by Foye, K'wan
Ashanti rode with Alonzo on the back of the bike until they got to 116th Street and Lenox, where they left the bike leaning against a store and headed for the avenue.
Alonzo pulled out a cheap cell phone he had purchased that morning and punched in a number. When the person on the other end picked up, he simply said, “Dead men tell no tales,” and ended the call. He then removed the SIM card, which he placed in his pocket, then shattered the phone in the street and kicked the pieces into a gutter.
“That it for the day?” Ashanti asked.
“Yeah, we done, at least for now. The next move is on them,” Alonzo told him.
“All this chess shit is getting on my nerves, Zo. I say rush homie’s spot and wipe them niggaz out once and for all,” Ashanti said heatedly.
Alonzo shook his head and smiled at Ashanti’s anxiousness to spill blood. “That’s because you’re still too young and too inexperienced to understand the value of life. You don’t rush into a lion’s den and put yourself at a disadvantage; you draw him out and give yourself a fighting chance.”
“Whatever, Zo,” Ashanti said dismissing his wisdom. “What you getting into for the rest of the day?”
Alonzo shrugged. “Not too much. I’m headed to the crib now to blow it down and freshen up. I got a date later. Bumped into this chick I used to fuck with awhile back, and we’re supposed to hook up later. I’m trying to crack that.”
“Damn, it seems like you rocking with a different shorty every night. What’re you trying to do, break Wilt Chamberlain’s record?” Ashanti teased him.
“More like finding a needle in a haystack. It seems like it’s easier to get a job than finding a good chick out here these days,” Alonzo said sadly.
“Then why keep looking? I say to hell with it. Be single and mingle.”
“True, but it gets old after awhile. Sometimes it’s nice to have somebody in your corner who rocks with you for who you are and not what you got or can do for them. I’m just looking for somebody who I can smile with after a long day of frowning out here on these streets. And it can’t be just anybody; she has to be special.”
“I think I understand,” Ashanti weighed his words. He gave Alonzo grief but secretly looked forward to his words of wisdom. “So what happened with shorty from the projects? I didn’t know her too good, but I can tell you thought she was special.”
“Who, Porsha?” Alonzo smiled thinking of the young lady who had stolen his heart not so long ago. “Yeah, she was special in her own way. In a perfect world, I’d have loved to see where things could’ve gone with Porsha, but it wouldn’t have worked, and I think deep down, we both knew it.”
“Why? Because she was a stripper?” Ashanti asked innocently.
Alonzo laughed. “Nah, li’l homie. Her being a stripper didn’t have anything to do with it. I’ve never too much cared what people said or thought, especially when it comes to my heart. I think Porsha and me were a case of both of us bringing too much baggage to the table.”
“You ever think about following up with her?”
“No,” Alonzo said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. “Anyway, I’m about to bust a move,” he changed the subject. “You wanna come through for a minute?”
“Nah, I gotta go see a nigga about some change, but I might push through later on,” Ashanti told him and started for the train station.
“You need me to roll with you?” Alonzo called after him.
“For these niggaz?” Ashanti laughed. “I doubt it. Niggaz know how I give it up; give me mine or pose for that white line,” he patted his waist where his gun was tucked. “I’m out,” he saluted Alonzo and disappeared down the train station stairs.
SEVEN
BEFORE TAKING CARE OF HIS BUSINESS ASHANTI stopped by his small apartment to change his clothes. His chest swelled with pride when he put the key into his front door. It was a small kitchenette furnished with only a futon, writing desk, and television, but it was more than he’d ever had in the past. Every place he ever laid his head was always someone else’s place and he was at their mercy, but this apartment was his. It was the first time he had ever owned anything, and he had King James to thank for it.
After seeing him in action, King James took Ashanti under his wing and made him a part of the organization. There was too much traffic going in and out of the apartment where Ashanti was renting a room, so King hooked him up with an apartment of his own to hold down. The gesture meant the world to Ashanti, but to King, it was just his way of looking out for his family. He knew Ashanti’s twisted story, a story not too unlike his own, so he understood his pain. In addition, Ashanti was a loyal soldier and would bust his gun without having to be told to, which was something King both loved and hated about Ashanti. He was a child of the streets and wore it on his arm like a badge of honor. Sometimes King and Lakim would get frustrated with Ashanti, but never Alonzo. He was patient with him, teaching Ashanti the tricks of the trade as he knew it.
Alonzo was one of the coolest dudes Ashanti had ever met, but there was also a dark side to him that Ashanti had seen firsthand. Ashanti silently watched the battle between Alonzo and Zo-Pound, and it had saddened him because he knew the eventual outcome. He watched the same internal struggle tear his best friend Animal to pieces before eventually becoming his undoing. Though Ashanti never fully bought into the rumors of Animal’s demise, a part of him was eased to hear it. The demons that rode Animal’s soul could no longer haunt him.
After taking a quick shower to wash off any leftover gunpowder residue, Ashanti dressed in blue jeans, a white thermal, and Yankee fitted, which he wore pulled low. After checking himself in the mirror he headed for the door. As an afterthought, he grabbed his gun and tucked it into the front of his pants. He doubted he would need it where he was going, but it was better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it, so he wasn’t taking any chances. On the way out, he stopped and looked at the picture of him, Animal, Brasco, and Nef, sitting on a project bench. Animal was holding up the magazine cover with him on it. It had been one of the last times they’d all been together before all the bullshit that had torn them apart.
“Protect me from my enemies, seen and unseen,” Ashanti placed his hand over the picture and left the apartment.
The train ride to Brooklyn was relatively quick. Ashanti came out of the train station and got his bearings before starting out in search of the address scribbled on the back of the business card he was holding.
The building wasn’t too hard to find because you could smell the weed smoke as soon as you turned into the block. Ashanti let himself in the gate and rang the doorbell. For as loud as the music was playing on the other side of the door he wasn’t sure if they could hear him so he banged on the door with his fist. A few seconds later the door was snatched open and Ashanti found himself confronted by a dangerous-looking cat whose face appeared to be locked into a permanent scowl.
“What it do, Blood?” the man scowled down at the shorter Ashanti.
“All is well. What’s popping, Devil?” Ashanti extended his hand.
The man called Devil stared down at Ashanti’s outstretched hand for a few seconds before letting what passed as a smile spread across his face. He engulfed Ashanti’s hand in his much-larger mitt and pumped it vigorously. “I can’t call it, Young Blood. I’m hanging in like everybody else.”
“Looks like you’re doing better than most,” Ashanti admired the brownstone.
“Yeah, this shit looking real sexy; too bad ain’t none of it mines. I’m on the payroll like everybody else.”
“Better a payroll than a bedroll,” Ashanti said.
“I know that’s right.” Devil gave him dap again.
“Is ya man around?”
“Yeah, he in the back in the studio. Go ahead in, but you know I gotta pat you down,” Devil told Ashanti.
Ashanti just looked at him. “Do we really need to dance this dance, D? You already know what you’re gonna find if you look, so why not just
let me handle my business and skate? I ain’t tripping today.”
Devil weighed it. He knew that there was no way Ashanti was going to part with his gun and trying to get him to do so would’ve been more of a headache than it was worth. If Ashanti said he wasn’t tripping, then Devil would take him at his word. Everyone who knew Ashanti knew he respected little in the world except a man’s word. “A’ight, but I got my eye on you, li’l nigga.”
“Fair enough, big homie,” Ashanti said sarcastically. He made to step inside, but Devil stopped him.
“Ashanti, we ain’t seen each other in awhile so I didn’t get a chance to say this to you face to face; I’m sorry to hear what happened to Animal. I know a lot of niggaz say it, but I mean it, feel me?”
Ashanti knew who he meant without him having to say. “Thanks, Devil.”
Devil stepped aside to let Ashanti enter the brownstone, whose eyes and nose were immediately assaulted with the smells of weed and sweat. The brownstone was a zoo. “Welcome to hell, Young Blood,” Devil laughed before closing the door behind him.
After the many fiascoes at his main office in the Empire State Building, it became a hot spot for unwanted attention, so Don B. had started spending more time at the studio/office in downtown Brooklyn. It was at the ground level of a brownstone he owned in a relatively busy block. He had picked that location so that the comings and goings of some of his less-than-savory associates wouldn’t stick out so much. His offices and one of his apartments were on the top floor of the brownstone and off-limits to all but The Don and the occasional admirer, but the ground floor was for the Big Dawg family. It boasted a large studio that took up most of the floor and a separate one in what was once a bedroom. The sitting area and kitchen had been turned into a lounge with a fully stocked bar, where the Big Dawg family gathered. Normally it would be packed with artists hanging or grinding it out with projects, under Don B.’s watchful eye, but this night was special, as Don B. was trying to woo a new artist.
There were so many blunts and cigarettes burning that it was difficult to see your hand in front of your face, let alone breathe. The newest Big Dawg mix tape banged through the speakers, receiving positive feedback from everyone who wasn’t too preoccupied to pay attention. At least a dozen women were walking around the main area either half-dressed or wearing nothing at all. Seductive vixens sat on the laps of rappers and ballers whispering evil things into their ears. It was a circus, and standing in the center of it was the ringmaster, Don B.
The lord of the manor moved around the room with an air of royalty that was heightened by the silk bathrobe and matching slippers he was wearing. To make a good show of it, he had thrown on most of his jewelry, so his arms, neck, and hands looked like ice sculptures and cast funny patterns on the floors and walls when the light hit them. A World Series Yankee cap sat ace-duce on his head with the brim covering one side of his sunglasses. A female guest made the mistake of asking him why he was wearing his sunglasses inside, and he simply responded, “Because I’m The Don, bitch,” before having security remove her. No one questioned the king in his castle, and Don B. enforced this with an iron fist.
Don B. shuffled across the room, pinching asses and hitting Ls in search of his latest conquest, and it wasn’t long before he found him, sitting on the sofa wedged between two big booty stallions that were thumb wrestling in his pants. He looked over at Don B. and smiled. Big Dawg took care of their own . . . at least according to Don B. when he started chasing Dance.
Young Dance was a slick, young, light-skinned dude from Harlem that had a hustler’s swag and a Mark Zuckerberg mind. Everyone who came in contact with Young Dance recognized that he had a personality that was bigger than life and had stardom written all over him, which is why Don B. tried to sink his claws into him. Dance was talented, but he was also very smart, which made the task of snaring him a bit more complicated than Don B. had expected, but The Don always got what he wanted.
“You good, my nigga?” Don B. gave Young Dance dap.
“I’m better than good; I’m great,” Young Dance tugged at the brim of his Kansas City Royals fitted.
“I told you we show our peoples nothing but love on this side,” Don B. said.
“And so I see,” Dance smiled at something one of the girls had just whispered in his ear.
“Well, if seeing is believing, then believe Big Dawg is where you need to be.”
“Come on, Don, I thought we wasn’t gonna talk about business tonight,” Dance reminded him.
“It’s always about business,” Don B. said and dismissed the two girls, then sat on the sofa next to Dance. “Check this out, my nigga; I see you working ya li’l thing on the streets, and I respect it. You are one hell of a hustler, Dance. Can’t nobody but the Lord take that from you, but the key to any successful hustle is finding the right connect, and Big Dawg is the mainline to your wildest dreams.”
“Yeah? What you know about my dreams, Don B.?” Dance challenged.
Don B. removed his glasses and looked Dance square in the eye. “I know you’re tired of your grandmother living in them projects. I know you’re tired of hiding your car in garages at night because you owe the city money for tickets, and most important, I know you’re tired of being a local celebrity when the world could be your playground. Don’t test me, young boy. I made my fortune of knowing what people dream about.”
“I hear you talking, Don, but I been doing okay on my independent grind, so who’s to say I won’t make it on my own?”
“I’m to say. You know why? Because I’m like God in this game. He who holds the gold holds the crown, and right now, my company is smashing the competition. Dance, you ain’t new to this, so you know what’s popping, and I challenge you to name one Big Dawg artist that didn’t go platinum.”
Dance couldn’t.
“Exactly,” Don B. continued. “You know what we do over here.”
Devil came over and whispered something into Don B.’s ear. Don B. peered around his bodyguard and spotted Ashanti standing across the room watching him like a hawk. He motioned to give him a second and turned his attention back to Young Dance.
“Dance, I ain’t in the way of twisting nobody’s arm; I’m just trying to give you a little direction. Now, I’m about to go holla at my man right quick and give you a few ticks to ponder that.” Don B. got up and left Dance alone with his thoughts.
EIGHT
ASHANTI WATCHED DON B. AMBLE ACROSS THE room, greeting people and kissing the cheeks of women. The way he carried himself you’d have thought he was the prince of Harlem. It took all of Ashanti’s resolve not to throw up. He hated Hollywood types like Don B.; the ones who were nobodies until they came into a few dollars, then they started acting like they had status in the hood. On more than one occasion he had warned Animal about trusting Don B., but they were getting money together, so Animal let him live. Now Animal was gone, leaving his musical legacy to Don B. and Ashanti unanswered questions. A few times he’d thought about getting at Don B. on some extortion shit, but he learned that you could catch more flies with honey than you could with vinegar, so he played the game.
“What’s goodie, my nigga?” Don B. greeted Ashanti with a warm smile.
Ashanti’s face remained unchanged. “I took care of that thing for you.” He pulled an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Don B.
Don B. opened the envelope and reviewed the papers stuffed inside. It was a waiver signed by a popular music producer. He was suing Don B. for illegally using his beats on mix tapes. Don B. had tried everything from throwing money at him to threatening him, but the producer wouldn’t budge . . . until Ashanti paid him a visit.
“Damn, I been trying to get this for months. How did you get him to sign off on it?” Don B. asked.
Ashanti gave him a look. “Do you really wanna know?”
“Nah, I guess I don’t. I just hope you left him whole enough to still work.”
“His hands are good money, but his jaw is another story.”<
br />
“Fuck it, he ain’t no vocalist; he’s just a producer. His hands are the only things that matter anyway, right?”
Ashanti didn’t answer.
“Anyhow,” Don B. continued, “I appreciate you taking care of that for me. I keep telling these dudes they don’t make cats like you and Animal anymore. If I had ten of y’all on my squad I’d be good. What do you think about coming to work for Big Dawg?”
“Nah, I’m a street nigga. I ain’t off punching no clock, and to keep it one hundred, I don’t too much care for rappers.”
“You like bitches, don’t you? At Big Dawg, we specialize in three things: good music, money, and pussy.”
“So I’m told,” Ashanti said unenthusiastically.
“Why don’t you kick back for a minute and enjoy the party? We gonna get into some gangsta shit with some of these hoes, then roll out to get some food in Brooklyn before we hit the club. Hang with us tonight, my nigga,” Don B. urged him.
“If it’s all the same, I’ll take what you owe me and bounce,” Ashanti told him.
“Right. I got some paper for you, don’t I? Check, why don’t you come by tomorrow and pick it up from the office? I don’t know if I got that kinda paper on me right now.”
Ashanti’s face soured. “Blood, don’t even try to play me. Services rendered, services paid for. Now, if you ain’t got my bread, then I’d be more than happy to take it in trade.” Ashanti let his eyes roam over Don B.’s jewelry.
Don B. smiled. “My nigga, you know I was just playing with you. Come with me to the back room. I got you.” He draped his arm around Ashanti and led him across the room.
“This is quite the party you got going on,” Ashanti said.
“Every day is a party at Big Dawg, my nigga. It’s the life of the young and rich. You need to get up on it,” Don B. boasted.
“I’m working my way up. But check, since you getting it like that, I’m gonna need you to put something on top of that paper you owe me. I wanna drop it on Gucci’s people.”