CHAPTER 7
THE UNTOUCHABLES (THE WAY OF THE GUN)
“Dead men don’t negotiate.”
—Jimmy Ace
In my short travels as a twelve-year-old, fighting to preserve the last of my innocence, there were always those people and places that captured my imagination—dangerous, alluring, unforgettable. For me, that place was Vanderveer, and those people were The Untouchables.
Theater is supposed to showcase the society it represents but with the infusion of the God Father, Taxi Driver, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, real street guys imitated actors. They were either gangsters or cowboys. Reenacting scenes from movies but lives were being taken for real.
My stays in the Veer became more frequent. I drew closer to Cadien and his crew, even though there was always that occasional rift—usually about me being Haitian. Cadien, for whatever reason, never joined in. In fact, his silence often felt like a shield. Around the Veer, I had to talk patwah just to survive socially. That’s how the Rastas, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians would greet me— “Wah gwan, Ace?” they’d say. To them, I blended in. I could dress the part and speak just enough, but there was still a line drawn in the sand between “them” and “me.”
The only real difference between our cultures was the language and accent. The food, the pride, the struggle—those were all shared. Haitians had the history of rebellion while The Jamaicans had style, though—an effortless swagger, fashion from London and musical dominance that made them the most magnetic. But even among my West Indian comrades, I was still too different to be fully accepted. Still, I repped Veer hard, tagging “Ace” in bold letters and scribbling “Veer” underneath like a signature. No one dared cross it out. There was a pecking order in the streets, and I was earning my place.
Our crew was sandwiched between the youngest crew—the “Pay Hay” kids like Andre, Duddy, Fat Cat, Roger, Joel, Shiller, and Ingram—and the older “Veer” crew: Cadien, Vinny Vance, Rat, Gary, Paul, Moon, Riz, Ticky, OttoShine, and a few others. But above all of us were The Untouchables—the “Touchies.” Older, ruthless, organized, and Jamaican to the core. These weren’t just street guys; they were military-minded killers with a code.
Irons, Yabbs, Jimmy Skeng, Arthur Berry, Bragger, Bordy, Jay Jay, Small Yūt, Screw, Romeo, Opee, Beanie Pie, Mudfish—the names rang out like legends and ghosts. These were the real dons. They wore three-piece suits with beaver hats, carried .45s with shoulder holsters, and rocked Clarks like uniforms. Some called them cowboys, others called them soldiers. Either way, they weren’t to be crossed.
They ran “weed gates” all over Brooklyn and beyond. Weed was their currency. The record shop “Third World” on Flatbush and Newkirk was their main base—behind the counter was the real business. Only Cadien from our crew had unrestricted access, but we all orbited the power they carried. If you were moving in Veer, you had to at least be cool with the Touchies.
I remember one day I was summoned to the base. “Ace, you have your “rings” (gun)? Ride with me to the base,” Cadien said. Inside were Irons, Yabbs, Arthur Berry and Bragger—bosses and underbosses in one place, a rare sighting. As Cadien went to the back, a Touchie pulled me aside to tell me about a shootout. Then he asked if I was carrying. I told him I had a .25 caliber. He laughed. “Bird gun,” he said, mocking me. It was both a joke and a disrespect. I smiled back, hiding the discomfort. I wasn’t ready yet, but I was learning.
Still, it haunted me that Screw, one of the Touchies, had killed my childhood friend Eggy. One day I was asked to “sit in” at a weed gates on Regent Street and 21st. When the door opened, it was Screw. Just him and me in the apartment. His .45 was visible. I had a .38 special. I did the mental math—could I shoot faster, avenge my childhood friend? Could I survive? But I stopped thinking about it, afraid he might hear my thoughts. I wasn’t a ruthless killer like them nor was I even fifteen yet.
Vinny Vance, bold as ever, had recently come up on a thick gold rope chain and medallion the size of a small pancake. He wore it like a crown, but that crown painted a target on him. One day on Front Page, four Touchies rolled up—Bordy and his renegades. They stepped out in their suits and beaver hats and told Vinny, “Take that off.” And he did. No questions asked. That’s how small we were next to them. Anyone else wouldn’t have made it out of Veer alive. They knew our landscape.
That summer was a bloodbath. The Touchies were on a rampage. There was a shootout on 34th and Newkirk that left several dead, including an Untouchable named Batta. It made the news. Politics from Jamaica—Labor Rights vs. the PNP—spilled into Brooklyn’s streets. One night, Vinny got into a dispute at a block party with Arthur Berry and things escalated. Vinny being Vinny, didn’t back down. Guns were drawn. Shots fired.
From there, chaos unraveled.
Wars erupted between the Touchies and other Yardie cliques—Bongo, Rockers, Tony and Bobby Welch, even the Twelve Tribes of Rastafari. Yabbs, one of the Touchies’ top men, was murdered by the Twelve Tribes. The bodies were stacking, and so were the consequences. For every one Touchie that died many others perished. Men, women and children were casualties, even Bongo (a rival gang leader) little brother was kidnapped, tortured and murdered to make a point.
Jimmy Skeng—one of the Touchies and Vinny’s consigliere—was caught in he middle. Cadien had to choose: stay loyal to Vinny or keep his neutrality. He tried to walk the line, but there’s no neutrality in war.
I was at Bordy’s gate in Park Slope when things took another turn. Sassoe, a Rasta on duty, took my gun when I entered—a .380 Walther PPK. He wouldn’t give it back. I grew restless, demanded it. He looked me dead in the face and said, “You shoulda neva come ina di store wit your tool.” (You should never have come into the store with your gun). I was heated. Seconds later, Bordy walked in. I explained the situation, and Bordy checked Sassoe. “Dem likkle yute would lick you down, bredda. Forward him tool.” (These little kids will shoot you, give him his gun). Sassoe reluctantly returned it. I rode off swearing to never let my guard down around the Touchies again. I would see Sassoe years later which I’ll explain in another chapter.
Things got worse. The Touchies declared war on Vinny and anyone loyal to him. Cadien distanced himself. Most of us did. But Vinny? He kept showing up, smoking weed like nothing had changed. Any sane person would have just left. One afternoon, while posted on Front Page, a Rasta walked up and fired fifteen rounds. Vinny was hit. Moon caught one in the buttocks. Sherwin—who just came by to smoke—died. Sherwin was only Seventeen years old, with a baby on the way.
As Vinny lay in critical condition, his brother Andre wanted answers. “Where was Cadien?” he asked. Nobody had answers. But we knew: no shots were returned, and the Touchies sent their message loud and clear.
Two weeks after the Vinny Vance shooting, Derrick, Vinny’s cousin, should’ve known better. He came to Veer like nothing had happened, asking about a party that night. No one was crazy enough to go to the party on 25th street with Derrick at tow. The results were already written. At the party, they executed him for public display. That was one of the Untouchables trademarks: make it as noisy and bloody as possible. An intimidation move that played on the moral equilibrium. One bullet wasn’t enough—they took turns, skanking to the rhythm of the reggae bassline while they fired.
The fallout was brutal. Arthur Berry and Bragger, two brothers, were arrested for Derrick’s murder and Sherwin’s death. Vinny survived, but nothing was ever the same. Andre accused Cadien of playing both sides. The original Veer crew split. Vinny formed his own clique that prove to be as ruthless as the Touchies: Andre Jackson, Abu, Joey Nuzzy, Riz, Billy, Donny, Calvin, Marky Valentine, Zell, Gabadeen, and Presser Foot. Most of them were American, but they all knew the way of the gun.
The final blow came when a car pulled up one night on Front Page. “Yo Cadien, come here for a minute.” Someone shouted. A familiar face. Someone told him not to go, but he did anyway. He leaned on the hood, chest exposed. Gabadeen pressed a revolver to his chest and fired. Everything blurred after that, for months I remembered only inhaling gun smoke.
Cadien survived.
But the war was on. The Vinny Vance crew shot up the Touchies’ base at Flatbush and Newkirk. Which was daring. When I visited days later, the bullet riddled car looked unrecognizable, It was a miracle anyone survived that barrage. But they proved their heart.
By 1981, the Untouchables were dismantled—devoured by their own violence, betrayal, and desperation. They were like vampires, the more blood they spilled, the stronger they became, to kill them you had to shoot them with a silver bullet, stick a wooden stake in their heart and cut off their head. Irons, their leader, was mistakenly killed at a party by a Shower Posse member. Some Touchies fled to Miami or Jamaica. Others disappeared into shadows, still carrying out hits in other crews’ names. Cadien went to prison after recovering from his wound, never getting revenge for being shot. Vinny set up shop on Eastern Parkway then terrorized the Linden Boulevard Crew and others, went to prison then testified against Arthur Berry. If you were a Veer man, you were like the Warriors, always trying to make it back to Veer on Front Page, from other territories.
Leaderless and battle weary, Veer stuck it out, most became wanted by both law enforcement and different crews. some even literally quit. Some of us stayed. Some had no choice. Some went to prison. But we had lived it. We had danced with fire and survived—for now.
CHAPTER 7
THE UNTOUCHABLES (THE WAY OF THE GUN)
“Dead men don’t negotiate.”
—Jimmy Ace
In my short travels as a twelve-year-old, fighting to preserve the last of my innocence, there were always those people and places that captured my imagination—dangerous, alluring, unforgettable. For me, that place was Vanderveer, and those people were The Untouchables.
Theater is supposed to showcase the society it represents but with the infusion of the God Father, Taxi Driver, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, real street guys imitated actors. They were either gangsters or cowboys. Reenacting scenes from movies but lives were being taken for real.
My stays in the Veer became more frequent. I drew closer to Cadien and his crew, even though there was always that occasional rift—usually about me being Haitian. Cadien, for whatever reason, never joined in. In fact, his silence often felt like a shield. Around the Veer, I had to talk patwah just to survive socially. That’s how the Rastas, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians would greet me— “Wah gwan, Ace?” they’d say. To them, I blended in. I could dress the part and speak just enough, but there was still a line drawn in the sand between “them” and “me.”
The only real difference between our cultures was the language and accent. The food, the pride, the struggle—those were all shared. Haitians had the history of rebellion while The Jamaicans had style, though—an effortless swagger, fashion from London and musical dominance that made them the most magnetic. But even among my West Indian comrades, I was still too different to be fully accepted. Still, I repped Veer hard, tagging “Ace” in bold letters and scribbling “Veer” underneath like a signature. No one dared cross it out. There was a pecking order in the streets, and I was earning my place.
Our crew was sandwiched between the youngest crew—the “Pay Hay” kids like Andre, Duddy, Fat Cat, Roger, Joel, Shiller, and Ingram—and the older “Veer” crew: Cadien, Vinny Vance, Rat, Gary, Paul, Moon, Riz, Ticky, OttoShine, and a few others. But above all of us were The Untouchables—the “Touchies.” Older, ruthless, organized, and Jamaican to the core. These weren’t just street guys; they were military-minded killers with a code.
Irons, Yabbs, Jimmy Skeng, Arthur Berry, Bragger, Bordy, Jay Jay, Small Yūt, Screw, Romeo, Opee, Beanie Pie, Mudfish—the names rang out like legends and ghosts. These were the real dons. They wore three-piece suits with beaver hats, carried .45s with shoulder holsters, and rocked Clarks like uniforms. Some called them cowboys, others called them soldiers. Either way, they weren’t to be crossed.
They ran “weed gates” all over Brooklyn and beyond. Weed was their currency. The record shop “Third World” on Flatbush and Newkirk was their main base—behind the counter was the real business. Only Cadien from our crew had unrestricted access, but we all orbited the power they carried. If you were moving in Veer, you had to at least be cool with the Touchies.
I remember one day I was summoned to the base. “Ace, you have your “rings” (gun)? Ride with me to the base,” Cadien said. Inside were Irons, Yabbs, Arthur Berry and Bragger—bosses and underbosses in one place, a rare sighting. As Cadien went to the back, a Touchie pulled me aside to tell me about a shootout. Then he asked if I was carrying. I told him I had a .25 caliber. He laughed. “Bird gun,” he said, mocking me. It was both a joke and a disrespect. I smiled back, hiding the discomfort. I wasn’t ready yet, but I was learning.
Still, it haunted me that Screw, one of the Touchies, had killed my childhood friend Eggy. One day I was asked to “sit in” at a weed gates on Regent Street and 21st. When the door opened, it was Screw. Just him and me in the apartment. His .45 was visible. I had a .38 special. I did the mental math—could I shoot faster, avenge my childhood friend? Could I survive? But I stopped thinking about it, afraid he might hear my thoughts. I wasn’t a ruthless killer like them nor was I even fifteen yet.
Vinny Vance, bold as ever, had recently come up on a thick gold rope chain and medallion the size of a small pancake. He wore it like a crown, but that crown painted a target on him. One day on Front Page, four Touchies rolled up—Bordy and his renegades. They stepped out in their suits and beaver hats and told Vinny, “Take that off.” And he did. No questions asked. That’s how small we were next to them. Anyone else wouldn’t have made it out of Veer alive. They knew our landscape.
That summer was a bloodbath. The Touchies were on a rampage. There was a shootout on 34th and Newkirk that left several dead, including an Untouchable named Batta. It made the news. Politics from Jamaica—Labor Rights vs. the PNP—spilled into Brooklyn’s streets. One night, Vinny got into a dispute at a block party with Arthur Berry and things escalated. Vinny being Vinny, didn’t back down. Guns were drawn. Shots fired.
From there, chaos unraveled.
Wars erupted between the Touchies and other Yardie cliques—Bongo, Rockers, Tony and Bobby Welch, even the Twelve Tribes of Rastafari. Yabbs, one of the Touchies’ top men, was murdered by the Twelve Tribes. The bodies were stacking, and so were the consequences. For every one Touchie that died many others perished. Men, women and children were casualties, even Bongo (a rival gang leader) little brother was kidnapped, tortured and murdered to make a point.
Jimmy Skeng—one of the Touchies and Vinny’s consigliere—was caught in he middle. Cadien had to choose: stay loyal to Vinny or keep his neutrality. He tried to walk the line, but there’s no neutrality in war.
I was at Bordy’s gate in Park Slope when things took another turn. Sassoe, a Rasta on duty, took my gun when I entered—a .380 Walther PPK. He wouldn’t give it back. I grew restless, demanded it. He looked me dead in the face and said, “You shoulda neva come ina di store wit your tool.” (You should never have come into the store with your gun). I was heated. Seconds later, Bordy walked in. I explained the situation, and Bordy checked Sassoe. “Dem likkle yute would lick you down, bredda. Forward him tool.” (These little kids will shoot you, give him his gun). Sassoe reluctantly returned it. I rode off swearing to never let my guard down around the Touchies again. I would see Sassoe years later which I’ll explain in another chapter.
Things got worse. The Touchies declared war on Vinny and anyone loyal to him. Cadien distanced himself. Most of us did. But Vinny? He kept showing up, smoking weed like nothing had changed. Any sane person would have just left. One afternoon, while posted on Front Page, a Rasta walked up and fired fifteen rounds. Vinny was hit. Moon caught one in the buttocks. Sherwin—who just came by to smoke—died. Sherwin was only Seventeen years old, with a baby on the way.
As Vinny lay in critical condition, his brother Andre wanted answers. “Where was Cadien?” he asked. Nobody had answers. But we knew: no shots were returned, and the Touchies sent their message loud and clear.
Two weeks after the Vinny Vance shooting, Derrick, Vinny’s cousin, should’ve known better. He came to Veer like nothing had happened, asking about a party that night. No one was crazy enough to go to the party on 25th street with Derrick at tow. The results were already written. At the party, they executed him for public display. That was one of the Untouchables trademarks: make it as noisy and bloody as possible. An intimidation move that played on the moral equilibrium. One bullet wasn’t enough—they took turns, skanking to the rhythm of the reggae bassline while they fired.
The fallout was brutal. Arthur Berry and Bragger, two brothers, were arrested for Derrick’s murder and Sherwin’s death. Vinny survived, but nothing was ever the same. Andre accused Cadien of playing both sides. The original Veer crew split. Vinny formed his own clique that prove to be as ruthless as the Touchies: Andre Jackson, Abu, Joey Nuzzy, Riz, Billy, Donny, Calvin, Marky Valentine, Zell, Gabadeen, and Presser Foot. Most of them were American, but they all knew the way of the gun.
The final blow came when a car pulled up one night on Front Page. “Yo Cadien, come here for a minute.” Someone shouted. A familiar face. Someone told him not to go, but he did anyway. He leaned on the hood, chest exposed. Gabadeen pressed a revolver to his chest and fired. Everything blurred after that, for months I remembered only inhaling gun smoke.
Cadien survived.
But the war was on. The Vinny Vance crew shot up the Touchies’ base at Flatbush and Newkirk. Which was daring. When I visited days later, the bullet riddled car looked unrecognizable, It was a miracle anyone survived that barrage. But they proved their heart.
By 1981, the Untouchables were dismantled—devoured by their own violence, betrayal, and desperation. They were like vampires, the more blood they spilled, the stronger they became, to kill them you had to shoot them with a silver bullet, stick a wooden stake in their heart and cut off their head. Irons, their leader, was mistakenly killed at a party by a Shower Posse member. Some Touchies fled to Miami or Jamaica. Others disappeared into shadows, still carrying out hits in other crews’ names. Cadien went to prison after recovering from his wound, never getting revenge for being shot. Vinny set up shop on Eastern Parkway then terrorized the Linden Boulevard Crew and others, went to prison then testified against Arthur Berry. If you were a Veer man, you were like the Warriors, always trying to make it back to Veer on Front Page, from other territories.
Leaderless and battle weary, Veer stuck it out, most became wanted by both law enforcement and different crews. some even literally quit. Some of us stayed. Some had no choice. Some went to prison. But we had lived it. We had danced with fire and survived—for now.