lords on the front of the block working all the weed jabs.

  It was the spring of ‘93, and the weather was starting to break. The weed was selling better than Marcus expected, and it attracted a lot of girls and young guys to the block.

  Buummp! Buummmp! One of the young lords from the neighborhood blew his horn at Marcus and Marlin as they stood on Avers. “Wudd’up, lord?” the young dude hollered out the car window as he sped through the block in what looked to be a stolen vehicle.

  “That lil dude a live wire!” Marcus said to Marlin while throwing up the deuce at the Shorty.

  “Hell yeah! Shorty, twelve goin’ on twenty ‘n’ shit!” Marlin smiled as they both stood there looking at the car until it got out of eyesight.

  “It’s startin’ to feel good outside, ain’t it?” Marcus said, rubbing both hands together exci
tedly.

  “Hell yeah . . . ,” Marlin replied while grabbing hold to his crouch area. “And that weed startin’ to pick up too.”

  “I see!” Marcus said surprisingly. “Jus’ last week we was only doin’ ‘bout five to six jabs a day. Now a ma’fucka doin’ ten to fifteen jabs. Shhiiit, since I been standin’ here I seen three different cars ride up and bought whole jabs!”

  “That’s because it’s gettin’ hot; everybody wonna smoke and hit blocks.”

  It was a mid-seventy-degree weekend day, the type of day where you could hear the leaves moving on the trees from the blowing of the mild wind. The sky was a bluish orange type of setting due to the sunset. It was late in the afternoon going into evening time, and Avers Street was packed with people—kids running back and forth to the snowball stand, riding their bikes up and down the sidewalks; young boys wrestling with each other in the half-burned-out grass; different people walking and driving up, buying weed from the Shorty’s that was working. All this traffic was happening on the front of the block while the real money was being made in the back alley.

  “Hey, y’all!” a group of females walking down Avers hollered from across the street at Marcus and Marlin.

  Marcus didn’t get a chance to speak before Marlin shouted, “Ke-ke! Slow up! I need to holla’ at'chú!” Marlin began making his way across the street toward the five-girl group. “I gotta get up wit’ her for the night, for real, lord,” he mentioned to Marcus in a low tone while in the midst of crossing the street.

  “Damn, Marcus! You can’t speak now . . . ,” Donisha shouted in a sarcastic tone from the other side of the street. “Don’t be ova’ there actin’ funny ‘n’ shit!”

  “Girl ain’t nobody actin’ funny!” Marcus responded. “Wassup wit’chú?”

  “Shhiiit,” Donisha replied while volunteering her way toward Marcus’s presence without an invite.

  Since Marcus started making a lot of money, his dress code became spectacular. This particular day he wasn’t dressed to impress, but his swagger basically brought out whatever he wore. He stood on the block wearing a pair of Brand X Girbaud jeans with a white Girbaud T-shirt with different writings on it and some all-white Diadora sneakers. This was the type of gear that attracted ‘hood girls, especially if they knew that there was money behind a certain individual.

  “I was jus’ speaking’, that don’t mean bring yo’ ass ova’ here . . . ,” Marcus mumbled to himself. “That ass is looking’ good in dem jeans, tho’.” Marcus nonchalantly checked Donisha out from head to toe as she crossed the street.

  Marcus always saw Donisha and her crew when he would ride down Twenty-first, but the most he would do nowadays was blow the horn and keep it moving.

  “Wassup?” Donisha greeted him in a quarrelsome but feminine tone as she slightly pushed Marcus in the chest area.

  “Shhiit. You wassup,” Marcus retorted with a smirk.

  “I can’t tell. The only time I see you now is when you flying pass the block bangin’ that loud-ass music. You be actin’ like you ain’t got time to stop and holla’ at a bitch no mo’!”

  Bitch, when I was tryn’a holla’ at'cha’ ass you what’nt on shit, Marcus contemplated to himself. “I mean, it ain’t like dat, I jus’ be having’ shit to do,” Marcus said.

  Damn he smells good as hell! Donisha excitedly thought to herself as she got a whiff off Marcus’s Obsession scent.

  “Well, you think you can make some time out your busy schedule for me . . . ,” She asked seductively while showing off her lush glossed-up lips. “Or do Peaches have that shit on lock?” she asked in a jokingly fashion.

  Before Marcus could give a reply, he was interrupted by the vibrations of his pager going off. Although Marcus had been ignoring Donisha unknowingly, he couldn’t deny how cute and sexy she looked. With her freshly done weave wrap, skintight jeans that caressed her perfect curves, a small red halter top that flaunted her perky breasts, which imprinted her hard nipples, and a fresh pair of red and white ‘93 Jordan’s on her feet, she was dressed real ghetto fabulous.

  “Damn, I gotta get out’a here,” Marcus mumbled out while looking down, scanning through his pager. “Uhhhh . . . Yeah, yeah we can do some’nt. What’chú doin’ tonight?” Marcus asked while still in a trance from the numbers in the pager, ignoring the smart comment she made concerning Peaches.

  “I’mma be sittin’ on my porch bored to death as usual,” she stated in a sarcastic tone.

  “A’ight, I’ll be through there later on to get'chú.”

  “Damn, Donisha, that ass gettin’ fatter by the day!” Marlin interrupted with humor as he and the girls marched their way toward the two.

  “Boa, don’t play wit’ me.”

  “You what’nt sayin’ that shit last night!”

  “Yeah right, you wish you could get some of this.”

  “Aey, let me holla’ at’chú for a minute, Jo,” Marcus said, directing all his attention to Marlin.

  “Damn, Marcus, hi to you too!” Jessica blurted out.

  “Wassup, Jessica?”

  “You jus’ don’t fuck wit’ us no’ mo, huh?” Jessica asked sarcastically as if she was getting on Marcus’s case.

  “It ain’t like dat. You kno’ I love y’all,” Marcus replied humorously, making the group of females chuckle before stepping off to the side with Marlin.

  “Aey, I gotta make a quick run. When Shorty gets low in work, get up wit’ Lil G to re-up on the weed. I got Mikey takin’ care shit in the back so don’t worry ‘bout that, a’ight,” Marcus explained.

  “I got'chú,” Marlin responded. “You gon’ hit that pussy tonight, ain’t'chú.”

  “I ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout her. I got other hoes to attend to. Besides, I’mma make her ass wait a lil while longer anyway, ya dig,” Marcus said while walking in the direction of his Chevy. “I’mma get wit’chú in’a

  minute, lord.”

  “A’ight.”

  Every day Marcus’s block was popping like a block club party. That kept a lot of attention off the operation in the alley. When the detectives would ride through Avers, they only paid attention to the traffic that circulated on the front of the block. When the Ds found out that it was only weed being sold on the block, they stopped sweatin’ so hard. Detectives cared less about weed being sold; they wanted to catch the hustlers that sold blows and crack.

  After a straight month of consistent working, Avers Street started doing anywhere from five to ten thousand dollars a day off blows alone and the same off crack—not including the weed that was doing a couple of thousand a day due to the break of the weather. The weed was Marcus’s least concern; I guess you can say he had the weed on the block for the sake of the ‘hood.

  Marcus had a successful get-money strategy that his guys couldn’t refuse. He would give each one of his guys (Marlin, Mikey, Pee Wee, Lil G, JR) one day out of the first week of each month to profit all of that day’s earnings. The only thing Marcus asked of his crew was to make sure he received a couple of thousand after each one of those days to put up for store money and another thousand dollars for his personal use. Those days would fall on the first thru the fifth of each month, so that usually meant double the money. His guys would bring in roughly ten thousand after each one of those days for their own pockets. For the remainder of the month, all the money got turned in to Marcus, and every Friday he would pay his crew a two-thousand-dollar paycheck. His crew was making more money than they ever saw in their life! So it was safe to say Marcus was loved tremendously by his crew, and if they could help it, they weren’t going to let any harm come in Marcus’s direction.

  Marcus and his crew were making this type of money for about three months straight without any major heat from the neighborhood detectives or the feds. At this point of Marcus’s hustling career, his name was beginning to ring bells to all the major hustlers throughout the Westside.