Rise to Grace: A Genuine Street Story

By Angel Huertas

Power.

As a young boy, Angel Huertas witnessed an intruder come in through the window and attack his sister and torment his mother and grandmother. He grew up poor. He was often bullied in his neighborhood. But there was something about him something everyone recognized something that made him special.

He learned fast how to take charge on the streets of Brooklyn. He learned what power was. How to wield it. He was respected on those streets. Feared. Known.Playboy Angel. He rose from the streets of The Southside to rule over an empire until he was betrayed and shot. Twice, he died. Twice, he was returned to life. This is the story of a boy who becomes a man; of the rise to street power and the fall. And the grace of God.

This is the story of a boy who becomes a man not when he rules the streets, but when he learns what real power means.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463416980

Angel Huertas

Angel Huertas lived it. When others were watching Al Pacino playing the part of Scarface on the silver screen, Angel lived the life. When others were just talking the talk, he was walking the walk. He was Playboy Angel. He and his crew owned The Southside of Brooklyn. They ran the drugs. They ran the streets. Almost everyone from those streets is either dead or in jail. Angel tells the story of what it was like to start with nothing and to build a drug empire only to see it crumble. He lived it. He saw it. He tells it. From the rise and fall to the grace of finding a better way.

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© 2011 Angel Huertas. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1697-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1699-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1698-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011910505

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Special Dedication

INTRODUCTION –

PART I

BEGINNINGS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

PART II

THE STREETS OF THE SOUTHSIDE

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

PART III

THE DREAM IS OVER

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

PART IV

LIFT ME UP

Chapter Thirty-One

EPILOGUE

To Live Outside the Law, You Must Be Honest…

— Bob Dylan

I’m the only one that made it out. I got a second chance. I thank God for that.

I believe I’m here for many reasons. One of them is talking to troubled kids. Somebody has to put them on the right track. I believe God put that on me. Any kid that talks to me about the streets, you better believe I’m going to make sure he understands the good and the bad that comes with it. When it’s time for you to be judged in heaven, you can’t stand in front of God and say, no one ever said it to you, because God will rewind the moment Angel Huertas a.k.a Playboy Angel told it to you.

Just know that life is beautiful when you have God and when the people around you love you and respect you.

So, this is my story.

If you live your life the righteous way, there isn’t anything or anybody that can bring you down.

God bless us all.

God is Able

This Story Is Dedicated to God and the Huertas family.

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All names and events have been changed to protect the privacy of innocent individuals.

SPECIAL DEDICATION

I could never have become who I have become without some unbelievable people in my life. Nothing that I have been for this last quarter of a century would mean anything without having the most beautiful wife in the world at my side. Lupe, I have no words to describe my deep love and respect for you, or to capture my awe at living my life with you. Guadalupe A.K.A Smurf –You my kids Angel Jr. and Giovanni Huertas will always be the root of my heart.

To all my readers. Please go on line and check out my music video / Bio called, Never Give You Up Featuring Artist, Ace 151 and Deniece. Actor John Collado playing the roll of Playboy Angel and actress Kailah Torres as Smurf . This video is dedicated to anyone who was there for you, who, held you down through thick and thin, who caught you when you fell. This song is for you. Behind every great man there is a great woman. God Is Able.

INTRODUCTION –

THEY SAY YOU can see your enemies coming from miles away. It’s your friends that sneak up on you. Maybe. Maybe it’s just hard when you’re working the streets to know who your friends really are.

Porterrock, I’m thinking, he’s my friend. My boy. If you ask me, I’m going to tell you that he’s the one guy who has my back. I pulled him in from Tony’s Crew after Tony went away. It’s been a wild ride, from the Southside to the shit in Bushwick. A wild ride. Crazy shit. I’ve seen it all, from before the Southside was this trendy place for students and artists whose lofts and apartments are paid for by their rich daddies who don’t mind their kids living someplace edgy but would never let their kids live someplace that wasn’t safe. And Bushwick Brooklyn… hell, Bushwick has always been a war zone.

When I ran these streets, they were so far past edgy it wasn’t even funny. So I didn’t think much of it when he called me and said to meet him at his apartment to talk over some business. Did it just about every other day. Wasn’t no big deal.

I look down at the gold Rolex on my wrist. Just before 10 p.m. Time to meet with Porterrock and then start the night making the clubs. Pull over here, I tell Nando, my younger brother and I point to the curb outside Porterrock’s building.

When he comes to a stop, I reach for the door handle. Nando, you wait here. Shouldn’t be long.

You sure you don’t want me to come along, Angel?

I look over at Nando. Even in the shadow light from the street lamp, I can see him working to keep his dark eyes steady but I can see the flicker of uncertainty in them. A little thing but just the kind of thing that guys like me, guys who run the streets, can read. Like junk yard dogs snarling and barking, straining their chains, we smell the stink of uncertainty. Of fear. We know when someone is scared or when they mean business. We have to.

We ignore that knowledge at our peril.

Yeah, I’m sure, I tell him, patting him on the arm. Nando. He’s a good kid. But he’s not ready. Maybe in a couple of years… but not now. Not yet. No. He’s not ready to stand alongside me. Besides, I’m just going to talk to Porterrock. It’s fuckin’ Porterrock, for chrissakes. I don’t need backup. What I need is this fucking SUV heater on so it’s still warm and comfortable when I get back in after I talk to Porterrock.

I’ll be right back.

I get out of the SUV and walk over the broken up sidewalk to the door of Porterrock’s apartment building. I can feel the eyes on me from behind street windows. Eyes always watching. That’s what makes the cops crazy. There’s always eyes. Everybody sees everything. Everybody knows what’s going down but no one talks. I always know that I’m watched. Always being measured. That’s one of the reasons why I’m dressed sharp, like always. Armani suit. Silk tie. Polished Italian shoes. Maybe some people are thinking I’m a pretty boy – not that they’d ever have the huevos to say that to my face – but I like to live large. And anyone who thinks I’m just a pretty boy doesn’t know shit. See, I know the image I want on the street. I’m no damned hustler. No schoolyard punk. I run these streets like a prince, not a thug. Sure, things get rough. Real rough. Running drugs is no game for sissies. But take away the guns and the rough stuff and you discover that drugs is just a business, same as any other business. Respect and trust, at the end of the day, that’s what you need to succeed. Same as any other business. But especially on the streets. On these streets.

Other businesses, you get burned you lose money. Out on my streets, you lose your life.

So, I dress good. Real good. Dress good. Smell good. Eat good and drink good. Everything is good. Doesn’t mean I’m not packing too.

I look back at Nando and give him a nod to let him know that everything is fine. No need to worry about a damned thing. Just keep that fucking engine running and the heater on. He smiles nervously at me. Nah, he’s not ready. I nod again then I push the door open and go into the building. My footsteps echo sharp against the tile floor along the shadowy hallway. These apartments are hell holes. Doesn’t matter that we’re bringing in a hundred thousand a week. Porterrock’s building, like just about every other building in our neighborhood, doesn’t even have all the lights working in the damned hallway.

By the time I get to Porterrock’s door, my eyes are fully adjusted to the dim shadows. I glance over my shoulder. I’m relaxed, but ready. Like always. Always being watched; always need to be ready. I take a breath and hit my fist against the door.

Click.

My spine stiffens. I know that sound like I know the sound of my own voice. I know. On my streets, the sound of a gun being cocked back is a sound every school boy has heard before he is eight years old. It’s part of the cityscape music of Williamsburg, like a taxi honking or a fire truck racing by with its siren wailing. That click can be reassuring. Or threatening.

It depends.

Everything depends on something. And a lot of the time what it depends on is the difference between living and dying. On the streets, what it usually depends on was who has your back and who has money on the table.

Depends on who you can trust.

Click.

I feel alarms signal deep in my imagination, down at the base of my skull; alarms that run up and down my spine. But I brush them aside. Damnit, this is Porterrock’s apartment. My boy. I knock again. "Come on, chollo. Open up. It’s me, Angel."

A second later, the door opens and Porterrock stands there, lean and twitchy in a hooded sweatshirt.

Hey, he says as he steps out through the doorway of the dark apartment and into the hallway.

Hey, I say, extending my hand.

He glowers at me and then brushes right by me.

What the fuck? I think this is no way to treat your brother. What’s your fucking problem? I snap.

Porterrock stops and turns to face me. His right eye twitches – another alarm goes off but another one I ignore. See, Porterrock’s eye always twitches before some serious shit is going to go down.

You’re being a fucking asshole, Angel, he shouts suddenly.

I stare at him. Even in the yellow light of the hallway I can see his eyes flashing with the fires of Hell. What the fuck are you talking about? I shout back, immediately tense.

What’s this shit about you movin’ Joe off from the corner I put him on?

I look at Porterrock like he’s grown a second fucking head. That’s what this is about? Some shit about moving spots where our crew sells drugs?

That’s bullshit, I snap, moving closer and getting my face in Porterrock’s face, so close I could smell his rancid, cigarette and weed-smelling breath. Me, I’d never let my breath stink up like Porterrock’s. Not my style. But Porterrock is Porterrock. The boy’s been smoking dope probably all day but it hasn’t mellowed him a fucking bit. Goddamnit, you know I make the calls.

Porterrock isn’t backing off. He shakes his head. Bullshit! My man, my call! I place the crew at that corner!

So that is how it is. We go back and forth for a few minutes, our words getting more harsh and our voices getting louder. I can feel the tension building between us, feel it filling the hallway, like a cord pulled so tight it’s about to snap. I can hear the quiet behind the doors along the hallway, like everyone living there is ducking for cover. Like they know what shit is about to come down, even if I haven’t figured it all the way out just yet.

You do as you’re fucking told or I’ll take you down! I shout at Porterrock.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for his waist. I see the movement but it’s like everything is moving in really slow motion. Like I’m watching a bad movie running that I’ve seen a million times before. But I don’t react. Even though I see everything that is happening, I am in frozen in disbelief.

What the fuck?

If Porterrock’s moving in slow motion then I’m a fucking Eskimo iced in place. I haven’t even reached for my gun when the next thing I know, I’m staring down the barrel of a Glock 9mm.

Don’t, Porterrock says in a rasp of a whisper, warning me that my moment has passed and that I shouldn’t even think about getting my gun now.

Porterrock? My boy Porterrock? Pointing a gun at me? At me? Goddamnit, I ate dinner with him and his family yesterday! What the fuck…?

He lowers the barrel so that it’s pointing straight at my chest. My eyes, instead of shifting down with the barrel, shift up to Porterrock’s face. The fire burning in his dark eyes flares with wicked evil – I know he won’t even think twice about pulling the trigger of that gun. His eyes have the Devil in them.

I know.

I know that fire. I’ve gotten way too familiar with that Devil.

Then his index finger starts to move, pulling in on the trigger.

What the…?

I hear the noise before I feel the pain and I feel the pain like it’s moving faster than light. Two quick shots rip through my Armani suit jacket and my custom-tailored shirt; two quick shots tear into my gut. Part of my brain is shouting, What the fuck? What the fuck? while another part is screaming hysterically, Run! Run! Run, you mother fucker!

I don’t even think. A big part of my mind might be all caught up in What the fuck? What the fuck? but my body is right on top of the Run, motherfucker! part of my brain. My legs are moving, but my mind is still cycling on What the fuck?

I’m trying to run but even as I do I can’t get my mind wrapped around what is happening. Did Porterrock just shoot me? What the fuck?

My legs feel like heavy sacks of sand. Run! I turn and run as best I can toward the door at the end of the hallway. Porterrock shoots again, hitting me in my back. The impact is like a fist slamming me, knocking me face down to the grimy, oily, muddy floor of the hallway. I hit the floor hard, barely braking my fall with my hands. My cheek pressed against the sticky, cold tile.

Jesus, don’t they fucking ever clean this place?

RUN, MOTHERFUCKER!

I force myself to move. Now I have three bullet holes in my body. My shirt is sticky with my blood mixing with the shit on the floor. I don’t have the strength to get myself up to my feet. I start to crawl, to drag myself… I have to get to the door. I might not be getting what’s happening but the part of my brain that is telling me to run is real clear on one thing – I want to live. And that part of my brain is shouting at me that if I don’t get myself out that door, I am a dead man.

I’m crawling on my knees, on my belly. I’m using my elbows for hands. I’m wriggling like a snake. I’m squirming. I’m rolling over and over. I’m clawing at the broken tiles on the floor, grasping for the walls. I need something to grab hold of, something to move me forward… I can hear Porterrock walking toward me. He’s the big man now. No question. He’s in charge now. I’m on the floor, vulnerable. Close enough to dead that Porterrock knows I can’t fight back. I glance up to see him towering over me. He’s laughing that laugh he laughs when he is about to slow dance with the Devil. And me, I’m just a wounded and defenseless animal.

I’m as good as dead and he knows it. I know it.

He plants his feet on either side of my body and aims the gun right at my head.

Fuck you, he whispers.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

He pulls the trigger.

Nothing. His gun has jammed.

My eyes open wide. My mind is completely focused now. I’m suddenly all instinct and reflex. All adrenalin. Bullet wounds or not, I’m getting the fuck out of this fucking building. I push myself up and stumble and stagger toward the door. I have to get out… have to get to the car. It’s not just about me anymore. Porterrock doesn’t know that Nando is outside in the car but when he finds out, he’ll kill Nando too. He’ll kill anything and everything in his way.

Porterrock unjams his gun. Metal slide. Click. And like that, bullets are flying all over the hall, making golf ball sized holes in the walls. In front of me, the door is splintering like its being slammed with an axe. The wood jamb is flying apart. The walls are riddled with holes! Maybe I’m not so clear on what was happening when Porterrock first drew his gun but I am fucking sharp as a tack about it now. The whole situation has gotten my full, undivided attention. I am clear, really fucking clear. And what I’m clear about is that I’m fucking terrified. For the first time in my adult life, I am beyond scared. There is no warm blood running through my veins. Just ice cold terror. I got the Devil Himself grabbing at my heels, pulling me back. I’m kicking and screaming. I don’t want the Devil to win. I don’t want to die.

I feel nothing but fear.

Dear God, don’t let me die. I don’t want to die.

More than the finest wine I’ve ever tasted, more than the sweetest pussy I’ve ever known, more than the most power I’ve ever felt on the street, I just want not to die. That wanting drives me forward, crawling through the broken and filthy hallway.

Somehow, I make it to the door even as the bullets keep shattering against it. The pain sears through me as I reach up and grab for the knob. I push on the door and it flies open. There, on the other side, is Nando.

Shit, Angel!

I can’t describe the look on his face. Shock. Concern. Fear. A total recognition of what is happening. Everything I’ve ever known seems to be written on his face. Nando might not be ready for working the streets but somehow, someway, he is completely ready for this moment. He doesn’t think. In less than a second, he has taken in everything that is happening and he just reacts.

He grabs me and yanks me from the building.

Angel! You’ve been set up! Run!

Another hail of gunfire erupts from behind us, spraying bullets in our direction. What a nightmare. Just one problem. I’m not asleep. This is real. Every heart pounding second is as real as anything that ever was.

With Nando pulling on my arm, I somehow manage to half-run, half-stumble about two blocks before collapsing.

Come on, Angel. Keep running, he begs me, looking back in the direction of Porterrock’s building. You got to! He pulls on my arm.

I look up at him. His eyes are desperate. Scared. But I can’t… I just can’t. Tell my wife… I can’t finish. I’m gasping for air. Run? Hell, I don’t have the strength to breathe let alone run. And the pain… the adrenalin got me these two blocks but now the pain is coming in hot waves. I feel like red hot pokers are stabbing deep into my gut and that I’ve been slammed by a sledgehammer. But as bad as the pain is, that’s not what’s filling my thinking now. I don’t give a shit about the pain. No, my mind is filled with images of my life and all the bad shit I’ve been caught up in. All the shit I’ve done. All the pain I’ve caused… my wife and my little boy and all the terrible things I’ve put them through…"

Sweet Jesus.

Pray for the man. Pray for the man.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

I can hear voices. No, God… don’t take me! I’m not ready!

Say Jesus and live!

There are men praying and women wailing. I can hear the voices… a heavenly chorus. My cheeks are wet with tears. I force myself to open my eyes. Nando is kneeling alongside me. My blood is covering him. He is crying, still begging me to get up and keep running. But his voice sounds like it’s coming from a hundred miles away. I can only hear the wound of prayer and wailing. Where are the voices coming from? There, past his kneeling self, I can see that I’ve fallen outside a church. Those people praying are people in the church.

I want to pray too. God, please, just let me pray! But before I can move my lips, I am swept up by darkness.

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Where am I? Is this heaven… or, worse?

I open my eyes to soft, purple fluorescent lights. It takes me a moment but I realize that I’m not dead. I’m propped up in an ambulance that is racing along the city streets with its siren screaming.

"We’re losing him.’’

Everything starts to blur. My eyelids are drooping down. I can’t keep them open. It’s getting dark. My eyes are nearly shut.

A paramedic is hunched over me, trying to help me.

We’re losing him. I can hear panic in his voice.

Losing him? Are you talking about me? Am I dying? Oh my God, dear God, I’m dying! No, please don’t take me. Not yet. I’m not ready yet. Forgive me for all my sins. Oh God oh God oh God. Don’t take me. Give me a second chance. I will be a better man. I swear. Please don’t take me…

My spirit rises from my body and I look down at myself laying on the gurney in the back of the ambulance.

Come on! the paramedic shouts at my lifeless body as he begins to press down urgently on my chest.

I can feel my spirit being dragged down – not back into my body and not lifted up to Heaven - but dragged down to Gates of Hell. I can feel the heat of Hell’s flames licking at the bottom of my feet. Instead of the voices of prayer, I can hear loud, mocking laughter. No! No, no, no! Please, no! I tried to resist but I am so weak… So weak. The light is going out. I can’t hold my eyes open.

You’re mine now and forever! An evil voice cries out.

And then everything goes black.

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I am in a hospital bed. I can hear crying again. And whispered prayers. I open my eyes and see my beautiful wife. Her face is a mask of fear and emotion. Tears are dripping down off her cheeks. I love you, baby. I love you. You’re going to be okay. They saved you, baby. They brought you back. They brought you back to me. I love you.

She means the doctors, I know she means the doctors, but I know something that she doesn’t; I know that the doctors couldn’t have brought me back. Not from where I’ve gone. Only God could have done that. I’d already crossed the line. I pray a silent prayer of thanks to God.

You set the path, God. I will follow. No matter what.

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I died again before I left the hospital.

Once again, God brought me back.

I know that there is only one way for me to live. To be alive I have to leave the only life I’d ever known. I have to leave the streets I ruled. I have to surrender my idea of power and glory.

It is the only way.

The streets only lead to one place - death.

I choose a different path. I choose truth. I choose humility. I choose honor.

I choose life.

PART I

BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER ONE

THIS AIN’T NO Leave It To Beaver story. No Norman Rockwell painting. No pretty leaves turning color in Vermont. No Easter Parade down 5th Avenue shit. It’s not a lullaby and it’s not a fairy tale. It is the best truth I know; the truth the only way I know how to tell it. In it all, I’m not trying to mess with anyone or badmouth another living soul. I’m way past that.

I pray to God that I’m done hurting others.

I know I’m far from a perfect man.

Humbly, I’m just seeking the truth. For any harm I’ve ever done to anyone, I am deeply and sincerely sorry. As for any harm that has been done to me… I forgive, I forgive, I forgive.

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June 1972. Not even July and it was already one of those hot, humid New York nights. If you’ve lived one, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The kind of night hangs on you like a heavy blanket dripping with hot water. The kind of night when the humidity is higher than the temperature and temperature is over ninety degrees. The kind of night where everybody that owns a fan has it whirring or if they got an air conditioner, they got it humming. The kind of night when, in the neighborhoods like where I lived, old folks sit at open windows all day and all night long, smoking cigarettes, fanning themselves with a wad of newspaper and praying to catch any kind of breeze the night might offer. The kind of night when kids sleep on fire escapes and young lovers stay up on the melting tar up of the rooftops, staring up at the stars. The kind of night when wives swat their husband’s hands away because they can’t even bear the thought of anything against their skin. The kind of night when cotton sheets feel itchy as wool, when they stick to the sweat on your skin like glue.

I was five years old.

A little boy. You ask me, I’d say I’d already had to deal with too much shit. More shit than even an adult should have had to deal with.

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