The grimiest way you could imagine—mean streets, real mean streets. Mick Moe came up the youngest out of five, Dave, June, Manuel, Eddie Ray, then Mick. Back when he was just a shorty they tagged him Mickie 'cause the kid was obsessed with Mickey Mouse and all that. But when he got grown, that name started carrying a whole different type of weight. Mick's early days went down in the Boondocks, a grimy stretch of West Oakland sitting near them Naval shipyards. His peoples, hardworking and locked in, owned a small Victorian crib on 14th and Peralta. They was grinding their hardest trying to provide something better for their boys, and eventually they stacked enough bread to relocate the whole family to East Oakland near Highland Hospital. 23rd Avenue was a major come-up from where they started. It was a thriving black working-class hood stretching from MacArthur Boulevard to San Leandro Boulevard, a key connector between two of the city's busiest strips. Right in the center of all that action sat East 19th Street, better known as Junkie Hill, a spot where a liquor store and laundromat kept the blocks buzzing with foot traffic. It was right there that the Momo family had their transformation, going from a hardworking household to one of Oakland's most notorious crime organizations. Dave, the oldest, was the first one to step into the game. He had the ambition, the brains, and the heart to make moves happen. But the streets don't forgive nothing. His life got cut short under circumstances that stayed unsolved. His brothers didn't waste no time picking up where he left off. They turned their family into a full-blown operation, bringing in cousins, nephews, uncles, anybody with Momo blood. Even cats who wasn't family either worked for them or stayed clear of their path. Their reach expanded quick, from 23rd Avenue to 13th and all the way down to Fruitvale. Their name held weight, and when it was time to let it be known who controlled things they had a battle cry: two seven, two six, two five, two four, two three, family. The area had some charm to it. Most of the homes were old Victorians built in the early 1900s. There were a few housing authority apartments scattered around but no sprawling projects. Yet when that heroin epidemic touched down, it didn't pick and choose. Working-class folks, street hustlers, everyday people—everybody felt the impact. And where there was demand, the Momo family made sure there was supply. Nick had always been different from his brothers. He had real talent. His voice was smooth, like something straight out of a Motown record. His family wanted him to lock in on music, to stay away from the streets. But some cats are just born with a knack for the hustle, and Mick had it in his DNA. At first, he played it cool, staying in his lane, balancing music and the family business. He didn't have to throw his weight around. His name already carried respect. What really separated him from the rest was his presence. He had a natural charm, sharp style, and a confidence that made people gravitate toward him. His best friend, Drew Piazza, was the ultimate ladies' man, the type of dude who had his pick of any woman in town. Mick played the wingman role perfectly, scooping up whoever Drew passed on. But even without that, Mick had his own appeal—a singer, a hustler, a sharp dresser. He was the total package. And when the time came for him to step up and lead, he did it effortlessly. Mick eventually formed a singing group called the Nomonics, stepping into the lead vocalist role while still keeping his hands in a little side hustle to keep his pockets lined. By high school, he was already dipping his toes into the game, getting caught up in December 1970 for possession of seconal, a party drug that was making waves in the music scene. At the time, the cops had no idea they were locking up a future kingpin. Mick spent his nights doing gigs all over the Bay, rubbing shoulders with musicians, promoters, and street figures who had more than just music in their repertoire. Some of these cats were plugged in deep, especially in the dope trade. It was through these connections that Mick got his first major plug on China White heroin. That was the game changer. Once he locked in that supply, he called a family meeting, put his brothers on notice, and laid out the blueprint. The youngest in the family had just become the shot caller, and nobody questioned it. Everybody fell in line and played their part. Third Avenue and East 14th Street turned into a gold mine. The Momo family's $10 balloons became legendary. Not even Big Fee, the so-called heavyweight in town, could match the China White they were pushing. It was the purest, deadliest product on the streets, and fiends were dropping left and right. Every overdose only made the demand skyrocket. The cops took notice too. Anyone caught with it wasn't just getting hit with possession or intent to sell. They were getting slapped with attempted murder just for dealing it. To break it down, there were three main types of heroin hitting the streets. China White, the Kremlin—imported straight from Asia, this fine powdery heroin was the strongest of them all. Afghan Black—coming from Afghanistan, this sticky dark substance made its way through Africa before hitting the US. And Mexican mud—the most common, this dark brown gum-like heroin came straight from Mexico. When that China White landed, it came in bricks—kilos broken down into 40 25-gram pieces. The purest stuff could take a three-hitter, meaning one piece could be stretched into four 25-gram portions by cutting it with milk sugar or super lactose and baking it down. There were two ways fiends took their hit. Shooters—they'd melt down black tar heroin on a spoon, heated up, dropping some cotton, then pulled it up into a syringe and injected. Snorters—the powdered form was sifted and mixed with quinine, then piled up on album covers, funneled into balloons, and double-tied for street sales. At just $10 a pop, business was booming. The Momo family had officially arrived. They weren't just making money, they were running the whole damn scene. Mick's inner circle was eating good too. His most trusted guys—Drew Piazza, Tricky Dick, Billy Tate, Pimpy Doo, Big H, and Money—were living like kings. If you drove down 23rd Avenue, you'd see Mick's two Bentleys, Drew's yellow drop-top Jaguar, and a fleet of Benzes, Cadillacs, Lincolns, and Corvettes. It wasn't just the drug game, it was a full-on empire. Oakland had never seen anything like it. Mick Moe wasn't just making noise in the streets. His presence was unmistakable. When it came to jewelry, he was on a level that Oakland had never seen before. His go-to jeweler was Rudy from Spitz, a small mom-and-pop shop in the Fruitvale district that was becoming legendary for crafting custom pieces for the boys with deep pockets. Mick and his crew spent millions at Spitz, lacing themselves in one-of-a-kind pieces that turned heads wherever they went. One of Mick's most iconic pieces—a diamond-filled hourglass medallion the size of a soda can, a flex that spoke for itself. On his pinky sat a massive ram's head ring, stacked with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds embedded in the horns, eyes, and mouth. His gold cufflinks, set with black onyx, gleamed at the end of his tailored suit sleeves. Peeking out from his wrist, a gold nugget Cartier watch, iced out with diamonds. Mick was a musician, entertainer, and hustler all in one, and he made sure his look matched his status. Unlike his arch-nemesis, Big Fee, who was known for rocking heavy mink coats, Mick preferred a suited-up high-fashion aesthetic. He and his crew stayed fresh in bright colors and unorthodox fabrics—velvet, velour, leather, suede—switching it up depending on the occasion. And his shoe game? Untouchable. Mick had custom kicks flown in from Italy, Alaska, and New York, crafted from gator, ostrich, penguin, otter, and snakeskin. The type of footwear that would make even the sharpest preacher jealous. With cash piling up, Mick started making moves in real estate. He copped properties all over Oakland, turning them into trap houses that generated income 24/7. But money wasn't the only thing he was accumulating. Power was. The Momo family's tentacles reached into every corner of the city. They had politicians in their pocket, cops on their payroll, and informants feeding them intel on every move the feds made. For years, it seemed like Mick was untouchable. He moved through Oakland like he owned the place, which in many ways, he did. He'd pull up to clubs in his Bentley, walk in like he owned the building, and whatever was happening inside stopped. DJs would spin his records. People would part like the Red Sea. He had that kind of power. His crew was getting rich too. Drew Piazza was rocking ice that would blind you. Money had houses in the hills. Tricky Dick was moving product so fast he couldn't spend it all. The lifestyle they were living was intoxicating—beautiful women, fast cars, expensive drugs, and the kind of street respect that only comes from controlling a major dope market. But every empire has an expiration date. The feds had been watching. Narcotics units were building cases. Snitches were talking. By the mid-1970s, the pressure started mounting. Busts happened. Family members got locked up. The cops were getting smarter, and the Momo family's reach, while still extensive, began to show cracks. Mick's close associates were falling one by one. The streets that once celebrated him started becoming dangerous. Rivals began moving in. The money was still flowing, but the paranoia was flowing faster. On the streets, nothing lasts forever. The golden era of the Momo family—when they controlled Oakland's heroin trade and lived like royalty while the city crumbled around them—became folklore. Mick Moe's legacy is complicated and dark. He was a talented musician who chose the dope game. A charming, stylish hustler who brought an empire of death to the neighborhoods he called home. The $10 balloons of China White that made him rich destroyed thousands of lives. The overdoses that spiked his profits devastated families across Oakland. Today, 23rd Avenue still stands, but the Momos are gone. The Bentleys are collecting dust. The custom jewelry sits in pawn shops and evidence lockers. What remains is the damage—families torn apart, lives lost, and a community forever scarred by the choices one family made when opportunity knocked on their door wearing a heroin dealer's face. Mick Moe's story isn't a rise-and-fall narrative of a hustler who made it big. It's a cautionary tale about what happens when ambition, talent, and access to a killer product intersect in a vulnerable community. The Momo family's Golden Era lasted only a few years, but its consequences echoed through Oakland for decades. That's the real legacy of Golden Era 23—not the cars, not the jewelry, not the power plays, but the broken lives left behind when greed and addiction became the only currency that mattered.