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Mick Moe was the baby boy out of five. Dave, June, Manuel, Eddie Ray and then Mick. When he was a shorty they called him Mickie cause he was obsessed with Mickie Mouse. But as he grew up that name took on a whole different meaning. Mick spent his early years coming up in the Boondocks, a grimy stretch of West Oakland near the Naval shipyards. His peoples, hard working and determined owned a small Victorian crib on 14th and Peralta. They were doing everything they could to provide a better life for their boys and eventually they stacked up enough to move the whole family to East Oakland near Highland Hospital. 23rd Avenue was a major come up from where they came from. It was a thriving black working class neighborhood stretching from MacArthur Boulevard to San Leandro Boulevard. A crucial link between two of the city's busiest strips. But right smack in the middle of it all was East 19th Street. Better known as Junkie Hill. A spot where a liquor store and Laundromat kept the streets buzzing with foot traffic. It was right here that the MoMo family made their transformation. Starting from a hard working family to one of Oakland's most notorious crime syndicates.
Dave, the oldest, was the first to jump into the game. He had ambition, brains, and the balls to make moves happen. But the streets don't forgive. His life got cut short under circumstances that stayed unsolved. His brothers didn't waste no time picking up where he left off. They transformed their family into a full-blown operation, bringing in cousins, nephews, uncles, anybody with MoMo blood. Even cats who weren't family either worked for them or stayed the hell out of their way. Their reach expanded quick from 23rd Avenue to 13th and all the way to Fruitvale. Their name held serious weight. And when it came time to make it known who ran things, they had a battle cry. Two seven, two six, two five, two four, two three, family.
The area had character. Most of the homes were old Victorians built in the early 1900s. There were a few housing authority apartments but no massive projects. Yet when the heroin epidemic crashed through, it didn't discriminate. Working-class people, street hustlers, everyday folks, everybody felt the impact. And where there was demand, the MoMo family made damn sure there was supply.
Mick had always been different from his brothers. He had genuine talent. His voice was buttery smooth, something straight out of a Motown record. His family wanted him to focus on music to stay away from the streets. But some people are just born with a knack for the hustle and Mick had it deep in him. At first, he played it cool, staying in his lane, balancing music and the family business. He didn't have to flex his muscle. His name already carried respect. What really made him stand out was his presence. He had a natural charm, slick style and a confidence that made people gravitate toward him. His best friend Drew Piazza was the ultimate ladies man, the type of cat 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 complete package. And when the time came for him to step up and lead, he did it smooth.
Mick eventually formed a singing group called the Nomonics, stepping into the lead vocalist spot while still keeping his hands in a little side hustle to keep his pockets fat. By high school, he was already dipping his toes in the game, getting jammed up in December 1970 for possession of second-hand La Party drug that was making waves in the music scene. At the time, the cops had no clue they were locking up a future kingpin. Mick spent his nights doing gigs all over the bay, rubbing elbows with musicians, promoters, and street figures who had more than just music in their portfolio. 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 position. 23rd Avenue and East 14th Street transformed 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 flooding the streets. China White, 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 touched down, it came in bricks. Kilos broken down into 40-25 gram pieces. The purest product 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 pull it up into a syringe and shoot it up. 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 bread, they were running the whole damn scene.
Mick's inner circle was eating good too. His most trusted cats, 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-blown empire. Oakland had never witnessed 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 witnessed 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 deboys with deep pockets. Mick and his crew spent millions at Spitz lacing themselves in one of a kind pieces that turned heads wherever they rolled. One of Mick's most iconic pieces was a diamond-filled hourglass pendant that became as famous as the man himself. But all that glitter and gold came with a price that nobody could have predicted.
By the mid-seventies, Mick's operation had grown into something unprecedented. The money was flowing faster than anybody could count it. But money and power on the streets always attract heat, and Mick's heat was about to reach a breaking point. Federal agents had been watching, building cases, and waiting for the right moment to strike. The feds didn't just want to bust small-time dealers. They wanted Mick. They wanted the whole operation brought down.
On a cold morning in 1976, the raid came hard and fast. Federal agents kicked down doors across East Oakland, sweeping up Mick, his brothers, and his inner circle. The charges were serious—distribution of heroin, conspiracy, money laundering. But before any trial could go down, Mick's story took a darker turn. Prison politics, rivalries, and the violence that had defined his reign on the streets followed him behind bars. His legacy would be written not just by his success, but by how far the streets would go to protect their own and how quickly empires can crumble.
Mick Moe's reign over Oakland was brief but legendary. He rose from the youngest brother to the most powerful drug trafficker the city had ever seen, transforming his family's name into something that commanded respect and fear in equal measure. His influence stretched across neighborhoods, his wealth seemed boundless, and his style was unmatched. But like all street empires built on heroin and violence, his empire was destined to fall. The money, the cars, the jewelry—none of it could protect him from the federal government's determination to dismantle everything he'd built. Mick Moe's story is a cautionary tale of ambition without boundaries, of how quickly the streets can elevate you and just as quickly destroy you. He remains a figure of mythology in Oakland's underworld, a reminder of the era when one man with the right connections and the right product could own an entire city. But his legacy also stands as a testament to the devastating impact of the heroin epidemic, the countless lives lost to addiction, and the price that communities pay when drug empires rise and fall. Mick Moe was Oakland royalty, but even royalty answers to the law.