Criminal Minded

by Tracy Brown

  I started filming the next day.

  Lucky

  I finished my first two semesters of school, and I felt good about myself. What was even better was the fact that Lamin put his life of crime behind him. Seven months had passed since Lamin started his film company, and I was so proud of him. He had his own humble offices in midtown Manhattan, and he had made endless contacts in the recording industry. “Project Mentality” was in heavy rotation on all the hip-hop video shows and Lamin and I couldn’t be happier. I loved him without question. Leo’s career had taken off, and it was nice to think that Lamin had played some type of role in that. We were finding our way in life and our home was filled with love, happiness, and imported furnishings. For the first time in my life, I felt completely content.

  My parents began to come around. Now that they were reading about Lamin Michaels, the up-and-coming video director who every rap and R&B artist was eager to work with, they no longer hated his guts. In my mother’s case, she had never really disliked Lamin to begin with. She was just too obedient to my father to go against his wishes. But suddenly, Daddy was calling our home to talk to me and asking how Lamin was doing. He even invited us over for dinner, although Lamin politely declined. I didn’t blame him. I wondered if my father would have approved of Lamin if he wasn’t featured in Vibe magazine and The Source. I wondered if they would have still denied me my college education if they knew that someday Lamin’s name would ring bells in the music industry. I had always believed in Lamin; had always loved him. So seeing him succeed was like validation for me. But it also made me want to tell my father, “I told you so.” He had doubted us and now we were on the brink of success. My education was in full bloom, and Lamin was on the rise. Together, I figured we would be unstoppable.

  Lamin’s physical therapy began to pay off, and the cane was no longer necessary. He was walking a sexy be-bop that turned me on more and more with each passing day. And he spoiled me. It got to the point that I wondered if I could ever be happy with another man. Lamin bought me a car—a candy-apple-red Benz. He bought me furs and diamonds. He took me on trips and kept me dressed in all the hottest designer labels. Long before rappers started talking about Versace, I had the label throughout my wardrobe. I was living the life of a queen, and Lamin was my king. I would have done anything for him.

  I felt that we had been through the worst and survived it to see the best in life. I remembered the night he got shot and the anguish I felt as his life hung in the balance. I had never loved a man like I loved Lamin. I believed in us and I felt that we had survived the storm. Things could only get better.

  THIRTEEN

  following in footsteps

  Olivia

  I knocked on Lamin’s door one Saturday afternoon in December. It was the Saturday after my twenty-first birthday, and I was feeling good. Lucky answered it wearing a pair of cut-off shorts with a tank top, her hair pulled up in a bun. She looked a mess, but she was still pretty despite her disheveled look. I walked inside.

  “What the hell were you doing?” I asked her, looking her outfit over with a frown.

  Lucky laughed. “I was working out, Olivia. All of us are not as blessed as you, ya know? You have a body that would make Naomi Campbell jealous, and you don’t even have to work for it. I have to do crunches, squats, and work up a nasty sweat just to keep up with girls like you.”

  I laughed. “Whatever!” Lamin came out of the bedroom, swaggering with his slight limp. “Hello, big brother.”

  Lamin came over and hugged me tightly. “You don’t come by often enough, baby girl. How you been?”

  I plopped down on their comfy couch. “I’m fine. I’m getting used to my apartment and everything.”

  Lucky chimed in. “Did you get your furniture yet?”

  I nodded. “Yup. I went to Maurice Villency and bought a seven-piece set. You have to come by and see what I’ve done with the place.”

  Lucky seemed impressed but Lamin didn’t. “How the hell can you afford furniture from there, and you don’t even have a job? You didn’t ask me for the money. So where did you get it from?”

  I frowned. “Well, aren’t you all up in my business?” It had been months since I asked Lamin for money, so I was not surprised by his curiosity. But I was tired of answering to him.

  “Yeah, I’m all up in your business.” Lamin sat next to me. “You ain’t getting it from me. You used to always come to me for money but not anymore. So where you been getting all this money from?”

  “Lamin, I came by to show you my birthday present, and you’re too busy giving me the third degree. What’s up with that?”

  He seemed to back down somewhat. “Let me see your birthday present, ma. What did you get?”

  I smiled and gestured for him to follow me to the window. He looked out and I pointed to the silver Acura parked at the curb. “Isn’t it pretty?”

  “Where did you get that car, Olivia?” Lamin seemed to speak through clenched teeth.

  “It was a gift …”

  “From who?” His voice was getting louder.

  “From a friend, Lamin!”

  “What kind of ‘friend’ would spend thousands of dollars on you for your birthday, Olivia?”

  “Lamin, Brian bought me a car so that I won’t have to keep asking him to take me everywhere I go. You need to calm down.” I tried to lighten the mood. “What are you, jealous?” I punched him playfully in the arm.

  Lamin was getting angrier by the moment. “Why do you keep lettin’ niggas trick all their dough on you like that’s all it takes to keep you happy?”

  “There is nothing wrong with a guy buying me stuff. Don’t try to make the shit sound so cheap.”

  “It is cheap, Olivia.”

  “How? You just bought Lucky a car. Does that make her cheap?”

  “No, it doesn’t. You know why? Lucky is my girl. She lives with me. There is love between us. The niggas that you got don’t love you, ma. They use you. They use you for what they want because they know they can afford your price tag. Your price tag is your rent money, the car outside, and the clothes you wear. You’re selling yourself short. That shit is whack. Your standards are too damn low. Just like our mother. You’re actin’ just like her.”

  I felt like I had been sucker punched in the gut. Silence filled the room as I stood heartbroken looking into my brother’s eyes. He had compared me to the one person neither of us wanted to be like. I felt wounded.

  Lucky tried to break the ice. “Olivia, I think the car is very nice …”

  I wasn’t trying to hear it. “Lamin, fuck you. If that’s how you feel then let me take my low-standards-having ass back home.”

  I stormed out and took the stairs rather than wait around for the elevator. When I got downstairs, I got in my car and peeled off blaring “C.R.E.A.M.” from my car stereo. “Cash rules everything around me.” Lamin could kiss my ass.

  Lamin

  Lucky gave me that look. The look said it all. There was no need for any words. But she started yappin’ anyway.

  “Why did you say that to her, Lamin? You don’t have to be so hard on her all the time. You hurt her feelings.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked out of the room, but Lucky followed me. I turned to face her. “When people leave the room that usually means that they don’t want to be followed,” I told her.

  “I don’t care, Lamin!” Lucky was twisting that neck of hers, giving me a whole lot of attitude. That was the black girl in her. Sometimes when I looked at her I could see her Asian features so much that I would forget that she was half black. But when she got mad that black side came right out. “Olivia is a grown woman, and you stay treating her like a baby. So what if she’s getting money from niggas—”

  “I don’t want her getting money from niggas!” I was pissed just thinking about it. “She has to give up pussy for that money. She has to be somebody’s toy for money. She don’t need to do that shit. She can come to me, and I’ll give her anything she wants. These b
um-ass niggas ain’t got dough like I got dough, so why can’t she come to me to get all that shit? I could give her the same clothes, cars, jewelry, and all that shit, Lucky.”

  She nodded. “Well, maybe she’s sick of you being her own personal ATM. Maybe she don’t want to have to come to you every time she wants something. She’s a grown woman.”

  “Exactly. So she should act like a grown woman and get a fuckin’ job. Why can’t she make her own money instead of depending on me or anybody else for it? Huh?”

  Lucky was at a loss for words, and to me that meant victory. I had proved my point and shut her up for once. I went back into the living room and sat on the couch, propped my feet up, grabbed the remote, and watched a welterweight boxing match on cable. Watching sports was a sure way to take my mind off the bullshit.

  I got cozy and Lucky came in and sat down beside me. She took the remote from me and turned the TV off.

  “What the fuck are you doin’, Lucky?”

  “Lamin, I was thinking …”

  “Oh, God!”

  “Seriously, Lamin. Olivia might have a method to her madness.” Lucky spoke gently and held my hand in hers. “She never had to make it on her own. She always had you to be there for her. Or your mother was there to make sure she was alright. She never had to do for herself. Now you want her to hold her own, and that’s impossible because she’s never done that. She never had a job. Not even a part-time job flipping burgers in a fast-food spot—nothing. She has no experience doing anything, so how is she supposed to stand on her own two feet?”

  I thought about what Lucky was saying. It made sense but it still didn’t make me feel better about her dealing with all them burn niggas.

  Lucky wasn’t done. “Why don’t you give her a job at Shootin’ Crooks?” she said. “Olivia could help you out, and you can pay her a salary. That way she won’t feel like it’s a handout.”

  I thought about it and I felt like one of those cartoon characters who gets a good idea and the imaginary lightbulb appears over their heads. It made perfect sense. I smiled. “That’s why I love you, girl. You keep a nigga on his toes.”

  Lucky smiled and kissed me. I pulled her close and thanked God for giving me a woman who cared enough about my problems that she would think of ways for me to solve them. I knew in my heart that, one day, I would make her my wife.

  The next day, I had a meeting at Sony. The video I shot for Leo had become kind of a ’hood classic. My style of directing and producing was unique, so I was in high demand. I used imagery to the fullest extent possible, keeping viewers glued to their seats, at least until the video went off. So suddenly, I was the nigga to see. Everyone wanted me to direct their video. I was at Sony to meet with a group called Phya. They were an R&B trio and their manager was a young black man in his thirties. He was clean cut and well dressed. But he was arrogant, shouting over the artists themselves when I asked what type of concept they had in mind for their video.

  “Let’s establish the fact that I’m in charge here!” the manager barked at me. “If you want to talk about concepts, talk to me. I have all the concepts you need.” The singers seemed used to his attitude but I wasn’t. I stood ready to crack his faggot ass in the jaw, but the group’s A&R stepped in, right on cue.

  “Mr. Michaels, can I have a word with you, please?”

  She was a pretty woman. She was a light-brown sister and stood about Lucky’s height. Her hair was in the neatest cornrows I had ever seen and they hung to her delicate shoulder blades. She wore a body-hugging black suit and heels and she carried a Coach bag. I noticed because I had just bought an identical bag for Lucky. But best of all, she had the prettiest eyes with the curliest lashes. I was checking her out so seriously that I forgot how mad I was at the manager.

  She led me to a corner of the room and extended her hand. “I’m Dream Biggs,” she said. I couldn’t help laughing out loud at that one.

  “Dream Biggs, huh? Well, I’m Get Money, it’s nice to meet you.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You can crack jokes all you want, but that’s really my name. My parents were a jazz musician and a dancer so they got poetic when they named me. Anyway, there’s no need for you to tell me your real name. I know who you are, Mr. Michaels—”

  “Please, call me Lamin.”

  “Okay, Lamin. I wanted to warn you that this guy is an asshole, but I see you found out the hard way.”

  I looked in the manager’s direction. “Yeah. I was about to knock his ass out until you stepped in my path. Then, I was blinded by your beauty.” I said it all in my sexiest baritone.

  She laughed at me. “Please! My name is Dream Biggs, not Born Yesterday” I chuckled along with her. She got right back to business. “I’ll be the go-between for you and the manager. That way your male egos won’t get in the way.” She winked at me.

  “What if I get distracted by your beauty again?” I asked, only half kidding.

  Dream looked in my eyes and licked her lips seductively. “Well then, we’ll have to call the meeting to a quick close and go somewhere a little more quiet,” she said. She walked away and began discussing concepts with the manager.

  I liked the sound of that. And, just as I had hoped, it was a short meeting.

  FOURTEEN

  close encounters

  1995

  Curtis

  The CO unlocked my cell and threw some papers at me. “Let’s go, Michaels,” he snarled. “Today’s your fuckin’ lucky day or sum’in.”

  I smiled. January 7, 1995, was my lucky day. Parole had been granted. Grandma may have been right after all. She told me to pray—said that God answers prayers. I doubted her words and I think she sensed that. So she said, “Curtis, baby. Trusting yourself and not asking God for His help is what landed your behind in that cell. Don’t make the mistake of not talking to God from now on. Pray, Curtis. And when you pray, have faith in your heart, and do not doubt Him. He will work it out. Trust me, He will.”

  I tried it. Just because I had nothing else to lose. And there I was being escorted past all of my fellow inmates on the cellblock—some looking indifferent, some looking envious. But one looked downright ecstatic. Rock. Rock was the nigga that took me under his wing and showed me the ropes of the system when I entered it as a shorty in ’89. He was doing twenty-five to life for a double homicide during a drug deal gone bad. Rock was originally from Staten Island—West Brighton, to be exact. He took to me because I was from his hometown and because I was a shorty—just sixteen years old—incarcerated with grown-ass men, hardened criminals with nothing to lose.

  On countless occasions, I kicked it with Rock. Told him how Shaolin had changed, what clubs were still open, which stores had shut down, who died, who was locked up, etc. In return, Rock explained to me how his hunger for money had left him with no future. He was going to spend the rest of his life in jail. But he said that I didn’t have to have the same story. I didn’t have to spend my life in jail. I listened to him because he seemed sincere. He was no saint, but the nigga was real, and I respected him. Rock told me that I didn’t belong in prison. And now I was leavin’. I held my fist in the air and across the dorm Rock did the same. He smiled and nodded his approval.

  I was going home.

  Papa picked me up at the gate outside of the jail. I was never so happy to see anyone in my life. He smiled from ear to ear when he saw me.

  “Boy, look atcha! Done grew all up. Got a little swagger in your step.” Papa hugged me, then turned me around to face the fortress that had been my prison. “Don’t ever come back here, Curtis. Walk away from this place and don’t ever look back. You hear me?”

  I nodded and got in the car. Papa got behind the wheel and we were on our way.

  “Curtis, you’re gonna be so proud of your cousin when you see what he’s doin’ with himself.”

  I smiled. I was already proud of Lamin. “I read all the articles in the magazines Grandma sent to me. Lamin is doin’ big things, and ain’t nobody prouder
than I am.” I told Papa about how I bragged to COs and inmates about my cousin, the big-time hip-hop video producer. “My mom told me he’s working on a full-length movie now. Somethin’ about the hip-hop industry behind the scenes.”

  Papa nodded. “Yeah, he’s lookin’ at a couple scripts. But I don’t know if he settled on one yet.”

  My thoughts wandered off for a minute. I had missed so much. Olivia was grown and gorgeous. Lamin was famous. But some things never change. My moms was still working her fingers to the bone. She didn’t even take the day off to pick me up from the facility. My first order of business was to get enough paper to let my moms quit her job once and for all. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it. But I would make a way.

  Papa and I drove for another two hours, reminiscing on old times and catching up on new shit. When we got to Shaolin, I was excited like a little kid. It seemed that very little had changed. Papa drove to Park Hill, and I assumed we were going to his house on Vanderbilt Avenue. But, instead, he pulled up at a big parking lot on Targee Street where abandoned stores stood inside of a small shopping plaza. I saw camera crews, trailers parked nearby, and crowds of people standing around. I looked at Papa, confused. He smiled at me.

  “A rapper from Park Hill named Prince Don just got signed to a record deal and Lamin is filming his first video,” he explained.

  I was buggin’. I went from a cellblock to the set of a music video in just a few hours. How crazy is that? My feet seemed glued to where I stood. I didn’t move because I was so overwhelmed. I heard the beat blaring from big-ass speakers and saw the rapper lip-synching his lyrics while grillin’ the camera. There were girls all over the place dressed in booty shorts and little tops despite the fact that it was a thirty-degree day in January. The girls were freezing, but they still smiled and danced around the rapper and rubbed his hair, licked their lips at him, and I felt my dick gettin’ hard. I had not had sex in years, and these bitches had me hard as a rock.