Somebody's Daughter (13 page)

This was not a popular approach to pimping in Popeye Greer's era, and Manning Greer didn't start out by regularly and brutally beating his girls; but the Scotians learned in their efforts to hold onto their territory—the blocks demarcating a prostitution stroll—that muscle means power. Largely unchecked by the police, who concentrated their efforts on the girls, the Scotians' penchant for the punch could be indulged at will, in battle with their equally aggressive and well-armed enemies, or for domination over vulnerable teenage girls. Violence had always had its place in The Game; as Popeye explained the rules to Manning, there were those times when a girl “needed a beating.” The difference between the two men was that Popeye and his generation of pimps used violence sparingly, believing the threat of it was enough. Manning and his generation of pimps used violence constantly, believing the reality was more effective than the threat. A girl who thought she might be abused might still risk violating a rule but a girl who knew her friends had been savagely beaten for the same violation would think better of it.

Manning Greer was not thinking about the past as he cruised through Montreal on that warm spring night. He was there and he was content. Greer glanced down at the speedometer—seventy clicks, a little over the posted limit but not enough to interest police. Still, why take a chance with those fools? Greer let his foot ease off the accelerator and watched the needle drop; as the car slowed to fifty kilometres per hour, he reached down and touched the handle of the dull-gray .9-mm Beretta handgun tucked between the bucket seat and the shifting console. He tapped his ringed fingers on the wheel in time to the blaring music. Police? The Big Man didn't care about the police, and he was confident they didn't care about him, either. One of Manning Greer's greatest assets in The Game—along with his personal magnetism—was a remarkable ability to quickly assess and act on just about any situation presented to him, almost always to his benefit. Even the Big Man had a blind spot though, and Greer's blind spot was the police.

If anyone told Greer there were police officers in three provinces and the state of New York who were aware of him and his activities and just waiting for a chance to put him behind bars, he would simply have laughed. The police were just an annoyance, to be avoided as easily as lifting one's foot from the accelerator every once in a while. The fact was that police had been monitoring the activities of Greer and his family of pimps for some time. For example, Halifax RCMP officers John Elliott and Brad Sullivan had been told by some of the young prostitutes who opened up to them in 1990, during Operation Heart, that although Manning Greer was the acting leader of the Scotians, his uncle remained the highly respected family figurehead—the only player to whom the Big Man would defer. That kind of information was probably the single reason the police were unable to stop Manning Greer. The police really were chasing a ghost; they had accepted the street myth surrounding Greer and did not focus on the reality.

The police believed Greer headed a highly organized crime family on par with the Hell's Angels biker gang. They had also heard the street story about the turf war between the biker's and the Scotians. That story, like most in the street, was part truth and part myth. The Hell's Angels had left the stroll in Halifax after a clash with the Scotians, but not because the Scotians were a serious threat to the Angels. The truth was the street trade in Halifax was not worth the police attention a turf war would bring and the Angels knew a turf war was the only way to chase the locals off the stroll.

There was a large number of Nova Scotia pimps but they were not, in the traditional sense, an organized crime family. The Scotians were more like a blowfish: blowfish can double in size when threatened. The fish does that by ingesting water or air and distending its stomach. It's a trick, but it often scares off predators in the deep. When Manning Greer or one of his friends was threatened, or when they were all threatened by another pimp or some other perceived problem, they joined forces: distending the stomach and exaggerating their size. It worked for them as well. When the threat was over, most of the pimps would go their own way and do their own thing until the next threat was encountered. Greer did stay in close contact with his core group of friends but even they did business their own way. The pimps were just friends from the same small town sharing a wild adventure. The young bubble-gummers who followed Manning Greer's orders were just naive and he and his friends took advantage of that. There was another problem that kept police from isolating and arresting Manning Greer. Unlike the Scotians, the police did not join ranks to solve a problem. Police in Montreal wanted Manning Greer arrested, or moved out of their town. They did not care if he worked in Toronto or Halifax. The same could be said of police in those cities. By 1992 that was beginning to change. The change started when Brad Sullivan and Dave Perry began to share notes following Operation Heart.

Greer was unaware of that subtle change in policing and he continued to believe the police were no threat as he whipped the 'Vette over to the curb and clambered out. Even without the flashy car, Greer turned heads as he headed along the busy downtown street. His 6′3″ frame carried 225 pounds in well-distributed proportion—a big man not only by reputation. The glowing gold jewelry; the expensive yet casual clothing; the smooth, dark face framed in thick black curls weighed down with styling gel: an extremely attractive package—except for the dangerous distance in the moist brown eyes. Manning Greer rarely met a gaze directly; his mind seemed perennially occupied with something other than what—or who—was right in front of him. On this night in early June, though, he was just enjoying the smell of the city, and he inhaled deeply as he walked towards his favorite club. Montreal smelled just a little like home. There was a hint of moisture in the air as the breeze from the waterfront worked its way into the downtown core, and he thought nostalgically of the Hollis Street stroll, only a block away from the busy Halifax harborfront; the sickly sweet scent of raw sewage and petroleum products—lifeblood of the ships slipping into and out of port—was a powerful trigger for memories of home. A trip back east was just what he needed—and he could also use the time to fill a vacancy in his stable of prostitutes. Lynn, one of the Big Man's favorite girls had disappeared and he was looking for someone new to fill that void. He was also still looking for Lynn. Greer's favorite club was a small, dark street-level bar popular with Montreal's pimping community; two pool tables on one side of the room, a few small, round tables and a long oak bar on the other. Greer walked to the Scotian family's usual table near the back of the bar where he sat with his back against the wall. The satisfied smile he had worn out on the street was beginning to fade, though. It was just after 11:30
P.M.
, and the Big Man had expected two of his cousins to be in the bar, but they hadn't shown up. After ordering a Coke—Greer rarely drank alcohol—he pulled out a cellular phone and punched in a number. “Yo.” The single-syllable greeting was delivered in an impatient tone. “It's B.M. Where you at?” Only Greer's inner circle referred to Greer as B.M. instead of the Big Man; and it was a privilege that had to be earned. It was shared by that small group he spent most of his time with.

“Shit, man, it's Glenda. Dumb 'ho got herself busted again.”

“Deal with it.”

“Yeah, later.”

Greer clipped the folding phone to his belt and sipped his drink, looking around the room and quickly deciding there was nobody worth hanging around for. On his way out he noticed five men at a table near the door; one of the three facing him looked familiar. It was a Jamaican player from New York; one he'd diss'd. Two weeks earlier, the Big Man had taken a girl from the other pimps stable and refused to pay the leaving fee of eight hundred dollars demanded by the Jamaican, who called himself High T. He'd done this deliberately as part of his continuing effort to drive the Jamaicans off what he considered Scotian territory—a pimp without respect would be unable to hang on to any of his girls, or his turf—but now Greer was beginning to wonder whether he had made a mistake. He locked eyes with High T., who stood, met his glance, and walked out the door, followed by his companions. Greer was being challenged; if he stayed in the bar, he would be announcing that he was afraid, and there was no way he could do that. Pulling out his phone, he hit the re-dial button, but his cousins were at the police station bailing out the busted prostitute and they'd shut off their phone and left it in the car.
Shit, and the gun is in the 'Vette!
Well, he'd just give that fool High T. his money and catch up with him later.

Outside, the five men had gathered at the edge of the sidewalk near a gray van; when Greer walked out of the bar, High T. stepped away from the others. “B.M., you'd better be carrying my money, fool.” Well that was different: High T. could not call him B.M., and
nobody
called him a fool. The Big Man's powerful leg shot out in a lightning-fast kick, and High T. was out of the picture. “Anyone else gonna dis' me here?” The other men seemed confused. Greer's challenge was not what they'd expected. One of them rushed over to the fallen pimp, who was still clutching his groin. “Fuck, T. You okay?” Greer prepared to kick this second guy in the head as the side door of the van slid open and two more men stepped out, one carrying a baseball bat. He tried to fend off the blow but only managed to slow it down with his raised arm. The bat glanced off the arm and struck the side of his head. He felt the sidewalk disappear beneath his feet. Then came flashes of light and mumbled sounds as a flurry of kicks battered his head and face.

Greer could feel the force of the blows, but not the pain, and he tried to force himself up. One of them stepped on his back and pushed down, and somebody else shouted: “Stay down, motherfucker, or we'll kill you!” Greer tried to ignore the threat, but the guy with the bat struck him hard in the right shoulder, and he suddenly was unable to push against the sidewalk. Finally, the beating stopped. The Jamaicans picked up their fallen comrade and helped him into the van. As High T. was led past Greer, he spat on the fallen Nova Scotia pimp, gasping: “Get your ugly ass out of my town or you're dead.”

Laughter echoed down the street as the Jamaicans drove off; certain they had seen the last of this so-called Big Man. They would have been surprised to learn that Manning Greer was furious, not at all cowed by the savage beating he had taken. Within a few moments he had pulled himself up on a parking meter and begun making his way back to his car. Passersby glanced away at the sight of the bruised, bleeding man—probably because of the look of sheer rage in his eyes—but he didn't care. They were just chumps. Safe behind the wheel, he reached for his phone, using his left hand—the pain in his right shoulder made it impossible to use that hand—and told his cousin to find him. No way he could drive; he needed his shifting arm.

“Shit, man, we shoulda been there. Fuck.”

“C.C.”

“Yeah, man, what?”

“Beat that 'ho.” Greer hung up, knowing his cousin would punish the girl who was foolish enough to get herself arrested, leaving him in a bar without back-up. It didn't matter what went wrong in the family business; ultimately one of the girls paid the price. Greer tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and reached across his lap with his left hand. He pulled the Beretta out of its hiding place and slid the safety on and off as he contemplated revenge. The weight of the deadly weapon was reassuring—as reassuring as the Big Man's knowledge that he would be able to count on his family in the next battle with the Jamaicans. They had been there before, and they would be again. It was time for the Blowfish to inflate.

The first war between the Scotians and the Jamaicans began late in 1989, when Nova Scotia pimps were already running girls in Halifax, Montreal, Toronto, and Ottawa, but not at the level they would attain by the 1990s. One aggressive Jamaican-Canadian working in Montreal took a liking to the pretty, fresh young Nova Scotia girls he was seeing and—deciding the Scotians were country hicks who didn't deserve his respect—he planned a trip to Halifax to find some girls for his stable, which he ran in New York as well as Montreal. What the man lacked in common sense he more than made up for in nerve: on his first visit to Halifax, the pimp took his shiny Cadillac down to Hollis Street, opened the door, and asked three likely looking girls to get in. When they hesitated, he placed a gun on the seat beside him, and the request became an order. Then he simply headed out of town and back to Montreal: the Nova Scotia pimps had no idea who had pulled this bold manoeuvre.

The information pipeline worked quickly; within weeks, the girls had been traced to a stroll in Buffalo. Meanwhile, the Jamaican decided to go back to the well, this time in the company of some protection; an enforcer reputed to be a member of the Hell's Angels. The Nova Scotia pimps had been keeping close watch on their territory; in particular, Tank—the man who would later predict Stacey Jackson's attraction for The Game—was spending hours on end in a parking lot near the stroll, monitoring the action and recording the license numbers of suspicious-looking cars. He would have been hanging out there anyway; Tank liked The Game and spent as much as time around it as he could. His beat-up old Caddie didn't even draw a glance from the raiders as they cruised the stroll—but their gleaming car, with its darkened windows, certainly attracted Tank's attention, and he phoned the home where several of the North Preston players were involved in a card game.

The word spread like wildfire, and a convoy of more than ten cars and trucks soon left North Preston for downtown Halifax. The New York pimp probably would have gotten away, but he was being more selective on this trip and he cruised the stroll repeatedly eyeing the girls as they worked. He wanted the busiest girls if not the prettiest. He wasted valuable time shopping the stroll for the best catch—just enough time for the contingent from the country, as Scotians liked to refer to North Preston, to get into town. Tank cut him off at the corner of Hollis and Prince streets, and while he was cursing at this fool, whoever he was, there was another car, positioned behind him. Suddenly there were men jumping from their vehicles, surrounding him. The pimp's enforcer didn't even get the chance to threaten anyone: the first blow, from a wooden club, came from behind; it broke his forearm. That was enough for the muscle man: “Get me the fuck out of here!” he ordered, jumping into the Caddy. The young men from North Preston weren't quite finished—they furiously pounded on the fancy black car, denting it badly and cracking a couple of windows before the pimp managed to force his way past Tank's Cadillac and make for the nearest route out of town. A few of the Scotians gave chase, but most just celebrated the easy victory. The response showed the strength of the Scotian group: this was a family unit, whose members trusted each other and were ready to fight for each other. It didn't matter whose girls the pimp was trying to steal: if he was raiding a Scotian's stable, he was raiding every pimp working in Halifax.