Carlito's Way: Rise to Power (3 page)

There was other guys like Buck around.
Abusadores
, we called them—abusers or ballbreakers. Uptown Harlem had one named Jenks, or Jinx. Bad nigger. Big—didn’t fit through no door, ’cept sideways. Take everybody off. Take your money, your welfare check, your watch, your dope—take a wheelchair, glass eye. Mean. When he was outa jail, people stayed home. Jinx had a pretty long run, then he tried to run a game on a friend of mine. Shakedown. So much per week ’cause I’m bad. My buddy was hardnose, so he had to deal with Jinx. Shot him in the legs—kept coming. Shot him in the chest—kept coming. Finally stopped Jinx with a bullet through his head. All this time Jinx was chasing him around the bar. My friend had to do time for this. Judge said, “Victim was unarmed”—that motherfucker was armed when he was unarmed. Some judges will say, “Why didn’t you go to the police?” The fuckin’ police only want to know you as one of two “de’s”—de deceased or de defendant. In between—“Don’t bother me, I got lotta paper work.” If the judge took time to check out a “victim” like Jinx he’d give the defendant the Distinguished Bronze Cross, first degree. And if His Honor had to live in the same tenement
with a Jinx or a Buck, he’d put the contract out hisself. Buck and Jinx—some neighbors we had.

Another source of livelihood for me was a first-class Murphy game I used to run up on 111th Street with the tricks looking for whores. Me and m’partner Colorado used pencil and paper (that would impress the Johns)— “Okay, write it down, eh, Chico? These two gentlemen, ten dollars a piece—that’s twenty dollars. No rough stuff or fancy fuckin’, boys; Lolita is only sixteen and just startin’ out. I’ll hold the money.” Colorado would go upstairs, then he’d call down, “Lolita wants to see the money and the list first, Pancho.” Wait right here, boys, she’s very shy—I’ll call you from upstairs. You could come back an hour later and they’d still be waiting with their hard-on. Lo-leeta, Lo-leeta, they’d be yodelin’ in the canyon. Sometimes me and Colorado would fall down on the roof from laughing.

Them roofs was busy for us. Flyin’ pigeons, flyin’ kites, flyin’ dope. Somebody was always jumpin’ off the roof too. Usually some Rican who couldn’t cut it on the street. But the street got him anyway—unless he jumped in the backyard.

Anyway, I was a busy lil’ snot in them days.

S
OMETIMES
M
ORAN THE COP WOULD GET A BUG UP HIS ASS
and grab me or Colorado on the street and put us back in the Home. Maybe a kick in the ass and a few smacks in the face from a telephone book in the Twenty-third
Precinct before he took us over. He wanted me to go over to another precinct to break chops—I said I was a citizen of this precinct and he couldn’t deport me. To this day I don’t pick up a phone that I don’t say, “Moran of the Twenty-third Precinct.” I used to do it then figuring the phones in the poolroom or the bar was tapped and Moran’s name would get on some shoo-fly tape. He was a tough sombitch. One night, one of them traveling carnivals came to the lot on 108th Street and Madison Avenue. This guy Lucky ran out of luck in a fight with some marine tiger who cut him to pieces with a butcher knife. I remember him on his back on the ground trying to kick up at the guy. He never made it to the emergency table at the Flower Hospital. Moran was there with some photographers from
Life
magazine and he got a write-up with pictures and all. Lucky was a sharp dresser, used to be in the furnished rooms on 107th Street between Park and Madison. He didn’t come out too good in the pictures though. Moran, believing his own publicity, became a worse ballbuster than ever.

Another ballbuster cop was Schula or Schuler, known as “Cara de Palo” (Woodface). He was a fat guy with glasses, but he could move, specially the time they threw the garbage can off the roof at him.

Baddest of the bad was Big Jeff from the “Mutt and Jeff” detective team from the Twenty-third. One was a little wop, Lil’ Jeff, the other a big mick, Big Jeff; you couldn’t call either one Mutt or they’d break yo’ ass. When they’d pull up to the poolroom on 106th Street and Madison, everybody start walkin’. Nearly everybody.
Legend says that one time they wanted everybody lined up against the wall in the poolroom—“All you Puerto Ricans up against the wall”—this smart guy wouldn’t get up—“Me no Puerto Rican, me Cuban”—
wap!
“Same shit.” None of that “move-along-boys” jive in them days.

Little Jeff give you sass, Big Jeff look around like he ain’t even listening, but if you gave backlip—wap!—Big Jeff laid you out. I ain’t seen nobody, in the ring or out, hit harder than him. Elbow close to body, leverage— lights out. Better you fell off a roof than he should land on you. Big Jeff finally got put out of commission by a little P.R. name of Augie Robles. Robles was a contract killer, one of the few we had around there. I mean this dude would travel to other states on hits. Around Harlem, he’d feed off the policy bankers. Like, “You know me, Augie Robles; you got a thousand for me by Saturday, okay?” Everybody was scared shit of him. Big Jeff and Augie finally got around to it on 112th Street. There must have been ten thousand people watching that shoot-out. Just like in
Scarface
. Big Jeff, as usual, was the first bull through the door. Imagine, Augie Robles, cornered, with four, count ’em, four pistols, waiting on you. Shee-it. The bulls killed Augie that night, but not before Big Jeff got his knee blown up with a dum-dum. They tried to do this gunfight in a jive movie,
Madigan
. Big Jeff make Madigan look like a faggot. He was bad. But he wasn’t no flake artist. He let me walk away from one that wasn’t my doing even though he could have laid it on me. Bulls ain’t never been my bag—but here’s to you, anyway, Big Jeff. You done the right thing.

The Ricans had some other hairy guys. Was a guy, Cabezon, sat down in a barber chair at Lino’s on 107th Street off Madison—“Lino, cut my hair short today. Tonight I’m going to settle with a guy. No telling where I’m gonna go afterward.” That’s cold. He goed it too. Electric chair.

Then was a guy, Johnny Lata, had his face cut by a rival pimp, Tony Navarro. Lata kept a straight razor in a pan filled with onions and water so that when he got his revenge the scar on Tony’s face would never heal. Lata did cut a forget-me-not on Tony’s face, but the onion bit never checked out because Tony’s liver gave out from too much coke not long after. Tony had in his stable of four the best lookin’ whore in Harlem, a German war bride. When that
fenomeno
used to walk down the street I used to lay right down on the pavement—“Vee gates, fraulein”—but I was too broke to hit on her. When I think of all them fine women I didn’t get nothin’ of! Years later, after Tony died, I went to a party at Birdland and there she was with a spook band leader, one of the biggest in the country. Being broke never was no fun. I’ll be dead or in jail, but I ain’t ever gonna be broke. Believe that.

That’s all I was ever interested in, makin’ a dollar without hurtin’ nobody. By my lights, I wasn’t nasty or no troublemaker like them other motherfuckers around there; them guys was just burnin’ up inside—the streets was battery acid to them. But the streets never whipped me that bad. I always saw the signs leading out—they was always painted green. Right this way, Mr. Brigante.

That guy Lino, the barber, used to worry about me. He was from the same mountain town in P.R. as my moms. They gonna kill you on the street, Carlito, they gonna lay you out in Gonzalez’s Funeral before you’re twenty-one. He wanted me to go to school like this guy on the block Wilfredo—imagine a grown man still going to school. Never learn nothin’ out of no book. Keep your eyes and ears open, maybe read the
Daily News
to know who’s gettin’ locked up. If the smarts are there, you be all right—if they ain’t, you can read books from shit to Shinnecock, ain’t gonna help. Lino was a okay guy, used to bring me Baby Ruths when I was in the Home. He beat me to Gonzalez’s. Here’s to you, Lino—you done the best you could.

I
N THE MATTERS OF RACE, THE
P
UERTO
R
ICANS WAS AHEAD
of their time in the forties. We accepted everybody. Nobody accepted us. Since black was not in style in them days, us P.R.’s declared ourselves white. We had a few variations but that didn’t bother us none. The Cubans say,
El que no la tiene del Congo, la tiene del Carabalí
. Myself, I don’t go for colored guys—but what about colored gals? This country can’t do without them fine women— no kinda way. This country can make all them cars, toasters, ice boxes—goin’ to the moon—meanwhile, it’s still hung up on the race watzis. Bunch o’ bullshit. If the rest of the country had listened to us it wouldn’t be in the mess it is now. You take me for instance. I been light enough
to sit in the front of a Jim Crow bus but dark enough to be worried about it. I been taken for spook, wop, and one faggot (used to come to the door jay-naked when I was delivering clothes for a cleaner) said I was Armenian. You’re better off having a little bit of everything. That way you are what you have to be whenever you got to be. But who gives a shit, the main thing is to be good-lookin’ so the broads will go for you.

Ricardo Montalban I ain’t. But many a kitty has gone for me even when I didn’t have big bread behind me. Believe that. It is true I spend all my time pursuin’ good trim and, thank God, have a good rap. It is also true I have had knocked-out-lookin’ broads.
Tremendos pollos
. White, black, tan, green, ’n in b’tween (never had no Chinese broad). In other words, I have done all right with the fair sex. I got no squawks in that apartment.

Fact is, I got no beef about my first twenty years. Had me a hell of a time. Warts and all, the streets was my playground. Couldn’t ground me down—not the bulls, not the thugs, not the landlord, not the welfare, not nobody. I ran all over them. Fact is when I was in the get-o I didn’t even know I was there. I didn’t even know how dee-prived I was or that I was one of the downtrotted— it was news to me when the socio workers told me about it. I was happy as a pig in shit.

I would say by and large and mainly Carlos Brigante, mainly known as Carlito, had a good time as a kid. The next twenty years is more tricky. In other words, in the 1950s I was mostly a criminal. I have to admit that. And I did a lot of time for it too. But then Earl Bassey wised
me up and Rocco Fabrizi gave me a break into the heavy wood. So like the sixties was big time for me and I was less into bein’ a thug and more like a class guy. But I’m runnin’ ahead again.

O
KAY, THE END OF THE FORTIES SAW ME INTO THE SLAMS
at Elmira Reception Center, Elmira, New York. Thereafter known as “the El.” First whiff of country air. Alma mater for many a mope majorin’ in thievery, roguery, lechery, and mopery. Thirty-six-month bit I did. I had been on probation for sticking a guy who’d busted my jaw with brass knuckles made out of ashcan handles. Probation don’t mean I didn’t have a few things going— burglaries, cars, like that. So like I’m shooting dice on 105th Street off Madison Avenue on a Saturday afternoon when this bad-ass named Chago grabs all the money on the ground and says, “These dice are loaded. You guys are robbing me; I’m taking the money,” and he pulls out the difference, size .38, so I say, “Motherfucker, you ain’t going nowhere with my bread.”

“I’ll kill you, Carlito.”

“Kill me,
hijo de puta
, kill me—”

Everything is real quiet now except for Chago’s breathing—he ain’t got no heart. I grab the piece, bust him in the face with it; he falls down some basement steps, and I grab a garbage can full of ashes and throw it on him. That night I’m shooting nineball in Ramon’s parlor on 106th Street and Madison when Mutt and Jeff from the two-three squad come in.

“Chago’s over at the Flower Hospital. He’s asking for you, Carlito.”

“Chago who? What right you—”

Smack. Right off my ear.

“Okay, let’s go see him.”

No lineup, no reading of rights—they even gave me an admission. Times were rough. Judge put me away— felonious assault, violation of probation. For Chago, they shoulda give me a medal.

In the Joint, thirty-six months. Up there I meet a lot of the boys, including Rocco Fabrizi, who was up for stealing cars. He was tight with Earl Bassey. Earl was up there for dealing in pot. I’d been hearing about him on the Street in Harlem, he was the war counselor of some click uptown on Lenox Avenue. Earl was around our age but he was slick beyond his years. He could see something coming around the corner, like he’d say, “So-and-so is a faggot,” and there would be this big stud with tattoos and muscles blowing everybody in the Joint. He knew things. I can’t explain it; he never went to school but he could read people in minutes. His skin was black, but his eyes were like yellow, and when he put them on you everything was cool, like calm. Nothing went down without discussing it with Earl. Even the hacks would check out a beef with Earl.

Me and him got real tight when I started boxing again. Even in the street when I was smoking pot and drinking wine, my hands were quick and my wind wouldn’t quit. Like I’d get inside a cat and hook to the body—I’d catch a few or be pushed off, but I’d get back inside—I’m
swinging without stop—most guys couldn’t stay with me. Earl had fought pro in the ring. He was my trainer, taught me how to hook to the head, how to finish a cat when you hurt him. I took a few guys out and my rep was made. Like Earl used to say, “Don’t mess with Hoppy.” Being Earl was smarter than me, I’d listen to him. He’d come on with, “Look here, Holmes, you got to dig yo’self—you gonna be on the street soon, forget about that okey-doke shit—gorilla-ing people, robbing pads—the shit is on, Briss, I got the word from Rocco— the junk is already here. And we is in—you think some guinea is going up to 125th and Lenox to deal with the niggers or to 111th and Fifth to deal with the spics? They gonna need distributors with brains and with heart— stand-up motherfuckers. I don’t know about you, but I’m declaring myself in. These wops don’t fuck around, bro— you got to play with their rules. Your word is your life— they make a meet, be there! This Mickey Mouse jive with the pussy and the coke and the booze don’t mean nothin’. Got to be cool, stay clean. Make the move a few times a year—that’s it. After a while, I’ll have my own crew— then I’m gonna make my own world. I ain’t gonna be a nigger all my life, pushing wooden Cadillacs on 37th Street—not Mrs. Bassey’s boy. I’m going all the way— they got to kill me, Jack, kill me!”