Ghetto Girls Too

by Anthony Whyte

  “Detectives? Mommy, you sure?”

  “Coco, let me tell you what else they told me. They know you know something that you’re not telling.”

  “That I know something and I’m not talking? Mommy, what kind of nonsense they talking about? Please.”

  “You wanna know what else they told me? That my daughter is looking at ten years in prison. Ten years.” Rachel Harvey broke down and sobbed as she repeated the penalty for perjury and cover-up.

  Coco looked on in disbelief and anguish. Should she come clean? At least tell the truth to her mother? She thought about it for a while before speaking.

  “Mommy, the news, the cops…”

  “They came here, Coco. One black and one white. Said they were detectives and showed me their badges. They say you could be a suspect in the shootings.”

  “Stop playing. I mean, they don’t know what they saying. They just trying to get everyone scared that’s all. They picked me up Friday night and threatened me if I didn’t tell them the damned truth.”

  “Then why don’t you tell the truth? And be easy with the raising your voice and cursing, all right. This place is quiet for a reason. I keep reminding you that you’re not talking to your hip hop thugs on the street corners.”

  “My bad, mom, but that sh…ah, just upsets me. I been told ‘em. When they first talked to me, I told the cops that Lil’ Long came there to kill, I mean, to rob someone and he shot and killed the girl that was there, Kamilla, and then Eric shot him.”

  “That’s all that happened? Are you sure, Coco?”

  “Yes, mommy, I’m sure. That’s it.”

  “Whatever, it just doesn’t sit right with me is all. I mean, why would anyone want to do that?

  “What the news left out is that Eric Ascot is a target because he’s out in the forefront doing his thing. People gonna hate. You can’t stop them. People are envious and jealous and all that pushes ‘em to be angry and start hating.”

  “I know what you mean because they got some haters up in here. Oh my God, they just decide, ‘Fuck it, I’m a hate on Rachel’. I don’t know what that’s about but I gotta go. I just gotta get up out of here. Can’t stay here no more, Coco.”

  “What do you mean, mommy?”

  “What I mean, girl? What I mean? Are you deaf? You’re not listening. That’s another reason I’ve got to get up out. You don’t listen to no one but yourself.”

  “What do you mean I don’t listen to no one? Mom, I always listen. I’m not out there pregnant. I’m in school all the time. I do my schoolwork. C’mon, give me some credit.”

  “I need to be out there keeping my eyes on you. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “Mommy, I’m gonna always be there. You know I’m not gonna be like you always talk about dad and how he was running from town to town. I ain’t gone be like that with nowhere to lay my head. Because of the music biz, I’m gonna be somebody, mommy.”

  “Well, that was your father. Always running around,” Ms. Harvey said. “He too had wanted to be somebody.” Her somber tone was lost on Coco.

  “Mommy I’m telling you...” the girl continued but her mother interrupted. She was direct and straight to the point.

  “Coco, he died.”

  There was a moment of silence as mother and daughter looked directly at each other. Coco saw the tears in her mother’s eyes but was so far removed from the emotion that she just continued.

  “I’ll never leave you. I’m gonna make you so proud of me.”

  “Coco, sweetheart, your father died. He died.”

  “Who? Who’re you talking about?” Coco asked and Rachel felt the denial in her daughter.

  “Your father, the man who...”

  “Gave his sperm?”

  “Yes, your father is dead.”

  Rachel Harvey repeated the words and got Coco’s undivided attention. The teenager, dressed in throwback Celtics warm-up suit, watched her mother break down and sob for the man who was supposed to be her father. Coco felt sympathy for her mom but couldn’t shed tears for someone she’d known only from pictures. It still hurt to see her mother crying this way. The teenager reached out and hugged her.

  “I’m sorry, mommy, but I can’t waste my tears for someone I didn’t know,” Coco said as her mother poured her heart out. She allowed her mother to mourn her loss. As the two sat in silence, her mother opened the brown envelope and removed pictures of the man Coco had only heard was her father. They stared at the photos. When she was ready to leave, her mother handed her the guitar and saw the look of bewilderment spread across her face.

  “What’s this, mommy?”

  “Can’t you see? It’s a guitar,” Rachel responded curtly.

  “Yeah, I can see that but what is the guitar for and why are you giving it to me?”

  “Coco, your father has never given you anything that you can remember right?”

  “Right and I don’t even know the man. So what?”

  “So on behalf of your father, I’m giving you this guitar,” Rachel said and broke down sobbing again. This time, Coco could not hold back her tears and cried for her mother.

  “When is the funeral?” Coco asked still tearing.

  “They already buried him somewhere in South Carolina. His family members sent the guitar to you. He had said he wanted you to have it.”

  Coco stayed a little longer and listened as her mother reminisced. May God rest his soul, Coco quietly wished.

  NINETEEN

  The weekend came and went too quickly for some. It couldn’t have been worse for Deedee. It dragged badly and left her slightly irritated. She was now displaced from her own home and was living out of a suitcase in Sophia’s two-bedroom apartment.

  Although the place was nice, Deedee missed her own digs and couldn’t help feeling that way. She had spent most of Saturday wishing her uncle would buy a new and better place and she wanted it to happen immediately. While Deedee was watching television, Sophia was mostly busy at her desktop trying to catch up with work.

  Most of the time, Deedee would camp out in front of the boob tube. She ventured on the internet and resisted the urge to contact Coco again. Deedee had already called Miss Katie’s several times and left messages for Coco but received no return calls. Sunday found her brooding for most of the day until she escaped to brunch with her uncle and Sophia.

  “It’s a nice day,” she remarked as they sat and dabbled at brunch at the Four Seasons. Although Deedee was in a good mood, she could feel the slight chill between Eric and Sophia. There was an uncomfortable silence between ordering and waiting for their meal.

  Eric grunted and sipped a beer while Sophia stared at the table as she stirred her club soda with a straw. They both ignored Deedee who forged ahead with the conversation hoping that either would join in.

  “This is a huge crowd. I guess a lot of people aren’t planning on cooking today, huh?” Deedee stated casually hoping to evoke a response. No answer.

  Sophia finally excused herself from the table as Eric answered another call on his cell phone. He quieted Deedee when she tried to interrupt.

  “This is important,” her uncle kept saying so Deedee stopped trying.

  Silence ruled the table. By the time the food arrived, things were so chilly that even the food tasted cold. Small talk was few and far between bites. When the ordeal finally came to an end, Deedee positioned herself next to Sophia.

  “Are you angry at Uncle E?” Deedee asked Sophia when they waited outside for the car to be brought around front by valet. Eric was stood apart from them chatting on the cell phone.

  “Why are you asking, Dee? Is it that obvious?”

  “I would say it certainly seems that way...” Deedee began but the ring of Sophia’s cell phone halted her. She waited as Sophia spoke.

  “Hi, Michael. Yes, tomorrow’s possible. See you then,” Sophia said then put the cell away. She turned to Deedee. “Well, you are perceptive. Not that either of us was trying to hide it but yeah, we had a little lover’
s spat. You know us grown folks, we can’t even decide on the color much less the house. But don’t you worry, we’re gonna work it out.”

  “I understand and I’m glad you told me because I was going deaf listening to both of you saying nothing to each other,” Deedee started to joke but caught herself when she realized that the smile on Sophia’s face was not real.

  “Yeah sure, Deedee. How’s it going with Coco, anyway?” Sophia asked changing the subject.

  “I’m not sure. I called but she hasn’t call back. I don’t know what happened,” Deedee began to explain but was cut off by Sophia.

  “She looked like she was ticked off yesterday. What happened between y’all anyway?”

  “I don’t know really. I know we’re, at least I’m still cool. Coco is Coco. I can’t speak for her but I’m alright,” Deedee said just as the Range Rover pulled to a stop in front of them.

  “You should try calling her again. Maybe she just needs some time to clear her head or something like that,” Sophia said.

  “You’re probably right,” Deedee said as she climbed into the back of the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Silence resumed as the Range took off. “Anyone up for a movie?” Deedee asked. There were no immediate answers forthcoming. “I guess not,” Deedee continued but with no further response, she put on her Gucci shades and stared out the window.

  Silence reigned the entire ride back to Sophia’s. When Eric pulled up to Sophia’s apartment and addressed Deedee only, it was a very awkward moment.

  “Ah, see you later. I’ve got stuff to do in the studio.”

  “Be safe Uncle E,” Deedee said and kissed her uncle’s cheek.

  “See ya later, sweetheart,” Eric said he turned to address Sophia but she was already out of the vehicle.

  “See you later, Eric,” she said curtly and walked away with Deedee.

  The tires screeched loudly, leaving tire treads along the roadway as Eric did a burnout leaving the scene. Heated, Eric gripped the steering with his fist. He dialed Busta’s digits quickly on his cell for the fifth time. No answer. Where the fuck is Busta? Eric thought as dubs hit the asphalt leaving tire marks. The vehemence Eric felt was transferred from his emotional state to the foot on the accelerator. The vehicle hit the street so hard his pipe work rattled.

  Eric pumped up the volume on the sound system and his ride floated with a thumping third-lane style traveling southbound on the West Side highway. Eric buried his troubles in the music. He always did but now he had to get to a recording studio. The one in his apartment was no longer at his disposal.

  This fact that Busta could not be reached added to his emotional state. He was in turmoil. Where was Busta? Probably with some female, Eric thought as the vehicle sped down the highway.

  Around him police sirens wailed. Officers yelled loudly on their horn for Eric to stop. Music thumped and reverberated from the tricked out ride. Other drivers tried to get Eric’s attention to no avail. The music had drowned out all other sounds. All that mattered was the music until he glanced to the side and his attention was caught by a driver in the next lane.

  “Yo, dog. I don’t think them officers back there care for your serious tricked out ride,” he shouted. With that, Eric glanced at his rear view and saw the police signal. He slowed and turned the music down. After about five minutes, the officer approached his car and spoke.

  “You realize you were doing over seventy five miles an hour? You’re in a rush or something? Driver’s license, registration and insurance, please,” he said and walked back to his car after Ascot gave him the requested items.

  Fifteen minutes later, the officer made his way back to the Ascot’s vehicle.

  “Here are your documents. I’m also giving you a ticket for going 20 miles above the speed limit.”

  Eric took the forms and without saying anything, drove off blasting the music on the way to the studio again. His sorrow and pain could only be drowned in the music. The studio was the only place where he was the absolute reigning king. It was his jungle, the field of urban music. He created it and made it happen. It was where he could find solace and peace of mind at any time.

  Eric pulled to a stop in the parking lot and pulled the nine-millimeter from under his seat and slipped it in to his waistband. It made walking a little bit difficult but it was worth his life so he would adjust to it. Ascot allowed his thoughts to roam as he walked into the downtown recording studio.

  Things had gotten out of hand. He knew that Sophia was right. Lil’ Long had came to his place to kill him, not to rob him or anyone else in the home that evening. He didn’t tell her that it was because he had ordered the dude killed and somehow the hit had all gone wrong. Kamilla was shot and killed at his place. Lil’ Long was probably in the morgue or hospital. It didn’t matter.

  What mattered most was that Busta was not answering his calls. Maybe he was on his back getting serviced by his usual two women, Eric thought. Busta was a sex fiend and wouldn’t answer calls for days. Did Busta ever mention going out of town? Eric wondered, not sure of what to make of Busta’s sudden disappearance.

  Busta had helped him out and no matter what, they were in it together. Where the hell is Busta? Eric wondered as he entered the sanctuary for his soul. Here, he would let the rhythm take over his soul. No one else could save him. This was the only way out for Eric Ascot.

  A recording studio can be a messy place of wires and machines completely out of sync with each other yet working together in harmony to make something worthy of dying for. Studios are like a dreary bunker filled with the latest electronic gadgets to improve sound, a Moog there, an MP3 there. In short, the place was an enclave of amps and speakers.

  Besides that, there are the dregs of recording sessions littering the place. Filled ashtrays with roaches that refused to crawl. Loose wires like groupies lay everywhere for everyone to see. There were smudged glass partitions separating artist and engineers. The booth was private but really only a collection of microphones and headphones.

  It was one in the morn and Ascot had stripped down to white wife-beater and jeans. His shoes and socks were off as he sat doodling at a Casio keyboard playing along to a mix of Big Pun’s; I’m Not A Player. He seemed to play with a fervor from deep within. It suggested a hunger only he could feel but Ascot still wanted more than this.

  It was a cool Sunday evening out. Light wind swept dusk into the night. Eric quickly pulled his shirt on and exited the studio. He walked to the Range and jumped in. Little did he know, there were eyes following his every move. He did not hear the chirps from their radio.

  “B-Bird has flown the coop. Over.”

  “Follow and maintain surveillance mark at nearest nest. Over and out.”

  TWENTY

  Eric drove for a few minutes listening over and over to the same beat. He fooled around with the equalizer. Unsatisfied, he shook his head quietly and lit a cigarette. After driving a few more miles, his eyes smiled when he saw a flashing neon lights sign that read, ‘Girls Dancing Nightly’. Eric parked and replaced the gun in the compartment under his seat.

  Busta always comes to this spot. Maybe somebody has seen him, Eric thought as he paid the necessary entrance fee and found his way to the bar. He stood and glanced around for any familiar faces. He ordered a double shot of Hennessey and an expensive cigar.

  Eric surveyed faces looking for any recognizable looking ones that might know Busta. Maybe it was an off night, he thought not immediately spotting any of Busta’s girls.

  He sat at the bar and downed two more drinks. Eric, cigar between his lips, glanced around the strip club where the waitresses were topless and the dancers got down to skivvies before taking a bow and dismounting the stage. From his vantage point, Eric had a view of the stage but wanted to get closer. He tipped the bartender heavy, and ambled toward the stage where many girls sat at tables designed for couples while others moved around trying to get customers. He searched their faces with quick glances not wanting to attract attention. He did an
yway.

  “Hi there, handsome. Are you looking for trouble?” they asked giggling. “Don’t tell me you’re not looking because I’m yours only, handsome.” Eric responded the same way each time. He slipped a couple bills in their string bikinis while shaking his head. The girls would smile and moved on. That way they weren’t offended, Eric thought.

  He wanted to interact with the girls that Busta frequented. He wondered where they were as he downed another drink. Eric knew he had to talk with Busta before Sophia did. He knew eventually she would contact Busta. He was a long time friend and her client.

  Sophia represented Busta’s entertainment company which included a fashionable and trendy nightclub, a soul food restaurant, and management of a couple artists signed to different labels. Eric figured he could tell Busta about the foul up and they could work out a way to correct it like they had done before. He would also remind Busta not to share anything with Sophia. It would kill her to find out what was really going on. He smacked his lips and flung another shot of the cognac down his throat. Eric relished the way the liquid burned the deeper it went. His mind welcomed the relaxing intoxicant.

  Eric sat and wondered how to go about searching this place. It could cost a small fortune, he thought. Every so often, he would take a peek at the naked dancers while he sipped. There were men dressed in business suits feeding dollars to the G-stringed dancers. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be more scantily dressed women roaming around. Some were elegant in sheer negligees while others just let it all hang, nipples and thongs. He was looking for particular faces. They were two of them, Asian types, and Eric knew them only by face.

  Two women dressed only in G-strings and boots approached him. As luck would have it, their faces looked familiar. Eric nodded out of courtesy at first but let his eyes wander slowly across their ample breasts. It was a possibility that they may have recently entertained Busta, Eric thought as he made eye contact.

  “Nice pair,” Eric said and threw back another double. The drink was his fifth double and its effect was evident. He glanced down admiring the way the black thongs cut deep into the ladies asses. Both turned slowly so Eric eyes could feast.