(Ed. note: This article is not intended to
condone the use of drugs. It is simply to present the
lives of people involved in the drug subculture. The
names and a few incidental details have been
changed to protect the anonymity of the people
herein mentioned.)
Time: Saturday Evening, Sept. 18,1993.
Place: Buffalo, NY.
The following is a true account of my visit
to a crack house. I had often heard that these
dealers were evil beyond reclamation. I have
never met anyone who I felt was beyond hope.
So I sought to find the common thread of
humanity that I know must exist in all people,
even in those of whom society surely con-
demns.
On the city's east side, I picked up Joey,
who I knew used drugs. I told him I wanted to
get inside a crack house and interview a dealer.
He said, "Let's go to Goodyear. There's
been some shooting over there. We ought to
find something."
"Gangs?" I asked.
"Don't call them gangs. We call them
crews or posses."
A former posse member, Joey said, "I used
to buy guns then sell them on the street." He
said he wasn't doing anything now, but that he
planned to be a bodyguard. He was about 5'3"
and perhaps 130 pounds. "Since the code of
silence has been broken, it's got the mob real
jumpy. Now you can get a killing done for $500
and under. Of course political assassinations
will cost you big time."
As we drove past dilapidated buildings and
boarded-up houses on Genessee Street, I asked
him to tell me about crack and dealers.
Joey said, "Everything today is rock. I
don't know of too many people who have
powder. Crack has chemicals cooked with
baking soda. It's cheaper than cane.
"Dealers think to themselves where's the
opportunity for a nigger in Babylon? Well here
is a way you can have bucks in your pocket."
"But there's a risk," I said.
"Don't get caught by the police, don't sell
to informants, don't give credit, and don't get
bunked (buying shit that's cut with wax or
chalk)," he said.
We parked outside a house on Goodyear,
where he told me to wait After a time, he
returned and said, "She'll talk."
I followed him to a gate. A tall, thin woman
came out of a side door. We went upstairs with her.
Joey said, "Angel, this is Frank. He wants to
interview a crack dealer."
I asked her if she was a dealer and if she could
tell me about crack houses. She said she wasn't a
dealer. "But l indulge. I respect these guys that sell.
They need a little extra money and they go out and
get it.
"The crack houses aren't like what most people
think. The only thing they use the house for is to
smoke and bag up. They're tired of getting their
doors kicked in by police.
"Dealers sell from the street, and stash the crack
outside. Bury it, hide it. They don't bring it home."
Joey said, "In every other house somebody
deals drugs. They're outside right now."
"It's not a crack house, it's a crack street,"
Angel said. Joey laughed.
I asked about posses and crews.
"On this street only about a third of the
guys carry guns.
The street that's becoming popular for shooting
is Nevada," Angel said.
"If you want to get in a crack house, go get a ho(whore). Tell
her you want to get high. Give her $10. Say. 'is there somewhere
we can go and smoke?' Nine times out of ten she knows a place."
"How will I know she's not a cop?" I said.
"Stick to the ugly ones." Angel said.
"They tweak," Joey said.
"They move funny," Angel said. "Nervous, jerky move-
ments."
"Were you ever a prostitute?" I asked.
"Yeah, once, when I was smoking heavy. A couple old ho's
told me what to do so I thought I'd rive it a try. I was scared out
of my wits. But I tried a couple of customers. I didn't do well.
Then a nice man picked me up and I was so scared that I didn't
know what to do but he gave me $50 and said, "don't you ever
get your tired old ass out here on the streets 'cause you ain't no
ho and you ain't never gonna be one.' So I quit."
She added, "If you can't get no ho, then come back. Maybe
I'll take you myself. It's dangerous. If I go I want money. I got
my kids to think of. You got people getting high and worrying
about cops and some have guns and if they think you're a cop..."
"You get dusted," Joey said. "And watch out for the vul-
tures."
"People want to get high," Angel said. "They see you with
it and they want some themselves so they smash your head in just
to get at it."
"Or if they think you have money, they rob you," Joey added.
"If you get in you can look around a little, but you can't bring
your damn notebook," Angel said.
"And if you get in, you're going to have to smoke," Joey
added.
"I can't do that," I said.
"Well then you're going to have to perpetrate smoking,"
Angel said.
"Pretend," Joey explained.
Joey and I drove down Genessee looking for a prostitute.
According to Joey, the girls on the street that night wanted
money, not drugs.
"They want to get paid, do their sex, and 'ghost,'" Joey said.
"It must be a sad life," I said.
"Why? Everybody likes to screw. They're just using their
natural talent. Instead of giving it away, they get paid for it," Joey
said.
As we stopped at a light, a prostitute approached the car.
"What about her?" I asked.
"Oh- noooh. That's not a she. "Joey said, shaking his head.
"In this business, if you're not observant, you can have a big
surprise."
Near Goodyear,several police cars patrolled the streets.
"Gestapo everywhere," Joey said.
When we returned to Angel's house, Joey told her that we
couldn't find a hooker.
Angel told me that she knew a dealer down the street who
would come up. She would get him for me for a price. She told
me "You can ask, how much for a six? Or you can ask if he'll
give you three for twenty-five, but you can't be no damn
reporter."
At Angel's request, Joey went downstairs to get a dealer,
either Big Anthony or Les.
As we waited. Angel was reflective.
"You know what the problem is?" she said."The people ain't
never been anywhere. They ain't never seen how deep purple
the ocean is or how breathable the air is in a forest after it rains
or what it's like to take a walk along a beach in the moonlight.
All they know is the dirty street... there's a lot of fear on the street.
Fear of death and jail."
I asked, "With police all around, how do dealers avoid
getting arrested?"
"They know what to look for, and they have their regular
customers."
"How much money can one make?"
"You can buy a quarter for three or three fifty and sell it by
the bag for $900. A dealer can re-up sometimes 20 times a day.
Of course, it's not all profit. Some of them have girlfriends that
smoke like crazy and there's a lot of hypes. This is sale city.
Anything you want - microwaves, stoves, refrigerators, furni-
ture."
After ten minutes, Joey returned with Les. I asked him how
much crack one could buy for $50. He told me six bags.
After Les left, Angel pulled out a short cylindrical object."A
stem," she said.
She put a piece of crack into the stem and lit it. "God created
the leaf that made this smoke," she said. She passed the stem to
Joey.
"What's it like?" I asked.
Joey said, "It's a mellow high."
"I've seen the greater part of hate, and the greater part of
death, and the best part of life," Angel said. "I feel great.
Anything you wanna do, man, I can do. But some people don't
know how to control it. They let the drug control them. Then they
lose everything. But not me. I'm a connoisseur."
After they finished smoking, Joey and I went outside. I
asked Les if he could direct us to a crack house.
"It can be arranged," he said.
Joey and I walked with Les to a nearby house. In front of the
house six men stood at the curb.
Les pointed to the house. "Go there, ask for Bully. He'll let
you in."
We knocked on the door of a run-down house. A voice from
behind the door said, "Who is it?"
"Frank Parlato," I said. "Les told us we could come in."
A big man let us in. "My name is John, but everybody calls
me Bully," he said.
"You're not a cop, are you?"
I said, "no."
"Okay man. 'Cause if I ask you if you're a cop and you say
no and you are then it's entrapment. It can be thrown out of court.
That's the law."
The inside of this crack house was nearly empty. The only
furnishings were a mattress on the floor and a small old television
set with a hanger for an antenna. Empty beer cans sat on the floor.
A number of people came in and out. A girl named Cleo wanted
to smoke with Bully but he wouldn't share.
When she wentoutside. Bully said, "That bitch was my girl,
then she started with this other guy."
Monday Evening, September 20,1993.
Two nights later I returnedtothecrackhouseatabout 10:00
P.M. Three dealers were on the street, including Big Anthony.
As I went in. Big Anthony followed. "I want to talk to you,"
he said. "I want your car. I got an appointment."
He pulled out a huge wad of cash. "I'll pay you for it."
"I don't want money," I said. "But you can answer a few
questions...."
"Not now," he said, "I got to hurry. Give me the keys. I'll be
back in ten minutes. Hurry up or I'll miss my appointment."
Several guys stared at me. I handed him my keys. I went
outside.
A car approached. It slowed down, almost stopped, then
drove off quickly.
One of the dealers said, "That's my hundred dollar man."
The car sped away.
Another car slowly came up the street.
"Who's that?" one of them asked.
"5-0 (cops)," someone said.
The car stopped in front of the house, and three policemen
came out. The police surrounded ayoung dealer named Willie
and searched his pockets.
"You won't catch me with any shit," Willie said.
"You learned your lesson, eh, Willie?" a policeman said.
"Yeah."
"Oh? No, I guess not," the policeman said! "You got a bag
of bud (pot), Willie. I guess you'll never learn." He handcuffed
Willie.
Two cops went to the house and knocked on the door. "We
want to look around."
While one of the policemen waited outside with Willie, two
policemen went inside. After awhile they came back out.
I said to them, "You aren't going to take Willie in just
because of a little pot?"
Escorting Willie to the police car, one of them said, "The
law's the law."
After the policemen left, one of the street dealers asked
Bully, "Hey, man, why did you let them in? You didn't have to."
"That's right," Cleo said. "They didn't have a search
warrant."
"It's best to do a little compromising," Bully said." They can
cause a lot of problems in your life. So I let them look around.
They ain't going to find nothing. Look, I've worked all my life.
Put five kids through school. I was a carpenter. Now I got a
problem with my back, Ican'tworkanymore.But I get by. A little
compromising ain't so bad."
"Yeah, I guess I know what you mean," Cleo said. "I acted
sweetand innocent myself and 'innocent,' that's a word I hate."
Bully said, "They're just wasting their time. But it's election
year. They got to make a show. They know they ain't gonna stop
people from using drugs. It's just a game with them. Why get
them pissed?"
Big Anthony came back from his appointment and retumed
my car keys. He said,"You got to go away for a while. The police
are watching.When you come back don't park on the streetm park
on the next block then cut across the lot."
Bully and I drove to a liquor store. It was about midnight.
As we drove, I said, "I heard there was a shooting here the
other night."
"Yeah that's right," Bully said. "The crew don't take too
kindly to people selling drugs that don't live on their street."
"What happened?"
"This guy started selling and they told him, "don't be
pitching on our street, but some folks came to his defense. They
said, there's enough traffic that floats through this street, 24
hours a day, he ain't going to hurt nobody's business.' But the
boy was making bucks, big bucks, ten thousand a day. Somebody
got envious, and he started a rumor about another guy who sold
by the bag and said it was coming from the new boy. When this
guy who sold by the bag heard it, he went to his crib and came
out with a gun and shot the new boy right in the groin. But he's
outofthe hospital and rumor has it that his customers still go to
see him to buy theirweight. But the shit's notover - someone's
going to get killed yet."
We parked on the next street and returned to the house.
Les was outside dealing. He told me that selling crack
supported his family, but that someday he wanted to go to
college. He was 22.
"I need the money right now, but later I'm going to quit. The
government will help me get a student loan," he said. "I want
to be an artist."
When I went back in the crack house, Louise, from the
suburbs, was there. She was married and owned her own house.
"I'm out of money," she said. "They took my car and
promised to give me something. But I've been waiting two
hours." She was almost crying. "Can I have some money?"
"All I have is ten," I said. "And I need some money to get
backhome."
She begged Big Anthony for a dime bag.
He said, "No, go away."
She came close to me and whispered, "Look I'll do
anything. All I need is a five; they'll sell me a dime for five.
Would you give me five?"
"I would, if someone will change a ten dollar bill."
Louise went outside and went from dealer to dealer and
asked them to make change and sell her a dime. They all had
change and they all refused. She came back in the house.
Big Anthony went to the kitchen to smoke. I was in the
living room, telling Bully, Louise, Cleo and another woman
how home ownership would bring wealth back to the people.
Big Anthony listened for a while from the kitchen, then
shouted, "All you Jehovah Witnesses out here listening to him,
be careful."
After a while. Big Anthony told me to leave. I asked him
why.
I looked into his eyes. He was tweaking and his eyes were
bulging. I said softly, "You're a good person. I know you do what
you do because you believe in it."
"That's right," he said. "I do what I got to do."
We shook hands. "Okay man," he said and walked back to
the street.
It was getting late. Ready to leave, I went outside. Louise
followed: "Could you go to the store for me and get change for
your ten and give me five?" she asked.
We drove to the nearest store to get change. Almost as soon
as we pulled into the parking lot, a fight broke out between two
men. As I was watching the police break up the fight, Louise
became impatient. I gave her the ten.
A moment later she returned and handed me a five dollar
bill. "Put that in your story," she said.
I had met a whole panoply of people, communicated with
them, touched their flesh as it were. I had found their humanity
in sadness and in joy, possibly with more sadness, and I suffered
with them that I saw suffer. In their suffering, I experienced their
heartbeat, their breath, and the mortality that we all have, that
we all must live with and I felt their joy.
