Guns n Roses

We used to hoop every day after school at Winter Gardens Elementary. That blacktop was our ritual, our peace, even though we were deep in enemy territory. Winter Gardens 13 ran that neighborhood—a rival gang and a mortal enemy of Ford Maravilla. Still, we played ball there every day until the sun dipped behind the rooftops, the sky melting into orange and purple. It wasn’t smart, but we were young and didn’t care. We always came strapped, just in case. We'd blaze between games, post up on the edge of the court, then jump right back in.

For three months, nothing ever popped off. Just basketball, weed, and trash talk. But then one day, everything shifted.

Someone's cousin called out from the side, "Hey, watch out—Felipe’s getting into it with some fool from Winter Gardens." I ran over and saw Felipe squared up, yelling at this guy, telling him this wasn’t his neighborhood anymore. That he better get the fuck out. The dude looked like he wanted to test it—until Felipe flashed a .380. A raggedy throwaway he’d taken from his brother. That piece was so busted, you had to jam a pencil into the mag to keep it from falling out. Still, it did the job. The guy left, but not quiet. He walked off talking shit.

That day, someone new was on the court. Landon. He’d been hooping with us for a while—just showed up one day and never left. Older than us, drove a clean blue Toyota Tercel. Said he lived on Vancouver Street. Filipino, married, but he vibed with us. Smoked weed. Loved the game. After the altercation, he walked up to me and asked if he could check out our .380. I handed it over. He looked it over and said, “Wow.” Then asked, “You ever seen a 9mm with Black Talons? Cop killers?” I shook my head.

He walked back to his Tercel, popped the trunk, and came back with a gun case. Unzipped it slow. Pulled out this sleek, black beauty like it was a trophy. I whispered, “Wow.” He smiled and said, “Wanna shoot it?” I said, “Fuck yes.”

Right there in the middle of the basketball court—broad daylight—I emptied the whole clip. The sound echoed off the school walls. Felt like the whole world paused for a second.

I handed him back the gun and ran back to the block, heart pounding. Three blocks away, all muscle memory. Landon pulled up next to me in his Tercel. “Get in, I’ll drop you off,” he said. We rolled down the street like nothing happened.

Before I got out, he asked me, “You buy guns?” I nodded. “Just page me,” he said.

I gave him my number.

That was the beginning of a new kind of hustle. A professional relationship. Built on basketball, bullets, and shared silence in enemy territory.

The first gun I ever bought from Landon was a Ruger—came in a slick case with two clips. It felt official. What’s better than baseball and apple pie? Basketball and firearms—East Los Angeles style.

Our relationship grew fast. This was late ’93 going into ’94. We had rhythm: hoop, smoke, sell, repeat. One day, Landon asked how I made my money. I didn’t flinch. Told him straight—crack and weed. He just nodded, said, “Cool,” and handed me a sack of bud. “Do whatever you want with it,” he said, like it was nothing.

Later, he invited me to his place. Said he wanted to show me something. We pull up to a regular house, nothing flashy. He takes me to this back room, opens the door—and boom. Guns on display like art. Pistols, rifles, shotguns. Everything clean, organized, like a museum of warfare. I was in awe. It was fucking beautiful in the most dangerous way.

By April of '94, I was posted on the block more than on the court. Hoopin' had taken a backseat to hustlin'. Landon wasn’t just the homie anymore—he was the supplier. And I was the bridge to the streets. He’d page me with our special code. Pull up, smooth as ever, cool as hell.

Then one day, everything changed.

He pulled up like usual, leaned over and said, “Hey, unzip that bag on the seat.” It was a dry cleaner’s bag. I unzipped it—and froze.

It was a fucking police uniform.

I stared at it, stunned. My voice barely worked: “What the fuck are you?”

He grinned like it was a game. “I’m a Long Beach police officer.”

Time stopped. My pulse started sprinting. I looked around, half-expecting narcs to flood in from every corner. My mind was racing, all I could say was, “What now?”

He just laughed. Calm, chill, like this was normal. “It’s all good, man. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about?

Everything to worry about.

I was buying guns from a cop. A real one. I couldn’t let the homies know. That would’ve ended everything—me, him, all of us. I went home and didn’t sleep that night. Just stared at the ceiling thinking, this is it. We’re getting hit at sunrise. SWAT, battering rams, CNN.

But morning came—and nothing.

Days passed. Still nothing. Weeks passed. Silence.

Eventually, I had to accept the reality: he was really out here. Smoking with us. Selling us heat. Dropping off weed. If he was Donnie Brasco, then fuck it—I was Lefty. Too deep now. No way out but through.

That’s how wild East L.A. could be.

Sometimes your plug was a baller, sometimes a homie, and sometimes… a fucking cop.

Then came May 31, 1994.

The coldest day of my life.

Felipe was my little homie. Young, solid, fearless. That day I saw him lying there, lifeless, blood soaking into the earth like it was hungry. He didn’t move for hours. My heart cracked in half. Something inside me died with him. The innocence—whatever was left—vanished.

My whole outlook shifted. From that moment forward, it was kill or be killed. I made a vow right there in the middle of the street—no more funerals on our block. If they came for us, we’d be ready. Armed and angry.

Landon pulled up later to pay his respects. Didn’t come empty-handed either. He gave me a beautiful Browning, gleaming like polished vengeance. I told him, “I need everything you got.” From that day until December 1995, I bought 57 guns from Landon. Enough to strap the whole hood. I turned grief into artillery. Ain’t nobody going to heaven or hell without a fight.

It was war and wild nights—gun purchases, dope sales, shootouts, homegirls, and hoodrats. We lived fast, raw, and reckless.

Then one day, Landon showed up with a surprise. He pulled out a camcorder, popped in a tape, and pressed play. The screen lit up—and there she was: Pamela Anderson. Blonde bombshell in all her Baywatch glory, walking up to the camera and saying, “Hi to all the guys from East Los Angeles… Maravilla.”

I damn near dropped the camera.

Landon laughed and handed me the tape like it was a gift from God. Said it was mine. I showed it to all the homies. That clip became legend on the block. He explained that LPD would sometimes do security for Baywatch since they filmed in Long Beach. That day was his detail, and he made magic happen.

Landon knew about the greenlight. He’d ask questions, wanted to understand the war we were in. He said it made him feel good—supplying the homies, helping us fight back. Maybe it made him feel like a hero on both sides of the badge. He even asked about La Eme once. I told him I didn’t know. That was sacred ground. You don’t speak on that—not to anyone.

I remembered what Guns N’ Roses said—Nothing lasts forever, not even November rain. They were right.

Weeks passed, and then I got the page.

Landon pulled up looking like a man on the edge. Pale, sweating, eyes darting around. He got straight to it—told me he was under investigation, suspended. The guns he’d been supplying? He’d been stealing them. From evidence lockers, from traffic stops, from anywhere he could. It had finally caught up to him.

“Fuck…” I whispered.

He looked at me desperate. “If investigators reach out, don’t say anything.”

I leaned into the window. Looked him dead in the eyes. “Landon… you better not say anything. Now get the fuck out of here.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded, drove off into the night.

That was the last time I ever saw him.