Ghetto Girls

by Anthony Whyte

  “So what?” Eric asked.

  “So what?” Busta asked. He was attacking a piece of chicken.

  “Well, we got to do da right mo’fucking thing. Know wha’ I mean, E.?” asked Busta, still grubbing as if his life depended on every bite.

  “What are we gonna do?”

  “Well, we gotta break da right mo’fuckas off a piece.” Busta waved the chicken leg. “I mean, niggas can’t be running free, raping, unsafe sex, spreading all kinda shit. They’re out there, E. and your niece might not be their only vick. We got to make those mo’fuckers pay.” Busta burped. The music from the club masked the guttural interruption. “Listen E.,” he continued. “I’m a show you somebody with the knowledge on all that shit, like, why your niece was raped and all that. He might even tell you who did your brother. Believe it, E., I’m telling you, right now, I could bring him to see ya.”

  “Are you serious, Busta?”

  “Eric, when do you know me to be joking?”

  Before Eric could answer, Busta was on his cellular, chicken-stained fingers pressing buttons. Then he yelled into the phone, “Pick up that kid Shorty-Wop. Yeah, yeah, Rightchus, or whatever da fuck he wants to call himself. And bring him downtown to Mr. Gee’s, ahight.” He clicked off. Busta gave Eric a long look, and ripped into a piece of chicken breast. Eric stared back, lit a cigarette and sipped a beer. He took a deep drag and exhaled to the accompaniment of a jazz riff. Busta finished all the chicken.

  “Let’s go,” Busta finally said as he placed a large bill on the table and rose. Eric rose as if he was about to greet a bad verdict. A decision made by him was set to imprison his mind. His steps came tentatively. Eric felt like he did not want to move, but did anyway. Like a prison guard leading the walk to the chair, Busta led Eric to a parked van. There were two men inside, and the pair joined them.

  “Give us a minute,” Busta said to the driver.

  “Shorty-Wop, this is…” Busta said. The door slammed behind the driver.

  “I know who this is, man. You don’t have to tell Shorty nada, know wha’ I’m saying? This da hottest brother out there mixing down R&B tracks, kicking Hip-Hop shit all over da place, just blowing shit up, know wha’ I’m saying? Shorty-Wop be keeping up. Nah mean?”

  “Yeah, yeah, no doubt about that. But Shorty, I want you to tell him sump’n. Shed some light on da scenario you kicked to me earlier.”

  “Eric Ascot! You all this an’ you all that. Da beats, da drums, da music. That shit is on. And if you need a new emcee, up and coming, like myself included shit, I’ll be your man. Not even who… Silky Black...can do it like I can. What! I’m saying I’ll rock the mike at the drop of a dime. And R&B? Yo, yo, yo, that’s me, that’s me. Sang all the way through high school. Now I’m old school. Shit, but let me do my thing, even R. Kelly be listening. You wanna hear me bust a few rhymes or break it down? R&B style, even Reggae.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Busta said, calming the hyper Shorty-Wop. “But we wanna hear ‘bout that rape thing, ya know wha’ I mean?” Busta showed annoyance now.

  “Shorty-Wop ain’t gonna front. Eric, as God is my witness, da wrong man went down, see? It was these knuckleheads that should be dead and stinking.”

  Eric lit another cigarette. He offered one to Shorty-Wop.

  “Them niggas kill you at the drop of your jaw. You mouth off to any of them niggas an’ that’s it. Kapow.” Shorty-Wop pointed two fingers. “I can’t afford that, Mr. Ascot, you know wha’ I’m saying? I got a family. Seeds, ya know. So I’m a tell y’all this. Hit me wid some dough, record contract, whatever. Put me on, cuz I’m an aspiring rap star. I know it. I can feel all that.”

  “Shorty...” said Busta, running out of patience, “just tell us what da fuck you know an’ get hit wid some dough, alright?”

  “Eric, your niece was gang-banged by two knuckleheads, Lil’ Long and Vulcha. Them’s da mo’fuckers. Two, not one,” Shorty-Wop, a.k.a. Rightchus said.

  Eric cringed. His lips uncurled as he snuffed out the cigarette. He stared at the street character, almost hating him.

  “I don’t mean to be so blunt, but that’s wha’ happened. Deja was trying to fuck wid her in da club, but when she and Coco—”

  “Coco?” Eric asked.

  “Yeah, Coco, da dancer. Now she got a lil’ sump’n going on, I’m sorta like her advisor. I be showing her moves that helps her when she be performing, know wha’ I’m saying. So your niece rolls up wid Coco and her girls in this bad-ass car…a Mercedes, a black one. And when they went outside, boom! Them niggas gun-butt Coco, knocked her out. Da bitch lay on da street, nose bleeding, swollen up like Santa’s reindeer. They took your niece and da ride. Them mo’fuckers dead wrong.”

  “And they’s da ones who hit your brother, know wha’ I’m saying? He was paying off someone. He was fucking ‘round wid Xtriggaphan. Fake-ass gangsta rappers, wannabes. Them niggas had beef wid everybody. They owed Lil’ Long dough, see. When Lil’ Long went to get his dough…boom…he sees your brother wid them niggas. He and Vulcha start beating down the Xtriggaphan niggas. Your brother, may he rest in peace, your brother steps up to them, an’, it’s like, don’t fuck wid Lil’ Long ‘n’ Vulcha. Your brother did, an’ just like that, he was killed. Just like fucking that.”

  “What about the musicians? Xtriggaphan? The drugs? All that shit the police ignored. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Eric asked.

  “Nah, nah, he was fucking some girl on da low. Bebop. Some girl who was killed wit Deja. I could a fucked wit her, but every man she fucked get killed. No disrespect, know wha’ I’m saying? Them niggas, Xtriggaphan, they s’pose to be out in Cali or Cleveland. Lil’ Long hit ‘em wid some dough and I heard they paid da bitch, Bebop. Your brother was strapped and they killed him, right? Nobody cross Lil’ Long or Vulcha. They not having it. But see, they did my boo Deja, see, an’ that was dead wrong. All he was doing was just grindin’ trying to get his. But them niggas, they ain’t no joke. Da police don’t even fuck wid them.”

  “Ahight, ahight Shorty-Wop. Hold this.” Busta slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Shorty-Wop’s huge hand.

  Eric stumbled out of the van. He searched his pocket. He found a cigarette and quickly lit it. He needed satisfaction, but nicotine was not the cure.

  “Shit! Fuck it!” He threw the smoke away.

  “Remember, if anything comes up…” yelled Shorty-Wop from the car as it sped away. Eric waved and dismissed any thoughts of Shorty-Wop, except for his message. He now knew the men who had murdered his brother and raped his niece; father and daughter, victims of the same people. Yet, they still walked around free as the wind.

  Anger boiled in Eric Ascot. The sound of retching distracted him as he raised his chin and prepared for some sort of action. He noticed Busta leaning over the curb, vomiting. He rushed over to him.

  “You ahight?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Fucking chicken bones.” Busta’s eyes were teary as he coughed.

  “We got to get rid of them mo’fuckers, Busta.”

  “That’s how I feel, too, buddy. I’m wid you on that.”

  “How much?”

  “I can’t say right now, but I know their fucking days are numbered.”

  “Fuck it. Let’s end their shit now,” Eric gritted.

  “Ease up E. Chill, chill. Grab a hold of yourself. Cool out.” Busta gingerly removed his neck from Eric’s grip. He coughed and spit out a chicken bone.

  “Fucking chicken bones. Word is…ugh, ugh,” Busta said, holding himself steady, careful not to lean on a still angry Eric Ascot. “Word is Lil’ Long and Vulcha or Vulture, or whatever da fuck his name is—them mo’fuckers down wid da law; some sorta informant-type shit, know wha’ I’m saying, E.? Them mo’fuckers you got to be careful wid. It’s gonna take a lotta dough. But they can be reached. They ain’t da fucking untouchables, hiding behind them fucking police.”

  “Let’s do it, Busta. Just set that shit up. Set it up right now,” Eric said. He swung his arms, swiping at the
air, slapped Busta’s chest, and then his own. Busta nodded solemnly. Their right hands slammed together. The deal was sealed.

  “Where you parked?” Busta asked as they crossed the street to the oversized brown doors of Mr. Gee’s, where notoriety was the valid I.D. card. “I’m gonna go back inside for a minute. Chit-chat you know. How’s Sophia?”

  “Sophia…Oh, shit, I have to do something with her tonight. She’s ahight, Busta. Go ahead, B. I’ve got this thing, some kinda dress-up party to attend. I really just wanna fucking get drunk, just tore up, assed-out, like ol’ times and shit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you, E. But you got things to deal wid. I got some business to take care of, myself. We’ll do this some other time, know wha’ I’m saying?”

  “Cool. Call me, B. Set it, then call.”

  “Ahight, I’ll do that, E. I’ll see ya, man.”

  Eric ran to his car. Busta disappeared through the oversized red doors of the club. He headed straight to the bar. There he ordered a drink and stared ahead as he sipped. He winked at three women close by. Energy seeped into his groin area and alerted his scrotum.

  “Ah-h-h,” he said. “I’d love to be hitting those panties tonight.”

  Eric raced home and dialed quickly. Sophia’s soft voice answered, “Go ahead and speak.”

  “Babe, how much time do I have?”

  “You’re out of time, Mister. If you are not by my side looking sharp in thirty seconds…”

  “Seconds? Seconds, babe?”

  “Yeah, cause that’s all the patience I have with your cloak and dagger business. Eric, just be here. Bye-bye.”

  Eric searched for shoes to match his black, double-breasted tuxedo, and the black bow tie with the stiff white shirt. Well, he thought, if you’re gonna be late, you might as well look good.

  Deedee appraised him. “You’re looking really good, but you’re late. Sophia’s gonna be mad. You’d better get stepping.” She walked him to the door.

  “Dee,” Eric said. He wanted to ask her about the rape, who had done it. “Dee.”

  “Uncle E., is there something wrong? You wanna ask me something? You smell real good.”

  “Dee, how many guys? One or two?”

  “One or two what?”

  Deedee was surprised by his nervousness, his awkwardness. Then she realized the importance of the question. She blinked, and felt the need to run and hide. Here was Uncle E., dressed his best and asking about the worst night of her life. She raised her head and looked him in the eye.

  “If you mean the night I was raped, yeah, it was two. Those bastards will pay.” Tears welled in Deedee’s eyes. She could say no more. Eric held her close.

  The comfort that Deedee found in her uncle’s gentle hug was short-lived. The doorbell rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” Deedee said.

  “Yeah, who is it?” Eric asked.

  “It’s probably Coco and some other friends. I thought we’d sit around and watch videos. We… Uncle E., tomorrow is the Wake for Danielle, okay? Please don’t forget. Pick me up at the church at fifty-sixth and Park.”

  “Remind me again.”

  “I will, I will. Trust me.”

  Eric met Coco at the door.

  “Coco, how are you?”

  “I’m cool, Mr. Ascot. Ah, you’re looking kinda flava. Hot date?”

  “Very hot.”

  “And very late,” Deedee reminded him.

  “Coco, Coco. You can come in this way.” Deedee shouted at a surprised Coco. She had a look on because she thought she had been ringing the wrong door bell. “It’s okay Coco, you can enter from either. Uncle E., just believes it’s cool to keep different numbers on the door. The apartments 3A through 3D is occupied by the same fam.” Deedee said with a smile.

  Coco walked down the hall totally enthralled by what Deedee had just revealed. They own the whole floor. Coco with a smile as a well decked out Eric Ascot passed by her.

  “Hi…ah Coco, right? Are you ready to do some real work. Don’t think it’s gonna be easy street because you’re talented and won some talent shows. It’s gonna take a lot of hard work. I’ll be seeing you again.” Ascot’s mouthful took Coco whose head was-n’t right into another direction. She waved at him still baffled as she finally reached one of the many entrances. What could be in such a huge apartment, Coco wondered as she hugged Deedee.

  “What up Dee? Y’all own this entire floor, yo?”

  “Damn near. How ya feeling Coco?”

  “I’m holding it down. What’s up with your uncle?”

  “Oh he’s dressed up and he’s late.”

  “Nah, I’m saying he was bugging da fuck out telling me about having talent and wasting it. I had no idea what the hell he was sayin, yo.”

  “He was in a rush. I know he gets excited when he’s trying to motivate his artists in the studio. Come on inside Coco, get comfortable and let me show you around.”

  “He came straight out of left field. But he got a point.” Coco said and walked inside a spacious apartment. “Damn! This is a kinda large place, girl.” Coco stared around nodding her head in approval. She was definitely impressed. “No wonder you need different entrances, yo.”

  “Uncle E., gets a kick out of people being confused by the entrances. I suppose so don’t expect to see a single entrance anytime soon.” Deedee said and the girls laughed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “So what’s going on Coco. What’s up, what’s up girl?”

  “Whassup, yo? I’m chilling, trying to maintain. Your uncle looking kinda sharp. He’s getting married or sump’n?”

  “Uncle E. should be at the award banquet with Sophia. You met her. She’s a lawyer an’ all, an’ her firm is throwing this big function tonight. So, did you hear from Josephine?”

  “Nope, it’s like the girl stepped off to another planet, yo.”

  “That shit is fucked up.”

  “This a phat crib, yo!”

  “Thanks, since this is your first time here, let me show you around.”

  “Can I smoke, yo?”

  “Smoke? Smoke what?”

  “Cigarette, fool. I’ll go outside if I wanna get weeded.”

  “That’s cool. But if it’s weed, then we gotta go to the basement. My uncle’s in-house studio. It smells like weed down there. He don’t be knowing that I know what weed be smelling like or sump’n. But I swear da basement stays lit up,” said Deedee. She pointed. “That’s the living room area and the den.”

  “This shit is da fattest,” Coco said. Her voice rose with her enjoyment. Deedee, too, was delighted. They hadn’t seen each other since the night of Danielle’s death.

  “So shit happens there,” Deedee said pointing to the bathroom.

  “Thirsty? We have mad drinks here. What are you drinking?” She asked as they headed for the kitchen.

  “Ah, beer?”

  “Let me see.” She searched the refrigerator. “Beer, okay, you’re on. There’s some. I’m having Chivas and coke,” Deedee said.

  “Well, don’t expect a lecture from me,” Coco said. “Just go for yours. Just don’t fuck wid mine.”

  The girls slapped hands mid-air and Deedee poured her drink after handing Coco a cold glass of beer. They were happy to be in each other’s company. Deedee was now feeling much more confident after the brief session with her uncle, culminating with an evening spent with someone she admired.

  The girls touched glasses. Then they both sipped.

  “What else y’all got up in here?”

  “Gin, vodka, rum—everything. Wine, probably champagne in the refrigerator. Just ask.”

  “Music! Y’all got that new Silky Black joint? That’s kinda hot. Put that on, yo.”

  “No doubt we do, and it’s mad flava.”

  “I heard he might be going solo.”

  “Nah, he just broke out to make this one album. But he still digging in da crates wid da Chop Shop.” Deedee moved to a panel, pressed a control, and the sound of Silky Black poured throug
h concealed speakers.

  “Oh, that shit is dope, yo. Da controls are like that? Where are the speakers?” Coco looked around in wonder.

  “This crib is da shits. I’ve never seen anything like this, not even close.”

  “Wait, let’s check out da basement.”

  “You mean we’re gonna get weeded?”

  “Yeah, you might get a contact high from all that shit circling down in there.”

  The girls headed down spiral steps. Coco was a little clumsy on the stairs, preoccupied with the reverberating sound of Silky Black. The music pumped louder as they walked further down. They approached a mirrored wall. Coco peered around.

  “Oh, shit, we’re at a studio?”

  “Yep, this is the studio my uncle and my father built.”

  “This shit is all that. Peanut butter in a jar,” Coco marveled.

  “Wanna go inside?”

  “Sure, yo.”

  Deedee opened the door and they entered. Deedee flicked switches and the lights came on. Coco picked up a microphone.

  “One, two. One, two. ‘N’ I say, whatcha gonna do? A one-two, microphone check!” She shouted. “It’s fat. It’s all this ‘n’ that, yo. Lemme tell you sump’n about this thing.” Coco began a lyrical game with the microphone. She turned to Deedee, mesmerized by her action.

  “Wow, you can make a demo up in this piece. You know how to run all this?”

  “Not entirely, but I’ve been taking notes, mixing beats, sampling—all that kinda stuff. Just trying to learn some stuff.”

  “Do you have any of your shit, yo?”

  “Yeah, I do, but ya know they’re not all that high powered flava yet, so...” Deedee smiled nervously. “Well this is the control booth,” Deedee said. She noticed Coco turn her attention to the studio’s interior. The walls were lined with enough huge tape recorders, equalizers and amplifiers to stock any electronics store. Eric and Deedee’s father had built a solid recording studio, and Deedee was a proud tour-guide.

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s nice,” Deedee said and her nervous smile lingered.

  Coco gazed and moved, delicately touching pieces of equipment. She rocked her body at different angles to check aspects of each piece. She was like a gardener, tending her plots. “And that’s the recording booth to your left, through the glass,” Deedee said. Coco twirled. “That’s where you would be, toiling at your craft, girl.” Deedee continued.