Natural Born Gangster: The Legend of Chris Bell

By C. J. H. MOORE

Chris Bell was born on the West Side of Chicago and attended Catholic elementary school on the South Side. He was an unusual and gifted star child who was beyond his mother's understanding. His gang activities kept him out of the regular sequential leap from grade to grade. He joined his first martial arts gang, GGWB (Good Guys Wear Black), just after kindergarten, because he was being bullied everyday by an older kid. He earned his high school diploma by challenging the GED at his mother's behest, after reading books on math, language arts, classics, and Aesop's Fables, which he loved the most, in local libraries day and night, well before his eighteenth birthday, and earned the title "the richest man in the world" by working and fighting in the underground. In his youth, he consolidated the dangerous Black Disciples and Vice Lord gangs of Chicago and all their subdivisions to complete his dream in building another Black Wall Street on the West Side. After he met Madi, Derek Jenkins, and the Stepfather, he moved closer to his dreams. When the Shadow of Knights confiscated sixty tons of drugs and guns off the Chicago streets and placed them on the FBI's doorstep, the ghetto ninjas were a marked group.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684569298

Book preview

Chapter 1

The real art for humanity to follow is to work together.

It was 1937 in Belzoni, Mississippi, and the country began to recover from the Great Depression. The soup lines decreased to form half-long lines, as they snaked around buildings in the city, and in country towns, reaching a mile long from just a year ago. Daddy Bell was a crack shot. Standing six feet six inches tall, dark skinned, and well formed, he only spoke when spoken to. On many occasions, his intimidating size spoke for him. He could hit a fly off a hog’s backside from fifty yards. Oftentimes the rich white folks paid him handsomely to hunt and fish. The three rabbits and three raccoons he carried were enough food for a week. Master Bo Bottoms had died six months ago and left Daddy Bell two acres of land to farm. Daddy Bell built a modest-looking house on the land with two fireplaces, five bedrooms, a coal oven in the kitchen, a separate dining area, and two outhouses practically by himself, and for the times, it was considered a utilitarian style.

Momma Bell was a shrewd and strong woman with a complexion of skin that made her eyes look as though they would pop out of their sockets at any moment. She never missed an opportunity to uphold her maiden name—Smith. She bore fifteen children of natural births. Mabel was the oldest and darkest of the four girls, and she was the hardest worker. She was the first in the cotton fields in the morning, and all the animals were cared for before the sun set.

***

On the day she was born, the sun seemed to linger in the sky for the longest time, glowing like a jewel emitting the mildest heat. Momma Bell often told the story of that day because it was so unusual. Out of the fifteen children she birthed, she felt deep down in her soul, Mabel’s birth was special. Her intolerant temper made her feared by many, black and white. Her seamstress abilities were known county-wide. People would come from miles around to bring material for her tailoring touch. Rich white folks brought silk, satin, and even corduroy material to be cut. She made quilts, trousers, suits, dresses, tablecloths, coveralls, upholstery, socks, ear-muffed caps, shirts, and many more. Anything that could be sewn together with some thread and a needle, she could do it. Business had been booming for the Bells for a year now. Food was scarce in the county, and so was money. Grandpa Smith would be up at dusk till dawn filling orders. He wanted his kids to get a good education, and he never interfered with their schoolwork. Sometimes on weekends he would bring a boy at a time, never two, to help fill his orders, but the work was dangerous, and the beehives, wasp hives, mosquitoes, rattlesnakes, blue runners, and water moccasins were more dangerous during the summer months. On one occasion a blue runner stood up as tall as a man, wiggling furiously, heading straight for Sam. Grandpa Smith shot it just before it struck his son. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, he’d kill and skin the reptiles. Momma Smith would sew the skin into handbags, purses, wallets, and shoes to sell to rich white customers. They were her biggest sellers.

Thirty-two years later, the news reached Momma Bell—she saw it on the kitchen calendar—and Daddy Bell that they were going to be grandparents again. This was Mabel’s second child. When Momma Bell heard the news, something stirred inside her. The day the baby was born, before she was told, somehow she already knew it. When she gazed upon the baby’s face for the first time, she could hear her soul say, My child. She taught the child everything she knew. The child would speak to her so clearly and forthrightly. His ability to understand was advanced and uncanny. Everything she told him, she didn’t have to tell him twice. She taught him how to sew, to sharpen a knife, to cook, to plant food, to clean the house, and to be just plain polite. She found comfort many times just reminiscing about the boy. A knock at the door snapped her daydream. The kids were returning home from school.

***

Before Hannah went by to pick up her red satin dress for the big ball on Saturday night, she dropped by the gray-line district. The district housed the black mistresses of the rich white men who lived in the county. Black men were not allowed in this part of town, and many were lynched if they were caught on the premises. Hannah knew her husband spent a lot of time there, sometimes days. She wanted to know who Caroline was because her husband would often mention the name in his sleep, and she wanted to see what Caroline had that she didn’t have. When she saw Caroline, her anger was intensified by the woman’s unattractiveness. How could he do this to me? But Hannah looked into Caroline’s innocent and mourning eyes and swore she would kill her if she didn’t leave town. Those were Hannah’s last words and thoughts before she left.

You black nigga bitch, I asked for a size seven, not eight! screamed the customer.

The words hit Momma Bell like a Joe Louis punch to the gut. I’m sorry, Ms. Hannah; I’ll fix it right away.

I drove fifty miles for this, said the customer. I’ll fix your black nigga ass. The blade flashed in the firelight, and with the flick of the wrist, blood streamed from Momma Bell’s right shoulder. Another blow left her right hand with two fingers less.

Momma Bell stumbled backward in shock. You white trash! In pure reaction, she ran into the bedroom and emerged with a 12-guage shotgun in her left hand. She fired once, twice. The woman’s face was unrecognizable as large portions of her brain were plastered against the living room wall. The gunshot brought the entire brood of siblings toward the ear-shattering sound. Poppa Bell heard the gunshots in the distance as he ambled back through the field with his quarry from the day’s work on his back.

What you done, Momma?

It was self-defense. She moaned. Where is my fingers?

Poppa Bell’s eyes searched through the now dried and thickened blood and spotted the fingers. Get some ice, right ’way!

When the sheriff showed up at the house, he took Momma Bell straight to jail without asking or answering any questions. Momma Bell had not only shot and killed a white woman, but she also shot and killed a rich woman. Nothing else mattered; she was white and rich. There was a time when the whites would have dragged her out for a lynching, but the skills the Bells offered to the community were well-known to the masses. After the shooting, the whites bled them dry. The fifty thousand dollars they saved in a cache under the floorboards and the two acres of land they owned were in jeopardy now. The girls had to become women, and the boys, men. Poppa Bell was in and out of court until he lost everything they had. They eventually had a jury trial for Momma Bell, where she was convicted of second-degree murder. She died in prison. Poppa Bell moved in with his brother. The boys started preaching for a living. The girls got married. Momma Bell’s name became posthumously legendary by saying she was the meanest woman that ever lived.

Chapter 2

Thirty-two years later, Mabel Lee Bell’s water broke at 6:00 a.m. on January 1, 1969, after a rough night. At 9:00 am, Christopher Leon Bell was born at Cook County Hospital. It was a natural birth to a relatively healthy baby except for asthma and a hernia. Shortly afterward, the hernia was successfully removed, and Mabel brought the baby home. Christopher was a precocious child. He wouldn’t eat or cry much. Mabel would often take Chris to the hospital to check out his unusual symptoms. Each time, the doctor claimed everything was normal physically and mentally. Chris began walking at just five months old. He was completing full sentences at a year old. The tiny brown building in Harvey, Illinois, was situated in the middle of a ghetto. Chris and his brown-skinned sister, Tanya, shared a mattress in the living room area to sleep on. By the time he was a year old, he was holding conversations with adults. Mamma, how old are you? asked Chris.

Why do you ask so many questions for a one year old? his mother replied.

I’m one. How much older are you than me?

His mother was shocked but decided to answer. Thirty-two.

My name is Christopher Leon Bell. What is your name? Then he began to spell his name. He had already begun to recite his alphabets two months ago.

Mabel Lee Bell, she answered. Mabel was pleased. The children’s books she ordered from Funk & Wagnall’s must be responsible. Of course, Chris’s inquisitiveness was not normal at this age, and that left Mabel wondering. Barely earning a high school education herself, she wanted her black child to have better. Mabel was rooted in the church. She grew up with fourteen other siblings. The oldest two boys became preachers. Four days out of the week, they would load up in cars and vans to travel from Markham to the West Side of Chicago to attend church services on Polaski and Pope, in the ghetto where Chris used to live four years ago. There were rats and roaches everywhere.

Living on welfare was unacceptable to Mabel. Many of her friends suggested, Why go to work when you can lie on your ass and get the same money? But Mabel came from a hardworking family of sharecroppers and hustlers who owned their own land, and her pride bristled. So she hired babysitters to care for her two children while she worked. The four years living in the ghetto environment taught Chris how to look out for himself and the people he loved. Shirley was a dark-skinned woman with huge breasts. Mabel trusted Shirley, but Shirley was impatient and uneducated. She was babysitting for the money. Chris, you and your sister sit down in front of the TV and don’t turn your heads, Shirley said with a scowl. Chris and Tanya were intensely intimidated by her, so they sat and did exactly what she said. Chris hated the way she treated him and his sister. One day they went over to a friend’s house. Other children were playing on a newly purchased swing set. Let the kids go swing, Shirley, a man said.

No, they’ll get shit all over those swings.

The man overruled her. Go ahead, kids, and play.

When they got back to Shirley’s house, she whipped Chris and Tanya, screaming, When I tell you do somethin’, yo’ better do as I say. Afraid to tell his mother how Shirley treated them, he had to do something to get her back and to relieve the pressure. Chris’s family lived above Shirley in a two-apartment flat. Shirley cherished a family heirloom made of crystal, noticed Chris. One day Little Chris was riding his big-wheel tricycle, and he witnessed a gang of Vice Lords hectoring two Disciples who got caught out of their territory. They picked the two Disciples up over their heads and began butting their heads together like billy goats, cheering and hollering loud.

Mabel screamed from the front porch, Put those boys down!

Somebody screamed from the crowd of Vice Lords. If you don’t shut up, you’re gonna be next.

The ghetto was full of gangs, thieves, and robbers, and even at his age, Chris knew who they were. He walked up to the thugs and said, You wanna take some money and expensive crystal to go sell? There was never any money, but the crystal was real.

How do you know where it is little nigga? one of thugs asked.

I saw it with my own eyes, said the child.

One night Shirley was screaming at the top of her lungs after returning home from a business trip. They got it, they got it! The thugs broke in while they were gone and took the crystal and ransacked the apartment, looking for the money. Chris heard the screaming from upstairs and went downstairs to check the apartment and see. The next day, while riding his bike past Shirley, he sang mockingly, I shot the sheriff, but I didn’t shoot the deputy. After the singing, Shirley said out loud that the child had something to do with it. But her boyfriend shrugged it off as impossible and told her to forget it. After Shirley’s precious crystal was gone, she was easier on Chris and Tanya because she felt this strange and peculiar power oozing from that child.

Chapter 3

Chris and Tanya were preparing to go to school after the summer break. Chris would be entering the first grade. On the first day of school, the walk to Prairie Hills Elementary was interrupted by Walter Burkes, a tall black kid with a brace on his leg. He was taller and bigger than Chris, and he was Chris’s biggest nemesis for what he thought was a long time.

Hey, little nigga, where the fuck you goin’? Walter was a year older than Chris, but it seemed like he was much older.

Chris was scared. It’s our first day of school, he muttered.

Give me your lunch money, nigga.

I don’t have none, he replied, voice shaking.

Walter slapped Chris upside his head. You lying.

Leave him alone! cried Tanya.

Walter grabbed Chris and pushed him to the ground and ripped through his pockets, lifting a five-dollar bill.

Give me my money! hollered Chris, but Walter socked him in the jaw and limped away.

This behavior continued on day after day for a long time. George, Chris’s stepfather, tried time and again to stop the bullying and harassment of his stepson, but to no avail.

You see, living in the ghetto will forever be the survival of the fittest. The same rules that apply to other parts of society do not apply in a real ghetto. Many of us have a misconception of what a ghetto really is. A ghetto or concrete jungle is a state of mind to begin with. The people seem to be stuck in a bygone era that was perpetuated by forces so subtle and deeply ingrained that they couldn’t be recognized. Reverse anachronism in an otherwise intelligent people is seemingly present, with an implacable loath of ignorance, from centuries gone past. The smell of old urine fumes from the soil and walls elevates with disease and sickness. The smell of decades old blood hovers in the air, and black souls from long ago cry out from the ground for change. The air is thick with fear and despair. The inhabitants have their own language, which is called Ebonics. This language rose in the South, which is the seat of the Ebonics dialect. Language is learned by listening without explanation. Some of the smartest teachers in the ghetto fail to scientifically explain the use of language, thereby giving growth and fuel to Ebonics. There is no technical or techno-American education. Television, radio, newspapers, magazines, and the Bible are their primary source of information. Liquor and drugs are an adopted pastime. There is no significant amount of money circulating through the system, and it does not stay in the community more than one and a half times. Sickness and death are prevalent. As a result of these conditions, violence and bloodshed are a common occurrence in the ghetto. In short, the ghetto lives and operates by its own set of rules. Law enforcement is reluctant to dwell in the ghetto for any predetermined amount of time. Chris Bell was born into this way of life. The boy genius had to find a way to stay alive.

Mabel and dark-skinned George met at a family gathering. Six months later they were married. They decided to enroll Chris into a Catholic school called St. Gerard. Since Mabel had grown deep roots in the church, they thought Catholic school would better serve their son. Chris himself felt saturated with the church experience. Four days in church from afternoon until bedtime pushed Chris to the edge.

St. Gerard was good and bad for Chris. All day prayer and the Hail Marys after the Pledge of Allegiance wore his patience thin. Only a few blacks were in attendance, but the practical education was the best money could buy. Discipline was the one thing to rid the young boy of what he thought was a boring existence.

Mr. Leotine, a caucasian social studies teacher, spent several years in the military. Clean cut and smartly dressed, Mr. Leotine was the ultimate disciplinarian. He introduced Chris to Aesop and Machiavelli because he thought he was ready. He saw that the child loved the books, and he was pleased. One day Chris was playing around and kicked a fellow student in the ass. Mr. Leotine observed the incident and instituted his strict policies. He made Chris sit for two weeks in the back of the class with his chair turned toward the wall.

Chris, are you ready to join the class? asked Mr. Leotine.

With a smile, Chris replied, Yes.

After that Chris worked hard, receiving the first A he ever got in school. Chris was no dummy. Whenever he applied himself, good grades resulted. But in the back of his mind, he was still bored and tired of Catholic school, so he devised a plan to get kicked out. One Monday some classmates gave a presentation and described their weekend events. After a few classmates spoke, he made his decision to attack Chuck Salamander, whom he considered a wimp. He proceeded to beat up Chuck Salamander in front of Mrs. Lee. Blood flew and stained everywhere after he finished attacking him. His plan worked well—he was kicked out. Before he left the premises, he slapped high fives to several classmates, including Mrs. Lee. Back in public school now, he had to deal with Walter Burkes.

Chapter 4

Walter Burkes continued to bully and harass little Chris. Three times a week he was slapped around, kicked, and stomped; and now he was the wimp. Out of the oven and into the fire suffered Chris. Even worse now because Walter had his knee brace removed and he could run with the wind. One day Chris and some friends caught Walter alone in the park behind his house. They surprised him and beat him with sticks and belts, but this only aggravated the situation, for Walter only chased and beat him more vigorously. Unwittingly his prayers were about to be answered.

GGWB was a godsend to Chris. Rodney, an older boy, wanted to bring young brothers together in a unified effort to promote better physical conditioning and self-protection. Chris heard of the program through an associate. In order to join the group there was an initiation of walking a gauntlet line. He had to walk through current members lined up on both sides, kicking and throwing punches at the would-be member. The successful recruit would remain standing through thirty members deep to the end. On his first attempt, Chris barely made it through. When he got to the end, he fell prostrate, barely alive. That summer, every day he learned the kicks, punches, and moves it took to be competitive. He worked hard with Leonardo and Scorpio and became the best fighter in the group.

Leonardo was a dark-skinned boy of ten with tremendous upper-body strength. Scorpio was a light-skinned boy of eleven with lightning-quick feet. With the passion of a ninja warrior, Leonardo performed jujitsu grabs and knew all the pressure points in the body. Scorpio knew all the kicks, and his feet were as quick as greased lightning. At nine, determined to protect himself and his sister, Chris trained hard every day to be as good as he could, to be the best. Eventually, everybody knew him as the best fighter in the gang of Good Guys Wear Black. His reputation spread quickly. He became one of the most feared and revered fighters in all of Chicago.

In gangland there is not much difference from the Wild Wild West. Everybody is seeking out the best way to gain a reputation. More often than not, they called little Chris out. Many times he had fights with gang members, and each time, Leonardo had to stop Chris from doing serious harm to his opponent. One day in training, they formed a 360-degree circle, and whoever was called upon had to fight. The way they organized this event, the leader would cry Cat stand! along with two or more fighters—oftentimes one against two or more. The two or more fighters would assume their karate stance. Chris and the most feared fighter assumed their stances. Chris attacked first. His opponent lay on his back, writhing in pain. From then on, nobody in the group challenged Chris again. Now there were only an esoteric few in Chicago large with the courage to challenge Chris Bell.

Chapter 5

Mabel Bell, Chris’s mother, worked as a hairdresser. Her magical hands and sense for color earned her an indisputable reputation as the best hairdresser in the Midwest. Her skills were unparalleled, with a gorgeous personality to boot. Every chance she got was spent with her children earnestly attempting to pass on her skills.

Chris, she said with intolerance, that color is too light for her eye color.

As Chris gazed at the photo, he asked, "What color are her eyes?

They’re azure blue. Look for the deepest contrast possible, said Mabel.

Chris was not licensed for cosmetology, of course. He was too young, but the Jewish women trusted him and his mother to make them look their best. So Chris would often mix the dyes, sometimes several nights before an appointment, and practice on a test wig placed on a Styrofoam head.

Chris sat and watched his mother apply the dye he had mixed the night before. The patron was the wife of a filthy rich Jew. In the shop high atop a downtown Chicago hotel, Waldorf Astoria, Chris’s mom had six appointments that night. After each appointment, Mabel was highly praised for her artistry. Oh, darling, you are the best hairdresser in the world. Here is a hundred-dollar tip, my dear, said a patron named Barbara. She looked over at Chris. Here’s five hundred for your school clothes. Don’t be cheap, buy the best.

Thank you, Barbara, he said, smiling. I will.

Shortly after Mabel finished with all six patrons that night, they were invited to dinner and an auction. Although Mabel couldn’t afford any jewelry, she admired the surroundings. The expensive Rembrandts and da Vincis that hung on the walls looked like they were hanging there for centuries. Magnificent-looking ladies sat at black-satin-covered seats with matching tablecloths. Chris always thought the color black was chosen purposely. The illustrious diamonds the women wore provided a stark contrast to the black colors, and the room lit up brilliantly. When the perfectly lit room hit the diamonds at the perfect angle, Chris would have to look askance. There were ubiquitous explosions of light from one end of the room to the other, which produced the full spectrum of primary colors. The colors were heavenly.

Do I hear one hundred thousand? he said in his very sprightly auctioneer’s voice. Going once, going twice, sold to the lovely lady in red.

The lovely lady in red was one of Mabel’s best clients, and she adored Chris. Her husband was the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Of all the men participating in the production of steel, including the entire brood of Carnegie, Rockefeller, and Du Pont, Mr. Weinstein held the biggest part of the steel business and by far was the richest man. He owned real estate in the Hamptons. The fleet of planes he maintained numbered to over thirty, which he constantly bought and sold; he always had on hand a few helicopters, Cessnas, and Lear jets. He was out of town for several months at a time on business. He was in town now as he delivered a suppliant kiss on his wife’s ruby-red lips, obviously for her successful bid. Barbara liked her life. The money made her happy. She graciously spent her money with a perfunctory style and philanthropy that seemed to inculcate self-esteem upon others.

Mr. Weinstein had elegant high cheekbones, a hawk-like nose, fleshy lips, and a beautiful smile. His coal-black eyes were hypnotizing, and his coal-black hair showed a tincture of gray about the temples and was a complement to his ivory skin. His Rolex watch was diamond studded around the face and was considered one of the most expensive timepieces in the world. All his clothes were tailor-made and monogrammed, complete with hat and cane. No one knew where he got his footwear, but if you look closely enough, you could see a reflection of yourself in his spit shine shoes. He was an alumnus of Harvard and belonged to all their secret societies and fraternities. For a decade running, he was voted by Forbes magazine as the most influential man in the world. Through his many diplomatic missions around the world, he gained international diplomatic immunity with impunity.

Hi, little Chris, said Mr. Weinstein. How’s school coming along?

I gotta A in social studies.

That’s great, said he but I’d rather see an A in English. Edward Bulwer-Lytton said, ‘Beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword.’

It’s hard, but I’ll try my best.

Here’s something to get you started. He handed Chris a five-hundred-dollar bill.

Thank you.

Barbara Weinstein smiled and said, Chris, you’re going to be a big man someday.

I’m a big man now, I’m rich!

You make money, little one. Don’t let money make you, said Mr. Weinstein.

Whenever Chris was around these rich people, he felt like a million dollars. There wasn’t anything he’d rather do than make money. The ghetto surely wasn’t the place to do it. He thought about the next day. He thought about Walter Burkes. If he was going to do anything in life, he had to get past Walter Burkes. Although he was feared by many, he was still afraid of Walter Burkes.

Chapter 6

On the South Side of Chicago, the party was going strong, and Chris was having a good time.

Walter Burkes stepped in. Let’s party! he shouted.

Chris cringed but kept dancing. After a few records, somebody screamed, Folks in the house!

Folks are the Black Disciple Nation, a Chicago street gang. The party now was fraught with tension.

Walter Burkes said in a loud voice, Fuck the folks.

That’s when the fighting started. There were also Vice Lords present. There was no real animosity between the gangs because nobody hurt anybody yet, but they were trying to establish more territory.

Walter Burkes and Maurice Rice didn’t fight that night, but a Vice Lord by the name of Earl Sellers got beat up by the Disciples. Maurice and Walter were neutral. Chris just hung around these guys; he wasn’t in a street gang, neutral also. In the ghetto, you were on one side or the other or received no protection. Chris knew that he needed protection, so he hung around his protectors. But in the back of his mind, he knew, one day he would have to make a choice because of where he lived geographically.

More and more gangsters were getting out of prison. The Good Time law had been in effect for three months. For every day you spent in jail, a day was allotted, which meant jail time became shorter and hard-core gang members were being released by the thousands. Unknown to Chris, he had to make decisions quickly and decisively.

Within a couple of months, gang members were ubiquitous and undisciplined. They were at intersections, charging five dollars to walk across the street. They were taking leather jackets and snatching earrings from earlobes. They were harassing nonmembers by the hundreds. The whole South Side of Chicago began to feel the siege, including Chris.

George, Chris’s stepfather, bought a John Deere lawnmower that featured a conversion system from mower to snow plow. After school and on the weekends, Chris solicited for a fee neighborhood business in the fall and winter for snow plowing and the spring and summer for lawn service. His profits topped over a thousand dollars per month. The gang activity throughout the city was a harbinger for change. Fiscal challenges posed no problem and created no deficiencies, but the gang violence ramped up to dismal heights. By now the gun play began reaping more and more casualties, for the collateral damage began reaching into the sacred realm of motherhood.

This shit has gotta stop, Tanya, before they shoot up the whole town, said Chris.

You’re only one man, I wouldn’t get involved.

If I don’t get involved, you could be next or momma.

It’s bad, I know, but you could be next.

I gotta plan, the guys need leadership.

You’re only thirteen years old; you better take your ass to school.

Before Chris shut out the light for bed, he said, Watch me!

Chapter 7

The summer heat in Chicago felt like a cauldron. A new epidemic was about to hit the streets in the form of rock cocaine, also known as crack. It assumed that name because when fire hit the rock, it made a crackling sound. The gangs were measuring off their territory with violence. The Disciples and the Vice Lords were the two main gangs in Chicago, and all others were called street corner hustlers. The street corners would eventually become vending areas and quick stops, where more money in a day would exchange hands than the county’s entire shopping and consumption industry.

Chris Bell made his initiation vows; he said and explained the Insane Vice Lord’s initiation vows word for word and explained what happened that night and was given a physical act to carry out to solidify his words. He looked for Walter Burkes for two days before he spotted him. As soon as Walter Burkes saw Chris, he started running toward him to kick his ass as he had done many times before. With newfound courage, Chris ran toward him, and they met in the street. With blinding speed, he wielded the sharp knife, striking Walter Burkes across the chest just less than an inch from his heart. Blood squirted in every direction as if an artery ruptured, but it wasn’t; it must have been from physical exertion. Walter remained standing, but the shock sent the fear of death through his body. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him for help. Pleased, Chris completed two deeds for the price of one: his initiation into the Vice Lords and the longtime plaguing menace of Walter Burkes.

All fears subdued, Chris sat on top of the world. He decided to go visit Walter in the hospital. There was nothing and nobody to ever fear again. Fighting skills intact and reading Aesop and Machiavelli were enough to make him a king. He vowed to himself: I’ll be the richest man in the world one day. Thirteen years old being committed to gang life instead of going to college would be a disastrous decision for most black children, but after all, making money was the primary incentive. Pushing illegal drugs through the system meant money. At this time, speed and marijuana were in demand. Chris’s gang mailed amphetamines from the Midwest to Mexico, but he received his supply through a local magazine. There was an endless supply through mail order, and he distributed his supply to several cities in the Midwest and his largest amounts to Mexico. The Mexican connection was a cartel. Orders to Mexico consisted at least a pound per order. Smaller orders were for friends and word of mouth throughout the Midwest and eastern part of the country. Marijuana was sold by the pound and key on a consistent basis. Money began to flow in regularly from the pill business. Chris’s snowplow and gardening business was still in operation but was beginning to be too burdensome.

Through Maurice Blackman, who helped him in the pill business, Chris met some prostitutes. At first he didn’t pimp, but he sold them retagged autos for a decent profit for sex and money. His experience with the prostitutes strengthened his character because he couldn’t be hurt by a female. Regular high school girls were uninformed and stupid compared to these professionals. He respected girls, but it was no trick they could pull on him. No game that could be played on him. If he ever got married, the woman would have to be a star. He didn’t slap girls around to get the best out of them, because he understood their needs, a good balance of love and money. He not only saw the humanity in women but also saw the commodity in them. To build a stable of world-class prostitutes was hard, but easy enough; it took patience and understanding—well-spent time. One by one he picked his girls without their knowledge, except one.

Pinky had short red hair, a pretty white face, ruby-red lips, and surprising blue eyes. She stood six feet tall barefoot. Her engaging smile was like a rictus embedded in a painting. Her slender buttocks presented very few curves and fit the ghetto axiom ass like an ironing board. But her personality and pleasure-giving abilities far outweighed having a big ass.

How would you like to be a millionaire? asked Chris.

Are you crazy? she said. I could never make that kind of money being a prostitute. She was smart.

How did you know what I was thinking? asked Chris, although he already knew the answer.

I can’t even read, write, or tell the timetables, she replied. What the fuck else could you have meant?

I’ll pay you a million dollars a year, if you do what I say.

You’re only thirteen years old, she said with conviction. You can’t protect me.

Don’t worry, the Vice Lords will protect you, besides the clients you’ll have, you won’t need no protection, said Chris with the confidence of a child.

Chris was in the organizing stages of his plan, his dream. To be the richest man in the world took discipline, execution, and leadership. So he focused on his youth; somehow, it had to be a plus among many minuses. Love is an asset, but fear will have to tame the wildest men, the most vicious men in the world. The world, he thought, that’s a big place. Seven continents on earth, if I—

Chris, I wanna make a million dollars, she interrupted.

Still in a dreamlike state of mind, Chris said softly, You will.

Between a rock and a hard place stood this young boy of indubitable intelligence, while the Vice Lords warred among themselves, not to mention the Disciples, their rival gang, who lived and breathed to kill or be killed by this implacable hatred driven by territory alone. So Chris had to sleep with one eye open and walk on eggshells during the day. At least we could have peace among ourselves and unify ourselves to do business. To respect each other should come from the top. Nobody expected reverence to come from the bottom.

Chapter 8

The meeting was at the Forte, an old abandoned movie theater and dance hall on the South Side of Chicago. The wooden floor creaked at its weakest points when sole met wood that strained against the weight of a human body. The spiral staircase wound around to connect three floors. The Vice Lords always assembled on the top floor to have the advantage, in case they were raided, for quick access to the roof.

This shit is crazy! bellowed Chris.

I need my money, said a Vice Lord. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do all day. These jobs out there ain’t shit.

Not being vexed by their attitudes, Chris said, I’ll give you a job.

How in the fuck can you do that? a rough voice split the thick air.

I need collectors, runners, salesmen, protectors, and cookers, etc., all hell, we’ll make it up as we go along. All I know is that all this fighting amongst ourselves is futile, and the end result is jail or death, said Chris, as if he were a boss.

You ain’t shit, little nigga, said a Vice Lord with muscles the size of a Mr. Universe. You don’t run shit up in here.

Chris expected opposition; he had to fight for respect. Shut up, you crazy nigga! It’s people like you who gives this gang a bad name and— shouted Chris; he was angry.

Before he could finish his sentence, the muscular Vice Lord slung back his chair and jumped over the table, bearing down on the underweight Chris, and with lightning speed, Chris sprang to his feet and leaped five feet in the air and threw a roundhouse kick that knocked the muscle-bound Vice Lord out cold. The fifty members who were there sat traumatized for a long moment.

He’s dead, said a voice from the crowd.

Low murmuring started to fill the room as the group’s shock wore off.

Do anybody else want some? screamed Chris. I’ll take all you niggas.

They just saw the toughest guy they knew get knocked clean out by a skinny chump. King Phillips had to be five years older and weigh a hundred pounds more than this kid. All the Vice Lords in the room were packing, but this happened so fast it had more truth in it than any lie they ever heard. They were hesitant, but one guy was too stupid to be scared. You knocked out my best friend, my nigga. Now I’m gonna kick your ass, a voice filled the room from within the crowd. An aisle appeared like the parting of the Red Sea, but only these were sweaty and sticky human bodies, some breathing hard with excitement. A six-foot man, black as Kiwi shoe polish, strolled down the aisle, looking menacing and strong just because of his color. He didn’t have a penchant of the muscles of the other guy, but he had this stare in his eyes that could move mountains.

You just knocked out a bold soldier. You think you could do the same to me.

Chris swallowed hard. I got no beef with you.

You kicked my friend. You might as well have kicked me.

He lunged forward with a powerful thrust. Chris sidestepped the rush, and he grabbed nothing but air. Being more careful this time, he started hopping and bouncing around like a prizefighter with his dukes carried low. He lashed out a straight left jab that produced wind as his fist breezed by Chris’s face. Chris’s reflexes were so quick a feline couldn’t touch him. He followed with another left jab, obviously a skilled boxer; again Chris’s upper-body movement eluded the blow. His black-faced aggressor threw jab after jab and didn’t release a right cross because he didn’t see an opening. The rest of the crowd just watched in anticipation, and they didn’t say a word. By this time Chris timed his assailant’s every move. Before he unleashed another jab, Chris snapped a front kick that broke his nose. Blood splattered in all directions. The man didn’t fall. Out of anger, he bull-rushed Chris. Mistake. A roundhouse kick knocked him out cold. They’d seen enough. From that day on, Chris earned the respect to build an empire.

The two bodies lay sprawled out on the wooden floor, bloody and motionless. Nobody touched them. Except for the heaving of their chest muscles, they could have passed for dead. The whole group circled around Chris, staring, probing, thinking what to do.

A voice broke the silence. A light-skinned brother with a Jheri curl said, Now what were you sayin’?

Unknown to Chris, the brother was a Prince. Chris knew what he wanted to do, but he knew none of the upper echelons. A prince was next to the leader of the entire Vice Lord gang. This was a public forum, so Chris started talking.

All this fighting amongst ourselves gotta stop. We gone eventually stab and shoot each other up or we gone organize and make some money. A fool could see takin’ leather coats, snatchin’ earrings, carjackin’ and all of that other shit we do is self-destructive. I’ve got a plan to use all of our resources in the best place.

How can a little nigga like you, hell, only thirteen years old, if that, got some fuckin’ plan?

How can you help, if I told you?

My name is Little Madi. I’m a Prince in this, motherfucka. I talk to the Old Man e’ry week.

Then let’s go talk to this dude.

Don’t waste my time, little nigga. You might be able to kick a face, but try ’n’ kick a bullet.

Chris knew that that was the ghetto way. Act tough to keep niggas off you. Don’t worry; he’ll be glad I came.

The Old Man lived in a security apartment building on the South Side. All the hair on his body was white, and underneath his manicured beard his skin was coal black, so black you could see a cool-blue tint in the pigment of his skin—scary and majestic simultaneously. But he looked strong and bright eyed. The white of his hair was the same color as the white of his eyes and teeth. His beard had to be at least three feet long. His fingernails were manicured. As his eyes roamed about the room, the room reminded Chris of a library. On the four walls were only bookcases full of books neatly systemized and in order of curriculum, hemisphere, and country, all labeled in alphabetical order. Chris stopped counting at one hundred, and he was only fractionally finished. He estimated two thousand books, and that did not include the newspapers, periodicals, magazines, and miscellaneous paraphernalia stacked four feet high on tables and in corners of the room. The room was a monument of a paper chase. Little Madi spoke first, setting up the meeting. This is the member you wanted to see. When the Old Man spoke, his voice sounded like many rivers raging in the distance. His wisdom sounded like faraway places like somewhere in a dream. Who are you, little brother?

My name is Chris, he said. I joined the Vice Lords a month ago.

I mean, who are you really?

I’m Chris Leon Bell from Markham.

Our people don’t know who they really are, he said smoothly. Ever since we were brought here from Africa and everywhere else, we were given slave names by our masters. Somewhere in the transition, we lost the knowledge of our heritage, our true heritage. Long ago we were taught by our elders. They could only teach us what they knew. He took a sip from a cup and continued, Do you know anything about ancient history?

No, can I have something to drink?

The Old Man gestured to Little Madi. He left the room and returned with a silver tray with a variety of refreshments. Chris chose Kool-Aid.

You talkin’ ’bout Africa? asked Chris.

"There was a civilization before Africa in northwestern Africa where the pyramids were built called Kemet."

I don’t know.

Precisely, many of us don’t know. The old saying is true. Knowledge is power.

My power comes from my feet and hands and making money.

"I expected you to say that. Your feet and hands are little power, the ultimate power is in your mind."

What do you mean?

Understanding. "If you know why, then you have the ultimate power."

The Old Man’s eyes seemed to come ablaze like a motor had started up inside of him. "If you knew the motives of a person, you could control their decisions. Love is a powerful emotion. In fact, it is one of the seven most powerful emotions in the world."

What are the other six?

The Old Man began to admire the boy just from his enthusiasm alone. I’m glad you asked that question, said he. Asking good questions is the key to understanding. If people are willing to answer good questions without hesitation, they can be trusted. If they don’t know the answer, they’ll say I don’t know, even implicitly. If they in any way get defensive, they’re hiding something. And what you don’t know can hurt you. The Old Man took another sip from his cup. Sex, romance, enthusiasm, desire, faith, and hope. The Old Man’s eyes by now were blazing at the pupils. These seven emotions are what drive people.

Is it that simple?

Simplicity is the key to success. The Old Man let loose a broad smile. Planting seeds are simple. The sequoia is complex. How do they get so big?

What’s a sequoia?

It’s a tree. It grows in Northern California. If you ever get a chance, you should visit them. I believe that you want to grow a sequoia.

If it’s so simple, why isn’t everybody doing it?

Because they don’t understand and they lack the courage.

Will you help me grow my sequoia?

Do you have the seeds?

I have the Vice Lords.

Ah, you understand. I will help you grow your sequoia. Your ancestors built the pyramids, the greatest structures on earth. They have stood for over six thousand years. Nobody can figure out how they did it, said Old Man Madi. How do you think they did it?

Seeds, understanding, motivation, and courage, said Chris, following the Old Man’s logic.

Do you think they had help?

They had to have help, mused Chris. But I don’t know who.

As long as you know they needed help, the who can come later. My only requirement is that you consult with me first. I may not have all the answers, but somebody does, said he.

The Old Man leaned back in his chair and cupped his hands at the nape of his neck and made two triangles with his outstretched elbows. "There’s power in understanding the pyramids. Study and learn all you can about them, and great understanding will follow. The Old Man took another sip from the cup. Do you read any books?"

"I like Aesop’s Fables and The Prince."

"May I suggest War and Peace and Think and Grow Rich and The Art of War. These books contain the knowledge you will need. Nobody can teach courage. You’re born with that. You knocked out two of the baddest and most feared Vice Lords in Chicago. Your courage earned you this visit. Do you understand faith?"

Faith in God, replied Chris.

The Holy Bible and the Quran are the two most popular books on faith published in the world. The Old Man had a serious look in his eyes now. His focus was so intense that he did not blink once. The Holy Bible, based on Jesus Christ, is the most purchased book in history, but the least understood. Because from Abraham to John, there is not one event in the Bible that can be verified as ever taken place on this earth. One man started the Muslim religion, the prophet Muhammad. And yet, millions of people have been murdered in the name of religion.

Is there a God?

Yes.

Who is he?

Good question, my little brother, said the Old Man. God is a spirit. You can’t see God and know He is God. You can feel God better than you can see Him, unless you get to know Him. And to know Him, you must always be seeking Him every moment of the day, because He flashes in and out so quickly. I believe God was in you when you fought those two Vice Lords. The Old Man’s big bright eyes turned into slithers burning like lasers right through Chris. The principles of the Bible and the Quran will forever be real, but the characters and the timing are questionable.

You mean when and to whom, said Chris.

Exactly!

You can be helped by God and don’t even know it.

Yes.

I believe we take God’s help for granted. And some people think they are gods. Do you think you’re God? asked Chris.

There’s only one beginning God, said the Old Man. But a man could be deified as a god. It’s like God chooses you to do a job for Him. But a man can’t get a big head or become overconfident, then the deity can be taken away.

Have you been deified?

Yes.

So I’m talking to and receiving advice from a god.

Bingo.

Chris couldn’t believe his ears. He grew up in the church. He had relatives who were preachers. He went to a Catholic school. He learned that Jesus Christ was God in the flesh and Mary was his mother. Could he have been taught a lie? Is Jesus Christ God? the boy asked.

The Old Man admired Chris’s ability, once he understood, to ask good questions. The Old Man thought deeply and said to himself, Life-changing question—a positive or negative impact. "The original Holy Trinity was not the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; instead it was Asar, Aset, and Heru, the Black Madonna. The Holy Ghost was a woman. That’s why you must respect a woman. In fact, Tahuti, one of your ancestors said, ‘Heaven is between the legs of a black woman.’ Now let’s talk about who you are. One of the most precious lessons you’ll ever learn, and you probably won’t learn it anywhere else on earth, except right now, from me. You are chosen by God. Chosen blood runs through your veins. You have in your brain a pineal gland. This gland produces melanin, and from this melatonin and serotonin is produced, which darkens your skin. These three hormones allow you to be superior in many ways. If you look up pineal in the dictionary, it only says pine cone-shaped. They keep this information away from the very people who can benefit from it. The darker the skin is, the more developed the pineal gland. This gland is activated by light. There is no purer light than the sun. When you have the right knowledge, your mind is free, not imprisoned. There are only a handful of black people with this knowledge. Half of the black race wouldn’t believe a word of this. Don’t waste your time trying to convince anybody with this knowledge. Release your own mind from captivity; feel good about yourself and who you are, and move around the world knowing the truth."

White people don’t have a pineal gland?

They do, but it’s calcified and produces melanin in very low levels. You see, melanin and melatonin make your skin black—the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice—they have pale skin that can’t last long in the sun. The sun is your greatest inspiration. The Old Man continued, Have you ever seen black skin wrinkle or develop crow’s feet around the eyes?

No.

It pays to be more observant of the world, and everything will fit like a jigsaw puzzle. The Old Man took a big gulp from his cup. Don’t ever let anybody intimidate you because of your color. And try to learn all you can about this world and the people in it.

Little Madi listened to every word, but he never interrupted. He liked his position in the Nation, but the Old Man never talked like this before. This is amazing.

The Old Man didn’t seem winded or tired. Chris lost all sense of time. He didn’t know if it was day or night. It was as if he had entered some sort of time warp. So young and uninformed was he. But the Old Man knew he was chosen. Would you like something to eat, little brother? the Old Man asked.

Yes.

It was unusual to see someone waiting on a black man in person. That was only seen at the movies or maybe in a dream. This butler had a long gait, thinning gray hair with a receding hairline, fleshy lips, and an absentee smile. His clothes were dark, crisp, and laundered. His face looked as if it were carved out of stone. After he delivered the food, he stood and said, Would there be anything else, sir?

No, replied the Old Man.

The evening seemed to lumber by. The ease in which the Old Man spoke was in direct correlation to how real time felt to Chris. As important as time is, the stresses and strains of the day, the Old Man placidly flowed along. Marcus Garvey said, ‘A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.’ This statement is highly poetic in nature but profoundly important to understand. Simply, no roots no nourishment. The tree withers and dies. Our people are dying every day, and black people are killing black people. Nobody wants to go back to Africa, but we can bring Africa to us.

That explains why the nation is fighting the nation, Chris muttered. How can we bring Africa to us?

The same way it was taken, through images and pictures and words. He pondered rationally with deep thought. The Black Muslim movement of the seventies and Reverend King brought us close. We wanted justice and equality, but what were we going to do with it when we knew very little about our history and ourselves? The house Negro and the field Negro were worlds apart. The house Negro will accept the amenities of being such. The field Negro had no amenities at all. Thus, the separation is made. It all comes down to economics—money. You must understand, little brother. Money is power if used to gain power. If I spend a million dollars on houses, cars, and clothes, that’s position. If I spend a million dollars on a qualified education, knowledge of my enemies, and weapons, that’s power. Your enemies are house Negroes, organized crime, and the government.

The boy was stupefied. Nobody had ever talked to him like this before, and he was smart enough to know he wouldn’t be talked to like this again. How do I know the difference between a house Negro and a field Negro?

Blacks in high positions or with good jobs are questionable and ghetto blacks who are wannabes.

What is organized crime?

A system of illegal transactions.

"Why is the government my enemy?

"Control! The more control you obtain, the more power you can exercise. The government wants to control as much as they can. The right side of government is for government, and the left side of government is for the people. You should always be on the side of the people. When dealing with politics, you should always lean toward the left—the people. Wealthy families are discreet and invisible. Naturally, they want to maintain their wealth. They implement national policy. Forbes magazine has no idea who’s who. Your biggest problems will come from people you don’t even know, you have never seen, that have never been publicized. If they sick the government on you, your nightmares are real, unless you’ve got a plan. The government has three branches—legislative, judicial, executive. They create the law, interpret the law, and enforce the law. Law is a standard. There are those who are above the law and there are those who are below the law and there are those who follow the law. There are only a handful of people who are above the law. The majority follow the law. Those who are below the law without a plan are miserable."

What’s a house Negro? asked Chris.

"Who or what is a house Negro is of great concern to all of us. A house Negro is trained the American way, whether it’s in a university or in the big house. In the big house blacks are trained to serve whites. In universities blacks are trained to be productive citizens. Serving in the big house, blacks will do mostly anything to stay in that house, including telling all that is seen on the plantation, so trust is premium and division is imminent."

Why is organized crime on your list of enemies?

Organized crime is a business. It’s a below-the-law business or illegal operation because everything that has been not legalized yet, they do. In business, competitors war against competitors vying to capture the customer’s money or patronage. The Vice Lords are below-the-law operation. Any organized crime business in the world would be your enemy. The Old Man continued, The Vice Lords must own land and legitimate businesses purchased with illegitimate funds. The Old Man said what he wanted to say, and then he asked, What is your plan?

Chris paused as if his mind was blank, erased of everything he had ever learned. His plan seemed insignificant to all he heard, but he took a deep breath and said, Fliers, literature first, circulate the truth about the black man. Chris took a long pause, and then he said, Photographers, bugs, and information. Organize the Vice Lord soldiers into specialties to be trained by specialists—photographers, guns, surveillance, elite forces, ambassadors, pilots, salespeople, marketers, quality control, research, and development. He seemed to be in a trance as he spoke, talking in random reverie. He thought about the Final Call, a religious, Muslim-based newspaper that wrote about black people. He thought about Jet and Ebony magazine, a popular magazine that specifically writes about black people. The flow chart eased into his mind: People—Business—Money.

Can you write, little brother?

I can write a sentence.

You must hire good writers to circulate powerful literature. Something the average brother can understand. He continued, From the Constitution and its amendments, the Bill of Rights to every law written in this country is ambiguously written—hard to understand without interpretation. That’s why lawyers are revered. Hire a writer to explain and express your deepest thoughts and the thoughts and feelings of others. He paused and said, Hire a good psychologist.

Why do I need all that?

Little brother, you need a team, a team of the right and qualified professionals. It makes your organization stronger, like the sequoia. I know a conservative Vice Lord named Derek Jenkins. He has special training from the military. He’s a good man. Here’s his number. I told him about you. He can help in all you want to do. The Old Man stood to his feet, walked over, and put his arm around Chris’s right shoulder, and with a fatherly voice, he said, Don’t call, just come by whenever you need to or want to. I’m always here. You can count on one hand how many visitors I have in a year. Peace and blessings be with you.

Chapter 9

The next day Chris saw a brother selling the Final Call on a street corner near downtown. Who’s the writer of this newspaper? he asked.

I wrote the column on the Black Man in America in the current issue.

Will you write for me?

Write what? he asked. And who are you?

I’m a concerned citizen, he said. I’ll pay you. Chris whipped out a hundred-dollar bill, handing it to the man. Let’s go across the street to talk.

The café was well lit as sunlight streamed through the storefront window. The black leather booths were unusually comfortable for they were lifting apart at the seams. The floors had recently been mopped, and the smell of Pine-Sol filled the air. There were pictures hanging on