Jimi Hendrix: A Brother's Story by Leon Hendrix & Adam Mitchell

Author:Leon Hendrix & Adam Mitchell [Hendrix, Leon]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2012-05-07T16:00:00+00:00

9

SEPTEMBER 6, 1968

Not long after my brother left to continue touring, he wired me $5,000 and sent Dad enough money to go out and buy himself a brand-new ’68 Chevrolet Malibu and ’68 GMC three-quarter-ton, V-8 pickup truck. Dad was as happy as I’d ever seen him driving each gorgeous new car off the sales lot.

Dad and I didn’t hear from Jimi much after his homecoming concert. It was close to impossible for him to stay in touch, given the schedule he was keeping out on the road and in the recording studio. But every once in a while he’d call the house to check in. Since something was always going down on the Seattle streets to get hooked into, sometimes I was around for his calls and sometimes I wasn’t.

The stakes were getting higher for me out on the streets. Our crew usually tried to hang back and lie low for two or three months in between scores, but it wasn’t easy to ignore my addiction to the action. As soon as someone plotted our next move, we typically went back into action. Although we always insisted it was important to stick with the smaller jobs, one of us came up with the idea to hit a large company called Wyeth Laboratories, which manufactured the diet pills we called crisscross speed. The rumor swirling around downtown was that the company kept somewhere around 1 million pills in the building. Crisscross pills were the best speed you could get and were all the rage at the time. Although I could take a bunch and stay awake for days hustling and gambling, it was an absolute world of pain when I came down. My joints and muscles ached like hell. It wasn’t a pretty scene.

After casing the Wyeth lab for around a week, our crew went in exactly as planned. We hit the back room and began rifling through boxes and boxes of different drugs.

“What’s the number again?” I asked Dan, scanning through the shelves.

“Nine eight three six two … I think,” he told me.

“You think?”

“It’s either 98362 or 98367. Why don’t they just say ‘amphetamine’ on them or something!” he yelled.

Not only did all of the boxes look the same, but the pills were also carbon copies of each other. Plus, we were trying to identify these tiny things in the dark. However, I had no intention of giving up. A million or so pills were supposed to be on the racks somewhere, and at around a quarter apiece on the street, that meant we could be looking at a nice payday. No way were we leaving that kind of money behind. I kept scanning the different boxes with my flashlight until luckily I found exactly what we were looking for. There were shelves and shelves of them. We had finally hit the mother lode. The guys and I scrambled to pull the boxes from the storage shelves and stack them on the floor.

“Oh, man! We’ve got trouble!” one of the boys yelled back from the front room.

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