Chapter Sixteen: Fat Stevie
That brings me to Stephen Monsanto aka ‘Fat Stevie’. He was the most powerful kid in the neighborhood. It wasn’t that he was a street brawler. He wasn’t that ‘nice with his hands’. But, he didn’t have to be. Even grown folks showed him the kind of respect reserved for neighborhood big shots. ‘Fat Stevie’ sported sharkskin pants, alligator shoes, and Alpaca sweaters. If that wasn’t enough, the gold on his wrist and around his neck left no doubt of just who he was.
We lived in the same building; me on the second floor and him on the fifth. In the early years, we were kind of close. We appeared in local children fashion shows sponsored by my mother. We often played together in front of the building. We even played at each other’s house. But, the good relations was short lived.
A clash between the two of us, between our two families, was inevitable. We were like two locomotives barrowing toward one another on a collision course. Actually, Stevie didn’t have a family: he had a network, a dizzying patchwork of blood relatives.
Let me explain. Stevie’s mother and step-father, Mimi and Peter, worked regular jobs, but enjoyed a life well above their means. Mimi was a nurse, or a lease she wore a white nurse’s uniform to work and she was younger and prettier than most of our moms. I still don’t know what Peter did for a living, but he kept working man hours.
Most powerful of the clan members was Stevie’s Uncle Harvey known as ‘Big Harv’. Harvey was squat in stature with a humpty dumpy shape, but maintained an unassailable presence. This little man, head tilted with a self-glorifying strut, was the center of attention wherever he went. He knew everybody. Perhaps, more importantly, everyone knew him.
He wheeled a black man’s Rolls Royce, a Cadillac; a new one every year. In the store, he peeled off tens and twenties from a humongous knot like it was nothing. We kids could only stare with our mouths open wide. That alone was enough to enshrine him in our neighborhood hall of fame.
His wife, Miss. Delores, and son, Reggie, were two of a kind, wicked to the core. No wonder they got along with the Johnson’s so well. There was even some talk that the two families were related. Reggie Harvey’s mere presence instilled feared in most kids, who instinctively kept their distance. Miss Delores seemed to have it in for me. She never looked directly at me; instead, she leered out the corner of her eye while tossing out little veiled insults.
Chapter Seventeen: Firecrackers
The fuse was finally lit when I turned eight. My father brought me a couple of packs of firecracker around the Forth of July. I had been going downstairs by my self for two years now. So it wasn’t a big deal. However, that day, ‘Fat Stevie’ tried to ‘Bogart’ my firecracker. He asked if he could hold them, to see if they were the genuine article. When I handed them over, he refused to give them back.
“You can get hurt,” he said in his usual its-good-to-be-the-king manner. “You should be glad that I going to set them off for you.”Later on, he would claim that he tried to give them back, but I took off running. He was probably right. Faced with a bully, I’d always run and tell my daddy. I remember my father popping his head out the backyard window.
“Daddy, ‘Fat Stevie’ stole my fire crackers.” After hearing my story, he disappeared back inside. When he returned, he let dropped an ancient tennis racket that he probably kept around for just this kind of thing. With some not so subtle prodding from my father, I confronted ‘Fat Stevie’ head on. Turns out, daddy was right. A few whacks upside the head were all it took.
After school the next day, I was told in not so delicate language, but in words intended to cut like glass, about the fight between my mother and Delores Harvey. Reaching the building, I spotted my mother. Her dress was torn in several spots, her wig clownishly askew, and her face greatly distressed. I didn’t see what shape Miss Delores was in, but my first impression was my mother got the worse of it.
I was grounded for the next couple of days. When I resurfaced, I had to suffer the slings and arrows of neighborhood commentary on the battle royale. My mother threatened to sue, in keeping with her reputation, but nothing ever became of it. We had offended the neighborhood’s most infamous family thus placing us at odds with most of the neighborhood. Though, we weren’t entirely at the Harvey’s mercy.
My mother had some powerful and influential political contacts that Harvey and his brood needed in order to soften their lascivious image. They needed to wash away the taint of their criminal lifestyle by rubbing shoulders with civil rights dignitaries and those in public office. Thus, they needed someone like my mother to make the right introductions. So, in time the incident faded from discussion, but it was never forgotten by either family.
While Peter gave every appearance of being Stevie’s father, everyone knew that ‘Bobby White Boy’ was his real father. One only had to see them together. Stevie was a miniature version of the overweight policy (numbers) banker and racketeer. ‘Bobby White Boy’ was a massive 300 lbs and the quintessential Harlem hustler.
Men like ‘Bobby White Boy’, ‘Rip’, ‘Mr. Gene’, ‘ Red’, ‘Puppy Dog’, amongst others, weren’t gangsters, not in the mold of Italian and Irish Mafia figures like Lucky Luciano, Dutch Shultz, or even John Gotti. They never commanded crime families.
Chapter Eighteen: Harlem Racketeers
They were racketeers, hustlers who used violence as a last result. They didn’t order drive-bys, toss people from rooftops, or hand out hotshots (overdoses) to boost the sales of their product. They even gave back to the neighborhood now and again through block parties, sponsored sports tournaments and holiday giveaways. As a result, they were respected by most folks and admired by some.
These men specialized in gambling, loan-sharking, and the numbers. By comparison, today’s gangsters, hoods, and thugs honor no rules, recognize no sense of obligation and traffic in any illicit trade that will turn a buck, even if it means devouring the very neighborhood that sustains their way of life.
After being MIA all winter, when spring rolled around, “Bobby White Boy” reappeared out of thin air. Some speculated that he spent his winters in jail. Others said he had a house in Miami where he laid on the beach all day counting his money.
Nonetheless, each and every summer there he was cruising up Convent Avenue. I could see him now, leaning to the side in his canary-yellow convertible, arm stretched across the top to the car seats, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. Everyone took notice, but he took no notice of anyone.
His soft, light skin glistened under a hot sun. He kept a white cotton towel draped across the back of his bulging neck to absorb the gushing fountain of sweat. I can still see his Cadillac convertible, spoke rims gleaming, coming to a screeching halt in front one of his underground numbers holes (gambling locations).
When pissed him off, he’d turn lobster red then rampage up and down the street. The precious few that dare approached him spoke in reverential tones, cowering before the big man. When it came to ‘Bobby White Boy’ even the beat cops respected his space. He was top dog in the neighborhood and not to be crossed.
