My People Are Rising (46 page)

Naturally, I was disheartened that the job didn't pan out, but I was used to such things. All was not lost. I ran into a childhood sweetheart, Carol Bushnell, who had chased after the very shy child I was in elementary school. The last time we had seen each other was back in 1971, while I was speaking at Portland State. We had a brief encounter and then lost contact. I learned from Carol that she had gotten pregnant and had a miscarriage, which surprised and shook me. Now, she was married with two children. Her husband helped me get a job as a tour bus driver for Lorries Tours of San Francisco. I drove a large minibus, picking up tourists at the various San Francisco hotels and depositing them at the San Francisco Airport. They paid for the service and often gave me a tip. I picked up new passengers at the airport and dropped them off at designated hotels.

This was the perfect job for me after all the driving I had done in the party. I did not have to report all the customers, or the tips, which put some extra cash in my empty pockets. These were happy days for me, driving for Lorries, as brief as they were. The San Francisco summer sun was bright, the tourists were pleasant, and I was working, finally. I was feeling free.

One day after work, I went into the garage to chat with Dino, a brother from Texas with a twang to his speech. He was working for the company as a mechanic.

“Man, I sure wish I could drive. I was driving but my license got suspended,” Dino sighed.

Being the type always willing to share how I beat the system, I responded, “I have a suspended license too, but they didn't check.”

“Is that right?” he asked, giving me the side-eye, tilting his head.

The following day when I went into work, I was fired. My big mouth had cost me my dream job. I went into the garage to confront Dino. He caught me before I could start in.

“Baby boy,” he said, “I am sorry about them firing you. I quit this mothafucker anyways.”

He took off his overalls and we walked out of the building together. With his bug eyes and thick eyelashes, Dino told me, “Baby boy, don't worry.” He said, “I am going to teach you how to hustle. Meet me down at the club under the Embarcadero at 9 p.m. sharp.”

I was disappointed about losing a job I enjoyed so much. And I wasn't sure what to make of a character like Dino. For the past ten years of my life, most of my time had been in the company of revolutionaries, organizers, and militants. This was a new world to me, and I guess a new era as well.

That night, I met Dino at the club in Frisco's Embarcadero district. When I walked in, I almost didn't recognize him. There he was—in all his splendor, as if he had switched characters. It was like turning a page in a book. He was dressed in a brown pinstriped suit, a pink tie, and a brown brim, holding a pool cue.

“Baby boy. Do you play pool?”

“Yeah, I play a little,” I replied, even though I hadn't played in many years.

“Let me finish this game,” he said. He quickly disposed of the cat he was playing and started counting his winnings. Dino could obviously play some pool.

“Man, there is a lot of money to be made in these streets. I am gonna show you how to make some money,” he said.

And that is how I, somewhat reluctantly, entered the “fast life.” It was a colorful world, sometimes a very fun and adventurous world, and often a dangerous place to be caught up. The Vietnam War had stepped up the drug trade, heroin in particular, which meant more money on the streets, and more money flowing in the nightlife. The after-hours scene was a separate universe of pimps and their prostitutes, dope dealers, gamblers, white-collar criminals, and boosters, often sharing company with respected professionals and public figures. The fast life, as it is known in the ghetto, referred to the illegal subset of this world, and was a vibrant element of many cities. Oakland and Frisco were no different. It was our black market, a hidden economy that permitted Black people to survive and even thrive during very difficult economic and violent times. A community functioning within the larger community, the fast life had its own rules, laws, and morals. And violating one of these laws could be detrimental. It was an adult world, no kids allowed, a dynamic that would soon change.

Pat had already been part of this world. Her father was a longtime, old-school hustler, as was her mother, who also played the numbers and horses daily. Pat's mother entertained boosters and prostitutes at her house and frequently babysat their kids, along with taking care of a few foster kids. Yet most of Pat's seven brothers and sisters worked legitimate jobs, except for Marvin, the youngest son.

Marvin was a well-groomed and very sophisticated pimp. Though he could not read or write, he owned a fleet of fine cars, including Bentleys and Mercedes. An anomaly among pimps, he didn't allow his girls to walk the streets or use drugs or alcohol. He sent his girls to Las Vegas to work at the Mustang Ranch, and they would wire their money to Pat, who was Marvin's business support and confidante.

Pat transported the women from the Bay Area to Nevada. She helped Marvin with aspects of the business he did not have the skills for. Pat was beautiful and very intelligent, both sophisticated and down-to-earth. She had a knack for making money and acquiring nice things—mostly on the legal side. But from time to time, she dabbled on the other side. Such as the hot jewelry she'd buy and sell. Or the boosters who'd come by with trunkloads of stolen clothes that she'd buy for herself at a steep discount. And transporting her brother's cars or the women to Las Vegas. Like many Black people at the time, she had one foot in each world.

One thing Pat and I had in common was a taste for adventure. We both liked to take risks. When she wasn't working as a bookkeeper and I wasn't hanging out with Dino, she and I were out enjoying life. Or, rather, she was showing me how to enjoy life, as I did not have much experience in that area. We drove down to Monterey and Carmel, spending days at the beach; we hung out in Santa Cruz, sipping margaritas. Smoking pot on Union Street in San Francisco, visiting the clubs. Or going to the racetrack.

Although I was having fun, there was still a well of sadness inside me. My mind was attempting to understand and sort through the fallen house of cards that made up my life so far. The death of Tex, the sudden self-destruction of the party, and the painful separation from Lola and the kids and the other comrades: these things were always lurking in the back of my mind. I also felt the need and desire to connect with my two children, Aaron Patrice and Nisaa.

One day Dino called me over to his apartment in Frisco. He had a bunch of blank payroll checks he'd gotten from a girlfriend, a check protector machine, and a typewriter. We had bought several phony birth certificates from a skinny old brother with a storefront on Fillmore. For fifty dollars, he could create a legitimate-looking birth certificate with any name and birthdate you chose. Dino and I went down to the licensing department to get state IDs for the birth certificates. The following Friday, Dino typed up the checks, using the check protector to enter the amounts, and making them out to the names on the state IDs.

“So, baby boy, you gonna run these checks?” he asked. “I'll stay here since I did most of the work.”

“Yeah, man, I'll do it,” I replied. He handed me about ten checks and off I went. At the first eight banks it was a breeze. The checks ranged from $723 to $750, an average bi-weekly paycheck for an honest Joe—but I was no longer an honest Joe.

At the last bank I entered, on Pacific Street, the teller turned to the bank manager, who happened to be a tall, slender, light-brown-complexioned sister. “Let me call the company and check this out,” she said.

When she turned her back to dial the phone, I quickly exited the bank. I remember laughing while running to the car to make my getaway. In my mind, I had conducted an assault on the financial symbols of the system, the banks and corporations. But, of course, these funds were not going to the people, per se. Dino and I split the take and enjoyed ourselves for a few days.

Late one Saturday night, Dino and I went over to Frisco to check out the late-night scene. We ended up at an after-hours club in Hunters Point, where I met an older sister who had spent some time in Seattle. Her name was Lydia, and we knew some people in common, hustlers of some kind. “So, Aaron. What are you into? What do you do?” she asked.

I answered confidently, “I am in the paper game.”

She asked, “Can you cash a $37,000 check?”

“Yeah, I can cash it,” I replied, as the concept of $37,000 ran through my mind.

“Give me your number and I'll give you a call,” she said, and then split.

One morning I was lying in bed with Pat when the phone rang. It was Lydia. “Meet me on the corner of Union and 24th Street in front of the bank at 11:30,” she said.

“Okay, I'll see you there.” I put on my best suit and tie, combed my Afro, and left. I was a little nervous, yet more filled with a daring that at times bordered on stupidity. That was the way I was, and I was not ready to change.

I pulled up in front of the bank and sat in the car, reading the daily paper. The door opened. It was Lydia. A large woman with a scar on her cheek, she was what you might call “rough-looking,” but she was as real as you get. And that is often what I looked for in a person.

“Hey, Aaron. Here's the check and ID. Go to the brother with the Afro. He is working with us. Call me when you're done, and get the money in cashier's checks.”

“Okay,” I said.

I casually walked into the bank and went up to the brother with the big Afro as instructed. I handed him the check; he turned to the manager, who okayed the transaction. And out the door I went with $37,000 in cashier's checks.

Afterward, I met up with Lydia in Burlington, a swank area outside of San Francisco. She lived in a big house in the hills with her daughter. The paper game was her chosen profession. Aside from a prison stint, seemingly she had done well for herself. My slice of the pie was $13,000. In a short time, I had gone from cashing small checks to big checks, with bigger ones yet to come.

I was rapidly becoming embedded in this new world. The same emotional armor I had donned to protect myself as a revolutionary would be worn for this life of crime. My hanging with Dino in the nightlife was beginning to create tension between me and Pat. Besides, I had met a young, beautiful woman out at the club Long Island on Third Street. I found out that she was working for a young pimp I had seen in the after-hours clubs, who drove a brown Bentley. I eventually convinced her to give up prostitution and to try modeling.

With the money I made from the bank job, I decided to move out on my own. I got a nice one-bedroom penthouse in Alameda near the beach, picked up some fine furniture, and bought a 1974 Spitfire convertible, a little green two-seater. I also bought a quarter pound of coke, some cut, and a triple-beam scale. Taking up a suggestion of Pat's, I began selling coke in the after-hours scene. I often packed a long-barreled .38 in the small of my back, beneath the fabric of a nice double-breasted suit. In these after-hours clubs, you never knew whom you might run into.

Sometimes it was old comrades. While doing business in an after-hours club on Divisadero called the Living Room, I ran into comrades Ellis White, Russell Washington, and Dale Rosco. At first I wasn't sure how I would be greeted, but their smiles put me at ease. We chatted and smoked some weed. I sold them a gram of coke and we parted company. At another after-hours club where I was the coke provider, I ran into Captain Dexter Woods and John Brown, both formerly of the San Francisco branch. They had sided with Eldridge during the split. I hadn't seen either of them since that day at National Headquarters on Peralta Street back in 1972, when comrades were secretly choosing sides. John Brown was still wearing the brown brim that was his signature piece. Dexter was still sporting his smooth-looking Afro. We greeted each other coolly yet respectfully. I was pleasantly surprised that they came to my defense when an irate customer complained about the coke I had sold him, becoming belligerent. It so happened that night I had not bothered to pack any heat, leaving myself defenseless. John and Dexter interceded, and the matter was quashed. I was grateful to them for having my back. I had always respected them, regardless of the choice they had made in '72. And I know they respected me as well.

One day, out of the blue, I got a call from Lola. She needed a place to stay for a couple days, and spent them curled in a ball at the end of my king-size brass bed. This was not the same Lola I had known, who had a most beautiful smile and was as sweet as a bowl of sugar. The violent death of her mentor, Sam Napier, the death of Tex, and the disintegration of the party had a devastating impact on her young mind. On top of that, Bethune had viciously assaulted her because she was hanging out with some Rastafarians. That had, I think, pushed her further over the edge. She did not talk much, nor could I coax that beautiful, disarming smile out of her. It was terribly sad to see her like this. Eventually, she would take her younger sister Valerie, and her two children, Natalie and little Damon, to Jamaica, where they ended up living in the mountains in a Rastafarian commune.

I was spending less time with Dino as I accelerated forward in the fast life. A cat named Kenny Hampton rented a studio next to Pat's place. He had just gotten out of San Quentin and was a member of the Black Guerrilla Family. He was a crazy, grizzled-looking dude, but he was fun to be around. Kenny was very buff, with gray eyes and a short Afro, giving him the appearance of a dangerous man. We started hanging out together, going to the gym, sometimes sharing an Olde English 800. At the club Long Island, near Hunters Point, I met another brother named Donny, who had just gotten out of the service. He was a hothead. Soon he and his buddy, along with Kenny, started selling coke for me. The four of us cased out a dope house and a bank on Union Street with the intent of robbing them, but the plan never came together.