"It's just a group of people in the same city or in the suburbs that get together and go to picnics and barbecues," says "Bill," who did not want his real name used and is currently on probation. He calls himself an "active" member. "Me and my homeboys, we try to help each other out and try to get jobs for one another. We act like a second family."
In some instances, says Bill, Houstone even creates peace between street gang members who were at war with each other before they united under Tango Blast.
Daniel Kramer
No longer active, Randy Moreno says Houstone recruits members promising brotherhood without lifelong commitment.
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"I know this dude who I shot at when we were on the streets in different gangs," says Bill, "but he joined Houstone and now we laugh about it. He tells all the homeboys, 'this crazy motherfucker shot at me, and now I have his bullet right now.' And we just laugh about it because it's just part of how we grew up."
But not all Houstone and Tango Blast members choose a crime-free life after getting out of prison. Over the past several years, Houston, Dallas and Austin police have arrested Tango Blast members for everything from drug dealing and kidnapping to sexual assault and murder. Members have been accused of threatening police officers and waging a bloody, all-out turf war with members of the Texas Syndicate over drugs and issues of respect that are spilling over from the prisons into the streets.
"Most of us are trying to straighten up," says Pete of Port Arthur, "but mind you, we're all criminals and it's hard to get rid of that criminal mind-set. So when you get a bunch of criminals together, criminal shit is going to happen."
Last October, for instance, 21-year-old William Linzer, a Houstone member, was accused of kidnapping and then, along with an accomplice, of raping a teenaged girl, says Harris County prosecutor Caroline Dozier. That incident allegedly occurred about a year and a half after Linzer and another man were accused of shooting Darrick Harris in the head with a 9-millimeter handgun outside a block party in southeast Houston. Prosecutors are scheduled to take Linzer to trial on all three offenses this month.
In Dallas, Tango Blast member Guadalupe Rodriguez pleaded guilty last November in federal court to possession of methamphetamine with intent to distribute. During three separate traffic stops in 2005 and 2006, police found more than 660 grams of meth on Rodriguez, as well as loaded guns and thousands of dollars in cash. U.S. District Court Judge Jane J. Boyle sentenced him to more than 32 years in prison. In addition, police determined Rodriguez had lied to government agents about the role of his partners in the dope operation and had in fact contacted certain co-conspirators from prison to brag about cleaning up their responsibility in the venture and to warn them of ongoing police investigations.
"Some of our guys are still hardheaded criminals," says Bill. "You've got dudes out there with good connections that all their life they've been drug dealers, so you can't really get mad at them for doing their thing."
Tango Blast members have been on the receiving end of violence from rival gangs. According to a federal indictment filed earlier this year in Houston against 17 members of the Texas Syndicate, several men, including Francisco Nuncio, also known as Frank the Butcher, conspired to murder a Tango Blast member "for the purpose of gaining entrance to" and "increasing their position in the (Texas Syndicate) Enterprise."
"There's a lot of people from the Texas Syndicate who don't like Houstone," says Bill. They're mad at us, but for them, they're not just going to beat you on sight for the hell of it. They're going to check you out and see what you're about before they stab you or shoot you. It's just all about respect."
Sometimes, because Tango Blast is so disorganized and so large, members fight each other without even knowing it.
Take Jason Wooley, for example. According to Harris County prosecutor Eileen Bogar, Wooley, a member of Houstone, was working as a bouncer at a pool hall called The Perfect Rack in northwest Houston in July 2004. Another Houstone member, Adrian Payan, and a non-gang member named Emerson Boroquez, says Bogar, showed up for a fistfight with Wooley, when Wooley suddenly drew a gun and fired into the ground. Immediately, a pair of men who were hiding opened fire, killing Boroquez and striking Payan in the back. Wooley was sentenced to 40 years in prison.
"They were all Houstone except for Boroquez," says Bogar, "and the jury determined that it was a planned deal, an ambush. The motive was unclear; it could have been a mistake. And it's highly possible they didn't know each other were Houstone."
For the moment, the gang's greatest failing is members' unwillingness and inability to organize. That shortcoming, in turn, is the greatest asset for police.
"What we're seeing," says FBI agent Brian Ritchie, "is that they're meeting each other in prison and then coming out, finding each other and then organizing on the street in what we'll call cells of various numbers. The violence and conflicts they have with other prison gangs is spilling over into the streets, and they are no different than any other gang in terms of the kinds of crimes they commit, except that they are not that organized. Yet. And that's what we're trying to prevent, because if they do organize, we're going to have a big problem."