dropped it on the street. That made a big impression on him. Later, he told me he’d even tested me a few times, leaving me alone with big sums of cash to see if I took a skim off the top. I never did, so for the next year, before he was arrested, he paid me $1,000 a week to count his money and track his books.
I never told anyone, not even Mama Myrt, Cerisse, or Little Al, that I was holding money or drugs for him in my bedroom. On some days, I’d have as much as $100,000 under my bed. Once a week or so, I’d travel with Uncle D. to Atascadero to sit and count out the money. I’d never seen so much cash in my life: $350,000 in cash and it wasn’t in $100 bills. It was dollar bills, fives, and twenties. I begged him to stop selling nickel pieces and start selling bigger bags. All those singles got on my nerves.
You would think that I had learned my lesson all those years ago when I tricked the bank into giving me an ATM card and ended up getting beat to hell for it. But nope. I spent the money as fast as I could make it. On clothes, on jewelry, I even bought a junker of a car. That ass-whooping Dad laid down hadn’t taught me one damn thing. Mama Myrt got suspicious. She asked me, “Where do you get all this money?” She kept pounding it into my head, “Don’t sell drugs! Don’t sell drugs!” I told her, “I promise you, I’m not.” But she didn’t buy it. “Then what are you doing?” I couldn’t think of nothing else, so I told her, “I’m a Little stripper!” I thought Mama Myrt’s face was gonna fall off, saying, “Shut up!” I convinced her that ladies would pay big money to watch a Little Person shake it and strip. It was such a crazy story, she had to believe it.
In reality, while I was working for Uncle D., I also had a job working at a law firm called Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher LLP. Even though I’d dropped out of high school, I still had my dream to be a lawyer or a corporate boss. I thought I could work my way up the ladder the hard way, no college necessary. I started out as a mailroom clerk, then was promoted into the accounting department. I had big hopes for the job. I wasn’t gonna be a dealer’s bookkeeper forever.
I had no interest in becoming a permanent part of the drug trade, and I considered myself on the outside of the nasty work. I knew how to cook crack, but I wouldn’t do it. I knew how to sell, but I wouldn’t do it. I saw a way to make a shitload of money without having to get into the real mess of dealing. So I took it. It wasn’t my life goal.
The law firm was inside the Crocker Center, which is now the Wells Fargo Towers in downtown L.A. We were on the fortieth-something floor, and at night, me and my homies would go there and have meetings in the boardroom. We’d discuss where to get drunk and who to shoot. I’d started carrying a pistol in ninth grade when all my friends started carrying, and I was like, ooh-la-la, I need one, too. I had a .22 I got from my homies, but with all of Uncle D.’s money under my bed, I decided I needed something more. I graduated to a .25. I couldn’t get too big a gun ’cause my fat, chubby dwarf fingers wouldn’t fit through the trigger hole.
I liked feeling like a corporate boss. It was the closest I’d ever come to living out my childhood Halloween dream of being an executive cowboy. Only now, I wore red jeans and do-rags when I was off the clock. No one never said nothing about us meeting there. Of course, this was before the days of video surveillance in offices and high security. We’d leave the office and head to the bar at the top of the Bonaventure Hotel. The more we drank, the more we talked about who to shoot. We were intelligent and stupid at the same time. We looked good. We were making money, and yet, we all assumed, someday we would end up in jail. It seemed inevitable. All around us, our friends were either dying or being arrested. If it was a choice between death by drive-by or five-to-ten, jail was the
I never told anyone, not even Mama Myrt, Cerisse, or Little Al, that I was holding money or drugs for him in my bedroom. On some days, I’d have as much as $100,000 under my bed. Once a week or so, I’d travel with Uncle D. to Atascadero to sit and count out the money. I’d never seen so much cash in my life: $350,000 in cash and it wasn’t in $100 bills. It was dollar bills, fives, and twenties. I begged him to stop selling nickel pieces and start selling bigger bags. All those singles got on my nerves.
You would think that I had learned my lesson all those years ago when I tricked the bank into giving me an ATM card and ended up getting beat to hell for it. But nope. I spent the money as fast as I could make it. On clothes, on jewelry, I even bought a junker of a car. That ass-whooping Dad laid down hadn’t taught me one damn thing. Mama Myrt got suspicious. She asked me, “Where do you get all this money?” She kept pounding it into my head, “Don’t sell drugs! Don’t sell drugs!” I told her, “I promise you, I’m not.” But she didn’t buy it. “Then what are you doing?” I couldn’t think of nothing else, so I told her, “I’m a Little stripper!” I thought Mama Myrt’s face was gonna fall off, saying, “Shut up!” I convinced her that ladies would pay big money to watch a Little Person shake it and strip. It was such a crazy story, she had to believe it.
In reality, while I was working for Uncle D., I also had a job working at a law firm called Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher LLP. Even though I’d dropped out of high school, I still had my dream to be a lawyer or a corporate boss. I thought I could work my way up the ladder the hard way, no college necessary. I started out as a mailroom clerk, then was promoted into the accounting department. I had big hopes for the job. I wasn’t gonna be a dealer’s bookkeeper forever.
I had no interest in becoming a permanent part of the drug trade, and I considered myself on the outside of the nasty work. I knew how to cook crack, but I wouldn’t do it. I knew how to sell, but I wouldn’t do it. I saw a way to make a shitload of money without having to get into the real mess of dealing. So I took it. It wasn’t my life goal.
The law firm was inside the Crocker Center, which is now the Wells Fargo Towers in downtown L.A. We were on the fortieth-something floor, and at night, me and my homies would go there and have meetings in the boardroom. We’d discuss where to get drunk and who to shoot. I’d started carrying a pistol in ninth grade when all my friends started carrying, and I was like, ooh-la-la, I need one, too. I had a .22 I got from my homies, but with all of Uncle D.’s money under my bed, I decided I needed something more. I graduated to a .25. I couldn’t get too big a gun ’cause my fat, chubby dwarf fingers wouldn’t fit through the trigger hole.
I liked feeling like a corporate boss. It was the closest I’d ever come to living out my childhood Halloween dream of being an executive cowboy. Only now, I wore red jeans and do-rags when I was off the clock. No one never said nothing about us meeting there. Of course, this was before the days of video surveillance in offices and high security. We’d leave the office and head to the bar at the top of the Bonaventure Hotel. The more we drank, the more we talked about who to shoot. We were intelligent and stupid at the same time. We looked good. We were making money, and yet, we all assumed, someday we would end up in jail. It seemed inevitable. All around us, our friends were either dying or being arrested. If it was a choice between death by drive-by or five-to-ten, jail was the
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