The Mystery of Puff’s Daddy

SEAN DIDDY COMBS PUSHES MUSIC, FASHION. FRAGRANCE AND VODKA. BUT HIS FATHER PUSHED A DIFFERENT KIND OF PRODUCT UNTIL THE DAY ONE OF HIS GANGSTER FRIENDS TOOK HIM FOR A RIDE. VIBE INVESTIGATES THE MURDER OF MELVIN COMBS

A car, parked on 106 Street and Central Park West. After taking a look inside the car as the cab sped by, she had the cab drop her off at Small’s Paradise.

“They killed Melvin!” she screamed as soon as she stepped inside the bar. “I just came from down by the park and saw him in his car. Somebody killed him!”

Claude Helton, an associate of Melvin’s, slid off his barstool and made his way outside.

“Had to go see what she was talking about,” Helton says today.

Helton and a few of his partners drove down to 106th. The police had not arrived; no crowd had yet formed, and it was silent on the block. Hel-ton slowed down just a bit when he saw Melvin’s car.

“Brain matter all over the window,” Helton says matter-of-factly. “I just looked at the car and said, ‘Yeah, they got Melvin.’ And then we went on back up to the bar.”

Helton has been in and out of prison for most of his adult life. It’s hard to envision this older gentleman running the streets of Harlem. Now in his late-60s, Helton has rheumy hazel eyes and a lined, weathered face. He is soft-spoken and smiles easily.

Today, he sits in an office in the South Bronx, clutching a shoebox of mementos and photos of his days in the street life. He’s agreed to meet and talk about his friend Melvin Combs, though he often has to throw his head back and close his eyes tight for a long moment to jog his memory of the old days. But some of his stories—the ones that are hardest to tell—come back in an instant.

Helton had been friendly with Melvin for years, ever since Melvin had gotten into the drug game in the late ’60s. But in the weeks before his death, there had been something in the air. People were talking about Melvin, and it wasn’t good.

“There was a buzz,” says Helton. “Melvin didn’t know. But I did. I heard the whispers. It was his time.”

It was January 26, 1972, and Melvin Combs was 33 years old. Five days later, the former U.S.A.F. Airman was buried at the National Cemetery in Farmingdale, New York. The New York Amsterdam News reported on the service: “He is survived by his young wife Janice, who was draped in chinchilla at the rites, and a young son.”

His young son, Sean John Combs, was two years old. When he was old enough to ask questions, he would be told that his father was killed in a car accident.

Melvin had been shot at point blank range, twice, in the head. Helton says the killer was sitting in the passenger’s seat of Melvin’s car. The whispers Helton had heard in the weeks before the murder only got louder in the days following.

Melvin Combs, the dark-skinned, pretty boy with the toothy, megawatt smile, was a co-conspirator in a case that would send some members of his crew to prison for up to 12 years. He had been arrested on drug charges just two weeks before his death.

The question on everybody’s lips: Did Melvin Combs rat out his fellow drug dealers? And did he pay the ultimate price for doing so?

JUST AS CRACK replaced heroin, Alpo, AZ, and Rich Porter replaced Leroy “Nicky” Barnes and Frank Lucas, and hip-hop replaced jazz, disco, and funk, Sean “Puffy” Combs eventually replaced “Pretty” Melvin Combs. And young Sean had a question he needed answered: Who was Melvin Combs?

Sean’s mother would move him and his younger sister Keisha out of Harlem and into the suburbs. Janice Combs worked as many jobs as necessary to send her son to Catholic school and maintain a lifestyle far away from where the truth about his father hung thick in every bar and lounge from Harlem to Yonkers.

But there wasn’t anywhere Janice could have moved that would have kept the truth—or at least part of it—from her son. Eventually, Sean’s search for his father led him to news stories that confirmed all the whispers: his father had been a drug dealer.

“He was the ruler,” Diddy said in the 2001 book Bad Boy: The Influence of Sean “Puffy” Combs on the Music Industry. “It was time for a new ruler. That was the life he led.”

The truth—about who his father was and why he was killed—is just a bit more complicated.

Melvin Combs was born on April 15, 1939. He grew up in East Baltimore with four siblings. After the death of his mother when he was 11 years old, the children were on the verge of being parceled out to several different families in the area. But Melvin’s Aunt Bootsie decided to take all five of the Combs children in.

Aunt Bootsie lived in New York City in a brand new housing development called the Patterson Houses. She took a train to Baltimore, collected all five kids, and brought them home to the South Bronx.

Elbert Shamsid-Deen lived on the same floor as Melvin.

“The relationship with Melvin and I goes back to 1951,” says Deen. Today, Deen owns an insurance company based in Yonkers. On a crisp, grey December afternoon, he sits in a bustling office, fielding calls and sharing memories of his old friend.

“We ran track together, played basketball together. We were family,” says Deen. “Back then, in the projects, everyone was like a family. We matured together.” Wallace Hasan, who also lived on the same floor as Melvin, still lives in the Patterson Houses today. He remembers an energetic, athletic kid who had a thing for fashion.

“He definitely had a taste for the high life,” says Hasan with a laugh. “He dressed pretty sharp when he had the money.”

“He was always dressed better than the rest of us,” agrees Deen. “He was just smooth like that. Always had that extra flair.”

Perhaps it was his love for fine clothes that gave him a thirst for fast money. Whatever his reasons, Melvin Combs began to slip into the street life by the late-60s. He traded in his childhood friends like Elbert and Wallace and began running with people who had names like Goldfinger and Flattop. Claude Helton, one of the first to see Melvin’s dead body, was also one of the first hustlers to befriend Melvin.

“When I met Melvin, it had to be about ’68 or ’69. He was working in a hair salon,” says Helton, his eyes closing for long moments as he reminisces.

“He was cool with this woman named Olive. She messed with a lot of the big-time hustlers. She got her hair done at the place where he worked, and she introduced us.

“I liked him right away,” Helton continues. “He wasn’t a hard nigga. He was flamboyant and suave. I used to say he was part-hippie and part-hustler. Real outgoing. And man, he really knew how to communicate with the ladies. You go out with Melvin, and you gon’ have your pick of girls.”

After hanging out with Helton, Melvin began to notice how his new drug-dealing friends were living.

“We had six or seven cars apiece,” says Helton. “Going on trips to the Bahamas. My partner Goldfinger had a limousine with a coke bowl and a safe installed that took us everywhere—with a driver in uniform at all times! We were living it up.”

Helton stops and smiles. It’s a closed-mouth smile, tinged with what could be regret.

“Melvin liked our lifestyle,” says Helton, shrugging his shoulders. “Wasn’t long before he started selling drugs.”

By the end of the decade, Melvin was a drug dealer and a family man, married to Janice. Sean was born in November of 1969. His sister Keisha followed two years later.

“I think Melvin started really getting money around 1970,” says Helton. “I remember that’s when he got a new Cadillac and sold me his old car. He had a ’68 Thunderbird, too. Pretty car. Blue with the white top. Only two of ’em in all of Harlem.”

Although Melvin was, by all accounts, a devoted father who doted on his young son, he was a risk taker. And he soon went from being a low-level coke dealer to running with a completely different crew.

“I think I gave him coke three or four times,” says Helton, who served more than twenty years locked up on an assortment of charges. He shakes his head slowly. “But then he went and hooked up with Willie Abraham and them…”

WILLIE ABRAHAM WAS the mastermind of a heroin ring that reportedly brought in $5 million a year beginning in the mid-60s, distributing 200 kilograms throughout New York and New Jersey.

According to news reports, Abraham had an Italian connection. He allegedly got his heroin from Alphonse Sisca and Benjamin Castellazzo, members of the mafia.

Abraham’s crew consisted of nearly a dozen men and women. His principal associates were Robert Hoke, Erroll Holder, and an ex-school teacher from Mount Vernon named Walter Grant.

Although reports from the time are not specific about Melvin’s rank in the organization, he was clearly more than just a rank-and-file street dealer, even if he wasn’t the “ruler” his son would later believe he was.

Before he began running with Abraham and his crew, Melvin met and befriended none other than Frank Lucas—who was memorably portrayed by Denzel Washington in the 2007 film American Gangster—who liked him immediately and was briefly in business with him.

“Anybody that didn’t like Melvin just didn’t like people,” says Lucas. “He was that type of guy—top of the line.”

“Can’t remember [where] I first met Melvin,” he adds. “Might have been at some nightclub. But we became partners. Before I even started going overseas, we did a few things together. I knew Melvin very well.”

Soon, Melvin was solely working with Willie Abraham’s crew. Within the organization, there were several high-level partners operating as wholesale distributors selling heroin to other dealers. Others operated a cutting and packing mill, preparing product for street dealers.

Abraham’s crew was tight-knit. Some of the girlfriends and wives were involved directly with the operation, managing the mill girls, arranging meetings, and even being directly responsible for moving product.

But Janice Combs had nothing to do with her husband Melvin’s business. She was a polished young woman who sponsored fashion shows in Harlem. (One of her shows, Elegance in Autumn, offered a French poodle as a door prize.) And the name Mrs. Melvin Combs appeared in several society pages in the Amsterdam News throughout the ’60s.

But like most hustlers, Melvin also had a ride-or-die chick on the side. A then 22-year-old Cassandra Sullivan was listed in court documents as Melvin’s girlfriend who was allegedly involved in the operations, though charges against her were later dropped.

“Little light-skinned girl,” says Helton, who was not a part of Abraham’s crew but stayed close to Melvin. “I remember her. Cute girl. But Melvin had a lot of girls. We all did. Back when all you needed was penicillin to clear something up.”

Melvin was officially living the fast life. He was outfitted in furs and suits on a daily basis, drove his Cadillac around town, and dipped in and out of the local Harlem spots with his wife or his girlfriend, depending on the time of day. (“You brought the wife and kids out during the day,” explains Helton. “And then you bring your girl out at night.”)

Hustlers either have very bad memories or just don’t care, because it’s the rare dealer who escapes the consequences of a career in crime. Melvin’s crew would be no exception.

In late 1971, after wiretaps had been installed on the home phones of many of the crew members, Willie Abraham, Erroll Holder, Robert Hoke, and Walter Grant were all arrested. (All would later be convicted of violating the Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970 and given sentences ranging from 10-20 years in federal prison.)

A month later, Melvin was arrested in an apartment he kept in Yonkers. According to news reports, police found him with a “large quantity of narcotics,” a revolver, and a large amount of cash. He was killed two weeks later.

And this is where the difficult question needs to be asked. Melvin’s childhood friends and business associates look away, scratch their heads, and shrug their shoulders when asked the obvious question.

Did Melvin snitch on his crew after he got arrested?

It seems more than just a coincidence that he was killed while sitting in the driver’s seat of his own car so soon after he was arrested. He had been named as a co-conspirator in the Abraham case. While none of the news reports make any mention of cooperation on Melvin’s part, it’s possible that he may have spoken to authorities after his arrest about what he knew. And even if he didn’t, it’s possible that he could have been killed to avoid what he might say when he dealt with his legal issues.

“That’s bullshit,” says Frank Lucas. “Melvin wasn’t that kind of guy. No way. He wasn’t saying shit.”

Lucas, who had gone away by the time Combs was killed, says that when he heard the news, he was devastated.

“They did the wrong thing when they killed Melvin,” says Lucas. “If I had been [around], a whole lot of people would have got hurt over that one.”

When asked if he knows who was responsible for the crime, Lucas just grunts.

“I ain’t giving no names. But whoever it was, I heard he got it back.”

Back in the Bronx, Claude Helton exhales. He stares out of the window and then runs a hand over his face, lifts his cap, and then replaces it. He’s not used to talking about the past. Not used to being interviewed. He loves to reminisce. But not like this—not with a recorder on. But the old stories stick with you. And eventually, they are told.

“I know who killed Melvin,” he says, his face weary but relieved as he speaks on Melvin’s death publicly for the first time. “He was a friend of mine. Friend of Melvin’s, too.”

Helton was sent to Lewisburg federal prison in 1972 on a drug conviction. There, he met up with an old friend, Walter Grant. Grant was the ex-school teacher from Mount Vernon who was Willie Abraham’s right-hand man.

“Walter told me that he parked his car on 106th and Central Park West and then took a cab to the Gold Lounge, a little further downtown. Then he called Melvin and told him to come pick him up. Melvin had no idea what was about to happen. Melvin picked him up, and Grant told him to drive him to his car. Told him to pull up and park right behind his car.”

Helton holds up his hand, makes a gun with his thumb and forefinger, and holds it to his temple.

“He told me he took out his piece and said, ‘Melvin, you got this coming to you.’ And that was it. Shot him dead. Got out of the car, got into his own car, and peeled out.”

According to Helton, Grant was convinced that Melvin had either ratted out his crew after his arrest—or planned to.

Frank Lucas believes that just the chatter about Melvin’s arrest led to his death. “I think someone shot their mouth off about something, and they didn’t know what they were talking about. People were just imagining things and talking crazy. Got him killed.”

“I read about it in the papers,” says Wallace Hasan, Melvin’s childhood friend. “I was hurt. But I wasn’t surprised. This was the life he chose.”

Elbert Deen, his former neighbor, saw Melvin a few months before his death. “He was on Seventh Avenue, near the Gold Lounge. He said, ‘I’m having my birthday party, come in and have a drink. But I was a Muslim by then, selling my Muhammad Speaks. Told him I couldn’t do that. So he said, ‘Here’s my number. I got a place in Yonkers now. Call me so we can get together.’ I never saw him again.”

Hasan blames Melvin’s easygoing personality for his violent death. “He was too trusting,” he says. “He trusted those guys in that field. You can’t do that.”

Janice Combs remained in Harlem for several years before relocating to Mount Vernon. According to Helton, Walter Grant was killed in Mount Vernon years after Melvin’s death.

While Diddy discovered the truth about his father’s past as a drug dealer, it is unknown if he ever heard the rumors surrounding his father’s death. Both Diddy and his mother declined to comment for this piece.

But as he began to climb up the music industry ranks, he continued to search for more details about his mysterious father. And at the same time, his father’s childhood friends and business associates began to find out that “Melvin’s boy” had gone on to do big things.

Elbert Deen went on to raise a family in the Westchester County area. (His sons, Jaoquin “Waah” Dean and Darrin “Dee” Dean would go on to found Ruff Ryders.)

When his sons were new in the business, someone told Elbert that Melvin’s boy was also in the music industry. Deen arranged to meet Diddy, who was then working at Uptown Records.

“I came to talk to him about my sons. But of course, Sean wanted to know everything I could tell him about his father as well. I told him everything I could remember. It was clear that he had a real hunger for any information. I remember he was even carrying around this framed 8×11 photograph of his dad in his bag. He pulled it out to show it to me.”

Claude Helton put the connection together between Melvin and Diddy while he was locked up in the mid-90s on a parole violation. “Me and this young boy got to talking,” he says. “And he was telling me about a guy named Combs. Now that’s a rare name. So I instantly thought of Melvin. When I got out, I saw him on television, and of course, I knew right away who he was. The boy looks just the same as he did back in Harlem.”

When his son was born, Melvin would often have his baby boy with him at some of the hot spots in Harlem.

“Three places you could see Melvin with Sean back then,” says Helton. “The Gold Lounge, Shalimar, or Small’s. He’d be holding him, showing him off. When he got a bit older, he’d be standing right there with him, trying to walk. That boy look just like his daddy.”

“Puffy got this video, the one he made for Biggie,” says Helton. “He’s dancing around, singing that ‘Every Breath You Take’ song. Every time I see that video, I think of Melvin. That’s him right there. He would do that same exact dance when we’d be in the nightclubs, throw his hands up, and make the same exact face. It’s crazy. Everything about them is exactly the same, from their style to their smile.”

Melvin Combs’s brief run in the streets will never be made into an American Gangster-style biopic. If it weren’t for his son, Melvin’s story—like so many others before and after him—would be little more than a footnote.

But the well-coiffed pretty boy with the arms-held-high foot-shuffle dance lives on in the son he left behind. One can only wonder what Melvin would make of his son’s success. When asked if he may have traded in the street life as he got older, Frank Lucas laughs a long, throaty laugh.

“Who, Melvin? Hell no! Much as Melvin loved money?” Lucas laughs again. “The way he loved money, he’d have just as much money today as his son got. Maybe more.”

Additional reporting by Maiya Norton.