CHAPTER 10
IT COSTS TO BE THE BOSS
“If I lay here and do nothing, my fame
dies. If I rise and fight, it lives forever.”
— Achilles, The Iliad
In sixth grade, I read mythical stories about fame and glory. In The Odyssey, Achilles chose a short, glorious life over a long, forgettable one. He wanted to be remembered forever as the greatest warrior of the Trojan War— even if it meant dying young.
Now, as I stood on the stoop of my mother’s home, sunlight hitting my face, I wondered if today I’d die. I silently recited those words from The Iliad:
“Now I must go, to meet my fate head-on. Even if I die, I shall have won great glory.”
My hat tilted to the side, nappy hair exposed from under the side of it, I was heavier now—Rikers weight. Eight months of push-ups, potatoes, and plotting. In my waistband was my S&W 15-shot pistol, with two extra magazines tucked in my back pocket wrapped in a handkerchief. That means I had 45 bullets of sheer terror to unleash. I was a walking machine gun.
I stepped onto Newkirk Ave. First stop: Back Page. Two Veer men I didn’t recognize clocked me. My walk, my energy—they hesitated. I moved through like a ghost who’d come back to claim his name.
Faces once familiar now looked unfamiliar. But the ones who knew? They froze. I was back, and my presence spoke louder than any gunshot.
Andre, from the younger “Pay Hay” Veer crew, emerged. Our handshake was genuine, but the energy was tense. Veer didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t militant or dangerous like it used to be. I scoped the scene—the ones who posed a threat were easy to spot. My senses were sharp, hearing keen, and my palm itched with anticipation.
Some shook my hand—that meant loyalty. Others stayed silent—that meant war. “Jimmy Ace!” a voice called. It was Murphy Dread, Andre’s older brother, a respected Rasta elder. “Where you been? We need you out here!” His Trini accent pierced the air. “Let me talk to Otto. Don’t worry about these guys— dem look tough but dem soft, dred. Dem know ’bout Ace, the steppa.”
Then the crowd parted. OttoShine limped through with a cane, recovering from jumping out a third-story window after getting caught slipping on his weed gates. He broke his leg but survived.
“Hey Ace man, I didn’t know you came home,” Otto said, trying to read me. He scanned my waist like he could see through my shirt. “You look bigger—potato and bread, huh?” he joked.
But I could see it: he needed me. He cracked a smile, rolled up a fronto spliff and said, “I got a works for us to go on.” That was my cue to relax.
We went back to what we did best—robbery and extortion. We hit weed gates that weren’t under our alliance, and those we couldn’t rob, we extorted. We’d rob from one store and give it to another to sell.
At the same time, the 31st Street Posse became a nuisance. For sport, we exchanged gunfire with them. They couldn’t match our firepower. But they made a name for themselves, although short lived.
The crew had changed. Me and Otto were the last of the original Veer crew. Ironically, neither of us lived in Veer. The rest were Change, Richie, Gregory, Wesley, Wayne, and Juice—mostly Trinidadians now. The Jamaicans were gone. But when it came to robberies, the Trinis had it together. Precise. Minimal bloodshed.
Fulton Street became the hub—a flea market for every illicit drug, from Nostrand to Franklin. Storefronts, flatfoot hustlers—it was all there. Murphy Dread, with his father’s club on Fulton, was our inside man. He passed us tips like candy. With better intel, we needed more experience for bigger scores.
That’s where Crazy and Flayco came in—two Trinidadian natty dreads from Veer, never Untouchables, but repping the block like a badge. They were older, wiser, and experienced.
Crazy was One of the smartest guys I knew. He’d show up with a big Bible— and a revolver carved into the pages. “All of you need God in y’all life,” he’d say in his Trini accent before flipping open the holy book to reveal the steel inside. I wasn’t sure if it was blessed or blasphemy.
Flayco was different—serious, quiet, lethal. With them, I felt safe on any “works.”
Murphy Dread tipped us about a pool hall on Franklin. “200 pounds of weed,” he said. Three pistols and a shotgun guarded it.
“How many people?” I asked.
“Bout six of dem, dred.”
Otto: “you sure so much weed?”
“What da muddercunt you asking? Im tellin you Two hundred pounds, dred.” Murphy replied.
That was enough. We came, we saw, we took. What we took, we gave to weed gates to sell. Word spread fast: “Jimmy Ace and OttoShine! OttoShine and Jimmy Ace!” My name echoed louder than ever.
My name was bigger than me. I thought of Achilles and his road to glory for a short life, but I was 17 about to be 18 and wanted to live forever. But glory carries a price because my enemies piled up with every turn. Paranoia kicked in. Every corner felt like an ambush. I quit smoking weed—my thoughts were too wicked, too sharp. Even shadows looked suspicious.
Then the powder cocaine came. Murphy Dread started selling and using coke. He offered, I accepted. Soon I was sniffing every day, stuffing it in my Newport cigarettes. The high kept me up, wired, but empty. The paranoia got worse. Coke was expensive and was considered a rich man’s drug. That’s why Hollywood used it so plentiful. And just to follow what was happening out West, men and women were following Hollywood, be it on the screen or in real life.
We shifted base to Nostrand, between Glenwood and Farragut Road. It was a hustler’s gold mine. Andre and Wayne and others made good money “flatfoot” hustling. It was like bringing your herd to greener pastures. We even opened a storefront called Wonderland Vitamin Store with a Trini called Monster Mike. Sold skunk and Thai Stick to mostly white customers—which meant more heat from cops.
But I noticed a shift around 1981 in the behavior of older Rasta men that were disciplined and ital, they had traded their weed Chalice for a freebase pipe. Freebasing had preceded crack, no baking soda, just cocaine, alcohol liquid, a spoon, a hangar and a spoon—that would be the first time I saw the devil at work with drugs. These guys sold everything they had for the sake of freebasing.
Meanwhile, me and Otto kept robbing, instead of transitioning to buy weed low and sell high. The streets blamed us for every jukes in the immediate area and beyond —probably true. The weed selling business was a small community when it came to the West Indians.
One day we hit a Rasta for 20 pounds of skunk weed and some cash off of the backstreet behind Veer on 34th and Newkirk Avenue. The owner of Hummingbird Car Service had enough. They put a hit on us. A coot name Buckey, who I had an earlier run in with, and a newbee named Heavy—were tasked with the job.
Then came the house party. We were warned not to go—but I nor anyone in the crew listened. Me and OttoShine were making a rare appearance at the party to relax our nerves from all the robbing. Within ten minutes, Heavy pulled a carbine. I immediately saw the play—ambushed. When these things happen, it’s quick and sudden, everything is a flash. I ducked into a room, while being fired on, managed to draw my gun and inhaled gun smoke. In Otto’s exchange with his assailants, he got shot in the back chasing Heavy with the carbine. OttoShine managed to crawl under a car for safety and by the time the gunshots stopped, and me and the crew cautiously exited the house with guns in hand, the police were on the block. Otto was arrested, found under a car gripping his .45.
One by one and two by two we all met on Front Page, like the Warriors making it to Coney Island. “Where’s OttoShine?” I demanded. The last stragglers answered, “he’s been shot and arrested.” I saw RED…
Everything fell apart after that.
Bent on revenge, my hands stained with gunpowder, I was spiraling. I’d soon be picked up for multiple firearms, assault and even a murder.
I was 18 years old.
CHAPTER 10
IT COSTS TO BE THE BOSS
“If I lay here and do nothing, my fame
dies. If I rise and fight, it lives forever.”
— Achilles, The Iliad
In sixth grade, I read mythical stories about fame and glory. In The Odyssey, Achilles chose a short, glorious life over a long, forgettable one. He wanted to be remembered forever as the greatest warrior of the Trojan War— even if it meant dying young.
Now, as I stood on the stoop of my mother’s home, sunlight hitting my face, I wondered if today I’d die. I silently recited those words from The Iliad:
“Now I must go, to meet my fate head-on. Even if I die, I shall have won great glory.”
My hat tilted to the side, nappy hair exposed from under the side of it, I was heavier now—Rikers weight. Eight months of push-ups, potatoes, and plotting. In my waistband was my S&W 15-shot pistol, with two extra magazines tucked in my back pocket wrapped in a handkerchief. That means I had 45 bullets of sheer terror to unleash. I was a walking machine gun.
I stepped onto Newkirk Ave. First stop: Back Page. Two Veer men I didn’t recognize clocked me. My walk, my energy—they hesitated. I moved through like a ghost who’d come back to claim his name.
Faces once familiar now looked unfamiliar. But the ones who knew? They froze. I was back, and my presence spoke louder than any gunshot.
Andre, from the younger “Pay Hay” Veer crew, emerged. Our handshake was genuine, but the energy was tense. Veer didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t militant or dangerous like it used to be. I scoped the scene—the ones who posed a threat were easy to spot. My senses were sharp, hearing keen, and my palm itched with anticipation.
Some shook my hand—that meant loyalty. Others stayed silent—that meant war. “Jimmy Ace!” a voice called. It was Murphy Dread, Andre’s older brother, a respected Rasta elder. “Where you been? We need you out here!” His Trini accent pierced the air. “Let me talk to Otto. Don’t worry about these guys— dem look tough but dem soft, dred. Dem know ’bout Ace, the steppa.”
Then the crowd parted. OttoShine limped through with a cane, recovering from jumping out a third-story window after getting caught slipping on his weed gates. He broke his leg but survived.
“Hey Ace man, I didn’t know you came home,” Otto said, trying to read me. He scanned my waist like he could see through my shirt. “You look bigger—potato and bread, huh?” he joked.
But I could see it: he needed me. He cracked a smile, rolled up a fronto spliff and said, “I got a works for us to go on.” That was my cue to relax.
We went back to what we did best—robbery and extortion. We hit weed gates that weren’t under our alliance, and those we couldn’t rob, we extorted. We’d rob from one store and give it to another to sell.
At the same time, the 31st Street Posse became a nuisance. For sport, we exchanged gunfire with them. They couldn’t match our firepower. But they made a name for themselves, although short lived.
The crew had changed. Me and Otto were the last of the original Veer crew. Ironically, neither of us lived in Veer. The rest were Change, Richie, Gregory, Wesley, Wayne, and Juice—mostly Trinidadians now. The Jamaicans were gone. But when it came to robberies, the Trinis had it together. Precise. Minimal bloodshed.
Fulton Street became the hub—a flea market for every illicit drug, from Nostrand to Franklin. Storefronts, flatfoot hustlers—it was all there. Murphy Dread, with his father’s club on Fulton, was our inside man. He passed us tips like candy. With better intel, we needed more experience for bigger scores.
That’s where Crazy and Flayco came in—two Trinidadian natty dreads from Veer, never Untouchables, but repping the block like a badge. They were older, wiser, and experienced.
Crazy was One of the smartest guys I knew. He’d show up with a big Bible— and a revolver carved into the pages. “All of you need God in y’all life,” he’d say in his Trini accent before flipping open the holy book to reveal the steel inside. I wasn’t sure if it was blessed or blasphemy.
Flayco was different—serious, quiet, lethal. With them, I felt safe on any “works.”
Murphy Dread tipped us about a pool hall on Franklin. “200 pounds of weed,” he said. Three pistols and a shotgun guarded it.
“How many people?” I asked.
“Bout six of dem, dred.”
Otto: “you sure so much weed?”
“What da muddercunt you asking? Im tellin you Two hundred pounds, dred.” Murphy replied.
That was enough. We came, we saw, we took. What we took, we gave to weed gates to sell. Word spread fast: “Jimmy Ace and OttoShine! OttoShine and Jimmy Ace!” My name echoed louder than ever.
My name was bigger than me. I thought of Achilles and his road to glory for a short life, but I was 17 about to be 18 and wanted to live forever. But glory carries a price because my enemies piled up with every turn. Paranoia kicked in. Every corner felt like an ambush. I quit smoking weed—my thoughts were too wicked, too sharp. Even shadows looked suspicious.
Then the powder cocaine came. Murphy Dread started selling and using coke. He offered, I accepted. Soon I was sniffing every day, stuffing it in my Newport cigarettes. The high kept me up, wired, but empty. The paranoia got worse. Coke was expensive and was considered a rich man’s drug. That’s why Hollywood used it so plentiful. And just to follow what was happening out West, men and women were following Hollywood, be it on the screen or in real life.
We shifted base to Nostrand, between Glenwood and Farragut Road. It was a hustler’s gold mine. Andre and Wayne and others made good money “flatfoot” hustling. It was like bringing your herd to greener pastures. We even opened a storefront called Wonderland Vitamin Store with a Trini called Monster Mike. Sold skunk and Thai Stick to mostly white customers—which meant more heat from cops.
But I noticed a shift around 1981 in the behavior of older Rasta men that were disciplined and ital, they had traded their weed Chalice for a freebase pipe. Freebasing had preceded crack, no baking soda, just cocaine, alcohol liquid, a spoon, a hangar and a spoon—that would be the first time I saw the devil at work with drugs. These guys sold everything they had for the sake of freebasing.
Meanwhile, me and Otto kept robbing, instead of transitioning to buy weed low and sell high. The streets blamed us for every jukes in the immediate area and beyond —probably true. The weed selling business was a small community when it came to the West Indians.
One day we hit a Rasta for 20 pounds of skunk weed and some cash off of the backstreet behind Veer on 34th and Newkirk Avenue. The owner of Hummingbird Car Service had enough. They put a hit on us. A coot name Buckey, who I had an earlier run in with, and a newbee named Heavy—were tasked with the job.
Then came the house party. We were warned not to go—but I nor anyone in the crew listened. Me and OttoShine were making a rare appearance at the party to relax our nerves from all the robbing. Within ten minutes, Heavy pulled a carbine. I immediately saw the play—ambushed. When these things happen, it’s quick and sudden, everything is a flash. I ducked into a room, while being fired on, managed to draw my gun and inhaled gun smoke. In Otto’s exchange with his assailants, he got shot in the back chasing Heavy with the carbine. OttoShine managed to crawl under a car for safety and by the time the gunshots stopped, and me and the crew cautiously exited the house with guns in hand, the police were on the block. Otto was arrested, found under a car gripping his .45.
One by one and two by two we all met on Front Page, like the Warriors making it to Coney Island. “Where’s OttoShine?” I demanded. The last stragglers answered, “he’s been shot and arrested.” I saw RED…
Everything fell apart after that.
Bent on revenge, my hands stained with gunpowder, I was spiraling. I’d soon be picked up for multiple firearms, assault and even a murder.
I was 18 years old.