by K'wan
“Damn, I wanted to tear something up,” Silk said, pouting.
“Don’t trip, li’l ma, I got something lined up for you and China, too. The old heads reached out and said they wanted to sit down.” The car suddenly got very quiet.
“What do they want?” China asked what Silk was thinking.
Tech shrugged. “I can’t really call it, yo. Duke ain’t sound too crazy on the jack, but I don’t trust none of these pussies. I’m taking y’all with me as security.”
“Why not Animal?” Silk wanted to know. She had no problem holding him down, but everyone knew Animal was normally the eyes in the back of his head.
“For two good reasons: one, if they see me walk in with Animal, it’s gonna put everybody on point. For two, if he ain’t feeling the way shit is going, he’s gonna act without thinking, and I don’t need that. Them niggaz don’t know y’all, so they ain’t gonna think much of me rolling in with two broads. I got it all worked out, ma.”
“So where’re we off to now?” China headed north on along Central Park.
“Y’all can do what you gotta do for the day and we’ll hook up later. Drop me off at the kennel, it’s time to feed the pups.”
CHAPTER 5
“Do you really have to go?” she asked in a sultry tone. Her nude body was partially wrapped in the bedsheet, with a shapely thigh exposed.
He took a minute to make sure that his stocking cap was laid just right before pulling on his Yankee fitted cap. “Yeah, you know I got business to handle. The label ain’t gonna run itself, smell me?”
“Come on with that. As many niggaz as you keep around you, I’m sure one of them could handle it without you for a day or so.” She reached for a Newport on the nightstand, letting the sheet fall away so one supple brown breast was exposed. It looked like a caramel apple with a Hershey’s Kiss in the center. She lit the cigarette and took a deep drag, waiting for his response.
“You know I don’t trust nobody with my paper, but me,” he told her, slipping the icy chain over his head. The rottweiler medallion bumped against his broad chest when he let it drop. “But dig it, as soon as I get finished making my moves, I’ll come back and check you.” He kissed her forehead, and plucked the cigarette from her fingers. “These things will kill you.” He took a light toke and put it out in a half-empty soda can.
“You know I’m getting a little tired of you hitting me with the okey-doke.” She crossed her arms over her breasts.
“Come on, shorty, don’t start tripping off that shit right now.” He wiped his black sunglasses with the edge of the bed-sheet before slipping them on. “You know what it is.”
“Know what it is?” Her eyes got wide. “You come through here, talk that good shit, eat, get your dick sucked, and flick channels, and at the end of the day all I end up with is a soggy pussy and a couple of dollars, so no, I don’t know what it is. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
He glared at her from behind his shades, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth, as he often did when he was getting aggravated. “Shorty . . .”
“Uh-uh,” she waggled her finger, “we ain’t even gonna get into that shorty shit, because I’m tired of telling you about it. My mother named me Patricia, Pat if you’re pressed for time. You can save that shorty shit for the hos at the videos, because I ain’t them.”
“Pat, Patricia, what the fuck ever, you know what I meant. Baby girl, you know I’m a nigga who’s always in the thick, so why you trying to act like all this is new?”
“It ain’t that it’s new, but it’s getting tired,” she told him. “I’m a woman, and I have needs outside of some good dick and you helping with my bills. I give you all of me, and I get the after-the-club calls. I need to know where we stand.”
He cocked his head, twisting his full lips. “Pat, you know you my l’il down bitch, so I don’t even know why you stressing me wit’ this. I do shit for you that I ain’t never did for a bitch, and that’s not because ya head is supersweet, which it is,” he smirked, “but on the real, you know I keep my motions fluid, so don’t go raising walls on me now.”
Pat swung her legs over the edge of the bed and looked up at her reflection in his shades. “ ‘I keep my motions fluid.’ Nigga, do you hear yourself? You’re a grown-ass man,” she all but shouted. “I’m sitting here making a punk-ass attempt at pouring my heart out, and you can’t even respect me enough to speak English!”
His cell vibrated on his hip, saving him from having to spazz on Pat. “Yeah,” he huffed into the phone. “A’ight, I’ll be down in a sec.” He flipped the phone closed. “Yo, Pat, I gotta dip,” he told the girl, who was still fuming.
“That’s right, run when the streets call, fuck what I’m trying to say,” she snapped.
“What you want from me?” he said, with his hand on the doorknob.
“Reciprocity,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering.
He paused for a minute, as if he might go back and smooth things over, but it was an illusion. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said before slipping out the door. Had he waited a second or so more, he’d be on the way to the emergency room to be treated for the gash the ashtray she hurled at him would’ve left in the back of his head.
When Don B. left Pat’s apartment, it took all his willpower to keep from slamming the door behind him. She was a classic example of why he wouldn’t take a wifey: drama. She was a good chick who did what she needed to do, but she couldn’t understand the Don. He had come up from being a hopeless shorty, happy to get a package from the next man, to being a power player in the music industry.
Nearly ten years ago, he had gone on a six-month-long hustling spree to get his dream up and running. Don B. had hugged the block for days at a time, sleeping only when his body forced him to. Back then, it had been just him and his man Pop, running through Harlem, wanting to leave their marks out there with legends. Pop and Don B. had clicked so well because they were like two peas in a pod when it came to the streets.
The need for quick money played a role in their selling cocaine, but it was the high more than anything. Not a blunt or a snort could compare to the soft flesh of a woman or the smell of a new car when you drive it off the lot. Like a lot of young men, they got turned out by the life. The flash and shine of the Harlem underworld sucked at them like vampires, increasing their need to feed the monkey. To be a fly nigga in Harlem was like being a respected god on Olympus, to give you a visual. When they caught the music itch, it only made the high sweeter because they didn’t have to hide the money. With the way they were grinding, the team of Pop and Don B. was a sure thing, but then karma reared her ugly head.
Don B. had always been more about the paper and women than the drama and bullets, but Pop couldn’t let go of what was and embrace what was to be. He was getting a buzz on the rap scene but still needed to be a dictator in the streets. He saw Big Dawg more as a gang than a business, often making his decisions based on that. To him, Big Dawg was a regime that wasn’t to be challenged. A knucklehead that Don B. had exchanged words with at a club over a female ended up being the first example of Pop’s new rule.
Pop had blasted the kid in a crowded club, in front of hundreds of people. The kid lived, but refused to testify against Pop out of fear. Still, Pop was in possession of the weapon when they caught him, so they were still able to slap his ass with five to fifteen. Don B. found himself with a potential monster of a company on his hands, and no artist. Don B. knew he would have to shit or get off the pot. And so his emcee persona was born.
Don B. took a hard breath when he stepped from the safety of the building’s archway. Though Remo and Devil had surely swept the block beforehand, he was still on edge for danger. With success brought jealousy, and Don B. knew all too well what a jealous person was capable of. His former protégé, True, was a testament to that. True had been the ray of sunshine in Don B.’s life since the day he’d met him. True got it how he got it, but the music had always been his first love. In him
, Don B. had seen redemption, but the ghetto had stolen True’s life, just as it had Don B.’s soul. The money from True’s postmortem album put Big Dawg Entertainment in a whole different tax bracket, but he’d have traded it all to have his friend back.
“What it is?” Don B. slapped Devil’s yellow palm. The aging but still brolic cat responded with a nod. Remo stayed behind the wheel of the bloodred Hummer, idling. “We out,” Don B. announced, moving to climb into the backseat. When he got into the Hummer, there were already two more people back there, but Don B. had been expecting them.
Night and day occupied the butterscotch seats in the rear of the Hummer. The black kid was a John Singleton throwback in his creased Levi’s and white running shoes. An oversized New Jersey Devils’ jersey was draped over a black Champion hoodie, which was pulled over his head. All that was visible within the folds of the hood were bloodshot eyes and a freshly rolled blunt dangling between slightly ashen lips. Fully nodded at Don B. when he slid into the vehicle.
The white boy was brighter, but not cleaner. He wore a tattered USC sweatshirt and a baseball cap creased down the bill. His shifty brown eyes didn’t linger on one spot in the car for more than two seconds before moving on to something else. They called him No Doze, and all he did was pop pills and make beats. His drugged-out mind connected with the music in a way that no one could really understand. Some people joked that he had undiagnosed ADD, but that was bullshit. The boy was trained in classical piano, acoustic guitar, and bass drum, and was currently teaching himself to play the violin. His brain was like an organic computer and through the group they turned his skills into money—money that Don B. intended to triple, in his favor, of course.
Chip was the computer junkie and currently absent member of the group. The Lebanese transplant handled computer software like it was second nature. No Doze would put together a dope beat and Chip would taint it, twisting the sound to a uniquely morbid pitch. What he did to the beats was never clear, but it gave them a dark and skin-crawlingly delicious edge.
The group was composed of two burnouts who knew music like Don B. knew grams, and a hard-nosed cat that carried the streets with him like commuters carried metro cards. Multicultural young dudes barely out of their teens, hailing from Los Angeles County, they called themselves the Left Coast Theory. They had a sound that was like a blend of the Neptunes with a live-music presence that was vintage Roots. They were the purest thing to come out of rap since the Black Eyed Peas, and had just as much star power. More important, they were the latest Big Dawg acquisition.
“What it is, fellas?” Don B. pounded each of their fists. “Where’s Chip?”
“On his bullshit, yet again,” Fully said in his raspy pitch.
“You know Chip, he’s probably in the lab doing his thing,” No Doze said. Chip’s disappearing acts got on his nerves, too, but he didn’t feel like they should be talking about it in front of Don B. He had made them a part of his label and by extension his crew, but he wasn’t family.
“Whatever, as long as he is where he needs to be come game time,” Don B. said, twisting the cap off a bottle of water. “Y’all listened to them tracks yet?”
Fully leaned forward so that Don B. could hear him. “Yeah, we checked them and . . .”
“None of them really grabbed us.” No Doze finished the sentence. Before Don B. could say anything, he continued. “Don, the tracks were dope, but they weren’t Coast. You know we’re better when the whole thing is done in-house.”
“Doze, I hear you and all that, but this is a business decision,” Don B. told him. “Now, y’all produced over eighty percent of the album, and I’m giving you final say when it gets mixed down. That says that I have total faith in you when it comes to this here, but Left Coast ain’t the only pups in the litter. This album is not only gonna break y’all, but it’s gonna kick the buzz off for a few more niggaz I got waiting in the wings. Y’all do the music and let me worry about the business.”
Doze didn’t like the fact that they’d have to share space with some of the other Big Dawg acts. Some of them were good, while others were just reformed drug dealers that Don B. was looking out for. Doze didn’t want that kind of energy spilling onto their stuff. Still, Don B. was the man running the show, so he suffered in silence.
“Did my little man get that out to you?” Don B. asked Fully.
“Yeah, yeah, good looking out on that. I’ll get it back to you once we knock this show out,” Fully assured him.
“It’s all good, my nigga. I’ll just take it off the back end of your royalties down the line so you won’t miss it. Just be a little wiser with ya cake this go-round,” Don B. said, breaking up a block of weed on a CD case.
Doze cut his eyes at Fully. When they had signed, Don B. had given them a six-figure advance. Even when the money was split between the three of them it left each member with enough money to hold him down for a minute. Doze spent money only on drugs and studio equipment, so he didn’t burn through it as fast, but Fully had to have the life. Back when they’d first landed in New York, they’d made their way by slumming around the club circuit begging for gigs. They’d pass around 40s of St. Ides and appreciate it like it was fine wine, but since signing with Big Dawg he felt like he had to pop bottles to look like he belonged with Don B. and his crew. When they were alone he intended to check him about borrowing against their royalties.
Doze watched as Don B. oozed back into the shadowed recesses of the SUV, and handed the blunt to Fully. Doze’s partner accepted the blunt as if Don B. were bestowing a blessing upon him. He’d been doing that a lot lately—hanging on Don B.’s every word as if whatever he said was the gospel. Chip often made slick comments about it but Doze was content to watch from a distance and wondered silently how long they’d be able to keep the music pure before the politics came into play.
Don B.’s shaded eyes made it impossible to tell just what he was looking at, but his face was set in Doze’s general direction. There was something about their CEO that unnerved Doze, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was. Don B. had been looking out for them since that night they’d met at The Doll House in Newark. Once they got the word that he was at the spot, they put a Harlem cab on hold and rode all the way out to The Bricks. Don B. and his crew had the place so packed that Fully ended up having to knock one of the bouncers out to get Don B.’s attention. They ended up spending three days in the Essex County Jail, but when they got back to New York they got the word that Don B. wanted to see them. They laid out their package and it had been on ever since. As far as CEOs went, the Don seemed to be on the up and up, but Doze knew business, so therefore there had to be an ulterior motive. There was always a hidden agenda when paper was involved.
“Everything is gonna be good, Doze.” Don B. dispelled some of the tension when he laid a mitt on the slim white boy’s shoulder. “See, what y’all don’t quite grasp is that this here is a double-edged sword. You ain’t regular niggaz no more, and at the same time you are, feel me?” Fully looked dumbstruck, as he often did, while Doze’s face clearly said that he was lost. “Look,” Don B. leaned forward, raining flakes of ash onto his jeans, “being in this business can be a beautiful thing, as long as you see the ugliness before it gets a firm hold on that ass.” He clasped his hands together for emphasis. “When you a hot nigga, it’s always gonna be shit that people dangle in front of you, making you think that you need it, so naturally you’re gonna do everything in your power to get it just to prove that you have the means to do so. The hot nigga is always gonna be the life of the party, but when your star fizzles, that’s the end of the road.
“See, muthafuckas on the outside looking in look at the rapper with the big chain and think he’s the dude calling the shots, but they got it twisted. The talent advertises the product, but it’s the ideas behind the talent that truly control this rap shit. A few years ago I took a bunch of knucklehead-ass niggaz and turned them into made men, but they were hustlers and not entertainers . . . shit, t
hey weren’t even rappers, to keep it one hundred wit’ you, but I was able to sell them because I’m smart about this shit. Not only are y’all some dope-ass rappers, but y’all are actually musicians!” he said excitedly. “In a hot minute you’re gonna have a classic album out under the hottest label in the game and the whole fucking world is gonna know you. Now, y’all are gonna be stars with or without the Don, but with him, you’ll be rich. Trust in ya boy and enjoy the ride.”
CHAPTER 6
Tionna breathed a sigh of relief when her two rambunctious children disappeared around the corner of Seventh Avenue. From the minute they’d hit 140th they’d been running around like they’d lost their last minds. Tionna was on the verge of laying the smack down right before a neighborhood girl named Pumpkin offered to take them around the corner to grab a two-dollar special at the Cat Kitchen. Hopefully the short ribs and scoop of fried rice would keep them out of her hair long enough for her to breathe.
“Damn, you look stressed.” Gucci dropped a milk crate next to the tattered chair Tionna was sitting on and took a load off.
“Them damn kids was driving me crazy.” Tionna massaged her scalp. “I swear it seems like there’s something about this block that makes them act like they ain’t got no sense.”
“The kids got more sense than some of the grown people.” Gucci watched Rock Head on the other side of the street making a sale. He didn’t have the common decency to wait until after Ms. Jordan had passed with her granddaughter before serving the fiend. “But you know I got that stress reliever, right?” Gucci dug into her bra and pulled out a bag of pretty green buds. “It ain’t the best, but it’s piff.”