Carlito's Way: Rise to Power Read Online Free PDF Page A

Probation don’t mean I didn’t have a few things going— burglaries, cars, like that. So like I’m shooting dice on 105th Street off Madison Avenue on a Saturday afternoon when this bad-ass named Chago grabs all the money on the ground and says, “These dice are loaded. You guys are robbing me; I’m taking the money,” and he pulls out the difference, size .38, so I say, “Motherfucker, you ain’t going nowhere with my bread.”
    “I’ll kill you, Carlito.”
    “Kill me, hijo de puta , kill me—”
    Everything is real quiet now except for Chago’s breathing—he ain’t got no heart. I grab the piece, bust him in the face with it; he falls down some basement steps, and I grab a garbage can full of ashes and throw it on him. That night I’m shooting nineball in Ramon’s parlor on 106th Street and Madison when Mutt and Jeff from the two-three squad come in.
    “Chago’s over at the Flower Hospital. He’s asking for you, Carlito.”
    “Chago who? What right you—”
    Smack. Right off my ear.
    “Okay, let’s go see him.”
    No lineup, no reading of rights—they even gave me an admission. Times were rough. Judge put me away— felonious assault, violation of probation. For Chago, they shoulda give me a medal.
    In the Joint, thirty-six months. Up there I meet a lot of the boys, including Rocco Fabrizi, who was up for stealing cars. He was tight with Earl Bassey. Earl was up there for dealing in pot. I’d been hearing about him on the Street in Harlem, he was the war counselor of some click uptown on Lenox Avenue. Earl was around our age but he was slick beyond his years. He could see something coming around the corner, like he’d say, “So-and-so is a faggot,” and there would be this big stud with tattoos and muscles blowing everybody in the Joint. He knew things. I can’t explain it; he never went to school but he could read people in minutes. His skin was black, but his eyes were like yellow, and when he put them on you everything was cool, like calm. Nothing went down without discussing it with Earl. Even the hacks would check out a beef with Earl.
    Me and him got real tight when I started boxing again. Even in the street when I was smoking pot and drinking wine, my hands were quick and my wind wouldn’t quit. Like I’d get inside a cat and hook to the body—I’d catch a few or be pushed off, but I’d get back inside—I’mswinging without stop—most guys couldn’t stay with me. Earl had fought pro in the ring. He was my trainer, taught me how to hook to the head, how to finish a cat when you hurt him. I took a few guys out and my rep was made. Like Earl used to say, “Don’t mess with Hoppy.” Being Earl was smarter than me, I’d listen to him. He’d come on with, “Look here, Holmes, you got to dig yo’self—you gonna be on the street soon, forget about that okey-doke shit—gorilla-ing people, robbing pads—the shit is on, Briss, I got the word from Rocco— the junk is already here. And we is in—you think some guinea is going up to 125th and Lenox to deal with the niggers or to 111th and Fifth to deal with the spics? They gonna need distributors with brains and with heart— stand-up motherfuckers. I don’t know about you, but I’m declaring myself in. These wops don’t fuck around, bro— you got to play with their rules. Your word is your life— they make a meet, be there! This Mickey Mouse jive with the pussy and the coke and the booze don’t mean nothin’. Got to be cool, stay clean. Make the move a few times a year—that’s it. After a while, I’ll have my own crew— then I’m gonna make my own world. I ain’t gonna be a nigger all my life, pushing wooden Cadillacs on 37th Street—not Mrs. Bassey’s boy. I’m going all the way— they got to kill me, Jack, kill me!”
    “What about me, Earl, what about me?”
    “You gonna be my man with the Ricans, Chappie— they ain’t nothing but niggers turned inside out.”
    Rocco was from another garage—but a