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  Authors’ Note: People have to learn how to tell stories without implicating those who may not want their stories told. Some names and situations have been changed to protect those involved.

  CHAPTER 1 DON’T HATE THE PLAYA

  Don’t hate the playa

  Hate the game

  Nigga, sharpen your aim

  Every baller on the street’s

  In search of fortune and fame

  Some come up

  Some get done up

  Accept the twist

  If you out for mega cheddar

  You got to go high risk

  —ICE, “DON’T HATE THE PLAYA”

  ICE

  If you’d told me when I was twenty-three years old that someday I’d be playing a cop on TV, I’d have busted out laughing in your face.

  But here I am, age sixty-three, the longest-running male actor on any show in the history of television. When I signed on to do Law & Order: SVU it was just supposed to be a four-episode guest spot, but I’ve had the gig playing NYPD detective Odafin “Fin” Tutuola now for twenty-three years.

  It’s pretty fucking ironic because in real life, as my closest friends will tell you, I’m about as far from a cop as you can get.

  When I was in my early twenties, I was a career criminal. A player. A hustler. A street dude who felt he had nothing to fucking lose. Honestly, the only future I saw for myself was getting killed before I was twenty-five or spending the rest of my life in the penitentiary.

  Most of the cats I ran with were born and raised in South Central L.A. They grew up in neighborhoods controlled by the gangs. They were steeped in a world of violence and crime.

  That wasn’t my route to the street life. I showed up in South Central unexpectedly when I was orphaned at age twelve. I’m originally from New Jersey—born in Newark, raised in a middle-class suburb called Summit. My mother passed suddenly when I was in third grade from a heart attack. My father did his best to raise me on his own for a couple of years, but when I was in seventh grade I got called into the principal’s office and they told me my dad had also died of a heart attack.

  The thing that tripped everyone out is that I didn’t cry when either of my parents died. I loved my mom and dad, of course, but even at that young age I was already in this super-isolated zone—I went into hard-core survival mode. I was already thinking, Okay, what’s next? As an orphan, an only child, I was trying to figure it all out. They shipped me out to my father’s sister in L.A. My aunt lived in a middle-class Black neighborhood called View Park. There was no love in that house. My aunt had raised her kids already and didn’t want me there. She made it clear she was just taking me because she had to—because I had no place else to go.

  At first, I got bused to a junior high in Culver City—a mostly white school—but for tenth grade, I decided I wanted to walk to Crenshaw High. Man, talk about culture shock. Crenshaw was where I first got introduced to the gangs of L.A. Crenshaw was run by the Crips, though at the time, you still had a few Brims—that’s the original name for the Bloods gang.

  Time magazine called it Fort Crenshaw—it was one of the most violent schools in the U.S. It was a closed campus—once the bells rang, they locked the school down and you couldn’t leave. Geographically, Crenshaw was closest to the Rollin’ 60s neighborhood, but we had guys from the Harlem 30s, from Hoover, from Eight Tray Gangsters.

  I wasn’t a gangbanger. I never joined a set. Never jumped in. I realized quickly that you don’t have to join the gang; you just need to be cool with the leaders of the gang. I was friends with shot-callers from the 60s, from Harlem, from Hoover, from ETGs.

  At Crenshaw, I was already known as a player. I didn’t let anyone call me by my real name—Tracy. That would start fights. Niggas would say, “Tracy? That’s a bitch’s name.” And shit would pop off. I always went by “Tray” or “Crazy Tray.”

  I moved out of my aunt’s house and got my own apartment when I was seventeen. Since I was an orphan, my aunt was getting a Social Security check for $250 every month, and finally I said, “Look, give me the money. You don’t want me here anyway—I’m gone.” I spent a hundred bucks a month renting a little apartment in the hood, spent another hundred bucks on food, and had fifty dollars left over to hustle with.

  When I was eighteen, I got my girlfriend pregnant—she was still in the tenth grade—and, looking for a way to support my daughter, trying to do the responsible thing as a teen parent, I enlisted in the U.S. Army. Did my advanced individual training at Fort Benning, then I was stationed with the 25th Infantry at Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. Spent four years out there with the Tropic Lightning outfit, firing rifles and grenade launchers, riding around in armored personnel carriers—learning to be all the fuck that I can be, you know?

  After my discharge, when I got back to L.A., my friends had elevated their game: they’d gone from stealing car stereos to taking down jewelry stores and robbing banks.

  Most of my homies weren’t down with the violence. They were players—they prided themselves on using finesse. At the time, they were doing what was known as “trims.” For a trim, the only thing you needed was a little nail file and a whole lot of game. Jewelry display cases have what’s called a pop lock. If you know what you’re doing, it’s very easy to pick with a nail file. Crews that were trimming would walk into a jewelry store—usually two guys with a girl. The girl would say, “Can you please clean my jewelry?” A ring, a chain, didn’t matter—it was just a diversionary tactic to get the employee into the back room. One of the dudes would reach over the case, use the nail file to pop the lock, take watches, chains, rings—whatever he could grab.

  The whole object with trimming was to get the jewelry without creating a fucking scene—meaning, you could pop the lock, take the best pieces, close the case, and stroll out. No one in the store would even realize they’d been robbed until you were long gone.

  My homies like Nat the Cat had perfected the trim game by the time I came back from the army. I brought other skills to the table. With my military training, I was a beast at logistics, planning getaways. I had a mean GTA game. Whenever anyone needed a hot car—a G-ride—that was part of my expertise. I would get cars for everybody.

  I started to diagram licks with maps, teaching motherfuckers that the getaway is a hundred times more important than anything that happens during the lick itself.

  The game is forever evolving, and while the finessers were still trimming, some of us decided to bring out the sledgehammers.

  I rhyme about this in my song “That’s How I’m Livin’.”

  Bash for the jewels

  Baby sledgehammers were the tools

  I speak on this with hesitation

  Even though we’ve passed the statute of limitations

  Yeah, armed only with baby sledgehammers, we started the jewel-bash era in L.A. Instead of picking the display case lock, we’d whip out the sledgehammer and smash the glass, filling bags with the loot and escaping without anyone in the store getting hurt. The cats who were skilled at trimming thought we were barbarians. They were like, “I’m using a nail file, nigga, and you’re whipping out a fucking hammer?”

  By 1981, I was living at my friend Nat the Cat’s house on Forty-Second and St. Andrews. That place was kind of a centralized meeting spot for all sorts of criminal activity. At that time, the 40s neighborhood didn’t have an established gang like the Rollin’ 60s, the Harlem 30s, or Eight-Tray Gangsters. The 40s was strictly known for crews of players, hustlers, and drug dealers.

  One day I was in front of Nat the Cat’s and this crew from the 30s—Harlem Crips—were coming by to swap cars. This dude T-Money Bonaventure and my boy Nat the Cat were exchanging a Jaguar for a Cadillac Coupe de Ville.

  While they were working out the details of the car swap, I got introduced to this young cat who was leaning up against the Jag.

  “What’s up?” I said. “I’m Tray.”

  “Spike,” he said, and we gave each other a pound.

  From the minute I met Spike, I liked him. He was about five years younger than me, athletic build, looked like he could fight. I dug his vibe, dug his energy. He was dressed sharp, clean sneakers, nice watch and chain—as players, we prided ourselves on our sense of style. All our clothes were tailored—“teed-up,” we called it.

  As we started to hang out, I quickly saw that he could talk—like me, Spike’s got the gift of gab. He doesn’t get high or drunk, which was always my get-down, too.

  Spike’s crew was respected. I knew they’d taken down some big scores—and me being older, I was always looking for some hungry young players to have as team members. I could see he wasn’t with the bullshit. Spike was a slick young cat who was strictly about getting that paper.

  SPIKE

  The first thing that caught my attention about Ice was his voice. Before I ever saw his face, I overheard him talking some crazy-ass pimp shit—and it blew my motherfucking mind.

  I’m waiting in front of Nat the Cat’s place while my friend T-Money Bonaventure swaps this four-door Jaguar XJ6 for an
orange Coup de Ville. I’m leaning against the hood of the Jag and I can hear some dude speaking in rhymes. He was talking with Nat the Cat’s brother, Bebop Bill, and a few other dudes, and everything he said came out in poetry—an entire conversation in complete verses.

  Who the fuck’s talking like that?

  I turn and see this light-skinned brother with hazel eyes, about six feet, dressed fly, hair permed and wavy, just spinning some kind of wild rhymes. I thought, Man, okay, this dude’s animated. This dude’s got swag. I could see he was somebody that was seasoned, as far as the streets were concerned.

  We got introduced, and pretty quickly me and Ice—well, back then he went by the nickname Tray—became tight. Before we ever hit a lick together, we started chilling. I learned he was an orphan, came to L.A. after both his parents died, did his army service, and was surviving in the city on his own.

  My background was the total opposite. I was born and raised in South Central L.A. I grew up surrounded by gangs and crime. I come from a big family. My mom and dad had seven kids—four boys and three girls.

  My mother was a talented artist, a painter and children’s book illustrator. She was a tiny, soft-spoken, churchgoing lady. My dad was in the military and did two tours of Vietnam, so he was gone most of the time when I was growing up. My mom did her best to raise us, but with seven kids—especially four wild-ass boys—it was too much for her to handle on her own.

  I’m from the Harlem 30s’ neighborhood. My roots there go way back. My grandmother—my mom’s mom—bought a house on Thirty-Fifth Place for ten grand in 1930. All ten of her children grew up in that house, and at various points her grandchildren grew up in that house, too.

  Everyone in the neighborhood knew my grandmother. They’d call her Miss Burton. Or some dudes would just say “that little Indian lady.” She was partly Native American, under five feet tall, and always wore her hair in long braids. She would call to all the dudes, the hard-core gangbangers, and read them passages of Scripture.

  “You boys come over here,” she’d say. “Do you know that God loves you?”

  Even the hardest gangbangers would sit there for fifteen minutes and listen to my grandmother reading from the Bible.

  My oldest brother, Terry, was an OG, part of the first set of gangbangers in the neighborhood. His gang name was Turk. Back in the day, Turk and his homeboys used to wear pressed khakis, croaker sack shoes, and black fedoras. They were known as the Original Harlem Godfathers. Over time the name became Original Harlem Crips, or in my generation, they’d call us the Rollin’ 30s.

  Turk was older than me by seven years. He raised pit bulls and pigeons, did a little pimping, and sold some PCP, but he wasn’t making serious money from crime. He was strictly about that gangbanging life.

  It was my brother Robert, two years older than me, who elevated the game in the 30s. He started bringing the serious money into our neighborhood. Robert wasn’t a gangbanger; he was the first player in the family. He taught us how to dress in Louis Vuitton and Gucci and Fila. He showed us how to get our clothes teed-up. By the time I was in high school, Robert was a giant in the burglary world. He was known as a guy who could get through any lock. When he did a burg job, he used vise grips and a screwdriver and could take the entire lock out without triggering the alarm. In the middle of the night, he’d open up electronics stores, jewelry stores, high-end fashion boutiques—one time, I remember him opening an entire fucking mall so dudes could go inside and clean out the various shops.

  I was known as the athlete in the family. Growing up, my main thing was baseball. I was a star shortstop by the time I got to high school. All summer I’d be training, out jogging seven miles with ankle weights, building my legs and my endurance so I’d be stronger and faster than everyone else when the season started. I was known for my speed; my best move was stealing second base. Past midnight, I’d be in Denker Park—the main park in the 30s—when everyone in the neighborhood was asleep, with two or three friends from my high school team, hitting balls to each other.

  I hadn’t done anything major as far as crime goes. I knew how to “dip”—that’s what we called pickpocketing. When I was about fourteen, a friend of mine on the baseball team taught me about dipping—mostly we stole from unsuspecting ladies’ purses. We’d take the bus to Disneyland or Magic Mountain, places crowded with tourists, and make off with a few hundred bucks in cash or traveler’s checks. In fact, I taught my brothers Robert and Dwayne how to dip and they became successful at it, too.

  I enrolled in a junior college in L.A. and made the varsity team. I was getting A’s and B’s, planning to study real estate law, but in my first semester at college, my brother Robert put together a big jewelry score. He took T-Money Bonaventure and my little cousin Rich, who was only eleven years old. On that one burg, they cashed out for $80,000. When they split it up, each of them bought a Cadillac and had expensive chains with signature plates and diamonds.

  I felt left out, jealous—I was missing out on what I felt was my rightful place hustling beside Robert. From the dipping era on, Robert and me had always been hustling together, until I got pulled away by dreams of baseball. I mean, Rich was only in the sixth grade and he bought a Cadillac Seville with a TV in the back from some attorney in Pasadena. He had to sit on a fucking phone book to reach the pedals when he drove it! Out of anger and spite, I snatched Rich’s chain from around his neck. Robert and me got into a big argument about it.

  “Give Rich back his chain,” Robert said.

  “I should have been on that fucking lick!” I told him.

  “You were at school,” he said. “You were doing your thing with baseball.”

  I was really torn. I wanted to see how far I could go with baseball—when I was at Manual Arts, some scouts had watched me play against Eric Davis, who played for Fremont High and later went on to have a long pro career as a center fielder. I don’t know if I could have made it to the major leagues, but those scouts gave me their cards and said I had a lot of potential. I was committed to baseball, but I felt I was missing out on some big scores with Robert.

  Right after that big jewelry burglary, the coach told a few of us that we had to cut our hair. I used to wear my hair long, permed, real pimpish. “Hell no,” I said, “I ain’t cutting shit.” Overnight, I put my hair in these little rollers, made it into tight curls, and pulled my cap over it, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Of course, during practice, running the bases, my hat kept flying off. The coach was furious. “I thought I told you to cut your hair. You defied my order!”

  He gave me an ultimatum: get rid of my long hair or I was off the team. “Fuck this!” I said, and I walked off the park. From that point on, I was done with baseball, done with college. I was committed to hitting licks.

  In the robbery game, I was far more aggressive than my brother. Robert was the nighttime guy; I was the daytime guy. Robert would only do his thing under the cloak of darkness, when the stores were closed, no security on-site—just using his slick skills to get through locks.

  I wouldn’t wait for the stores to be fucking locked up. I’d come in first thing in the morning with everybody at work, customers shopping, and either finesse them with my wordplay or take a sledgehammer and break the display glass, using the element of surprise and my speed to make a clean getaway.

  In just a few months of hitting licks, I evolved into a monster.

  ICE

  Iceberg Slim, my favorite author, has this great line: he calls it being “street poisoned.” That phrase perfectly describes players like me and Spike.

  Being a criminal is a weird warp. It’s an ill drug.

  Once you’ve been street poisoned, you start turning real life on its head. You surround yourself with other street poisoned individuals who reinforce this negativity. They tell you that what’s up is down and what’s down is up.

  When you’re in the underworld, when you’re living that life 24/7, what’s regarded as good is actually bad. For example, anyone who works a square job is a sucker.

  We don’t work—we’re players. We’re too fucking cool to work.