by Nikki Turner
“Look, gas ain't cheap, plus oil changes and the general wear and tear on my van all cost money,” Ricky tried to defend himself.
“Well, why not charge these motherfuckers who booked us a traveling fee, instead of charging us?” she said. “Whatever, Ricky, I am going to let you have that little bullshit sixty dollars for the gas. But tell me why in the hell my tip cut is not what it's supposed to be?”
“It was divided up among us all,” Ricky insisted.
“I have no problem with the band getting their tips, but I do have an issue with you getting a part of my tip money. Shit, we bailed yo ass out. I heard the boos out there and I came running to your rescue like Flash Gordon and shit.”
The rest of the band was in the corner laughing, or trying not to laugh, at the gospel Fabiola was preaching.
“I am a part of this band, therefore I deserve a cut of the tips,” Ricky demanded.
“Do you?” Keys asked.
“You want to charge us a twenty percent booking fee plus gas, plus you get some of the tips when all you contribute is your one old-ass song. Everything after that puts the crowd in a sour mood, making us have to work a hundred times harder. This is some bull-fucking-shit, and everyone here knows it.” Fabiola continued to try to get her point across.
No one said anything except Boonie, who let out a loud fart that didn't break up the tension in the room. Everyone watched the two in action.
“Y'all know she's right. Dead-ass right,” Keys continued to add his two cents.
“And you know what? I am so sick of all you niggas talking the same shit and never standing up for yourself.” She looked each of her colleagues in the eye.
“Without me, there is no you. You may have came out and sung but they wouldn't have booked you,” Ricky said to Fabiola, “or any of you. Not without me or my name or my connections.”
“Whatever.” Fabiola shrugged him off. “Back to my mother-fucking money.” She rolled her neck around and said, “Run me the rest of my paper.”
She held out her hand.
Ricky gave her dap and started to laugh. “I don't owe you shit. You got fined one hundred dollars!”
“For what?”
“The colors were red and white, not all red. You can't wear anything you want in my band, Ms. Fabiola. This ain't Ms. Fabiola Mays's show. For the last time, this is Ricky Chunnaly's and The Band. That's what the contract says, what I say goes, and I said red-and-motherfucking-white. You decided to wear all red,” he said while shaking the ashes off his cigar.
Smoke was coming from Fabiola's head and then Ricky went in for the kill.
“You could have worn white shoes or anything,” he giggled. “But you didn't … and you got fined for it. And no exceptions when it comes to my fines.”
“It's past Labor Day. What would I look like wearing white shoes?”
“You a star, you can do what you want! You set trends! Guys, ain't that what she tells us? She's a star.” He looked at the rest of the band for a cosigner. No one said anything but Tommy, who grunted in agreement. Everyone else continued packing up their stuff so they could get out of there.
“You could have put on white bracelets or a red-and-white scarf,” Ricky went on.
Bunnnppp. Boonie let out another one.
She was shaking her head at the petty S-curl-wearing joker. She smiled at Ricky, which he interpreted as her acknowledging that he had won the argument.
“I don't know why you smiling. No white, then you fined a hunn'ed bucks.”
“You know what,” she said, “I got yo red-and-motherfucking-white, Mr. Rick the total dick.” Fabiola turned around and bent over at the waist and lifted up her dress quickly, flashing her candy-cane red-and-white thongs. “Now, run me my shit,” she said while holding out her hand.
The band was in tears of laughter as Ricky paid her the rest of her money.
TRACK 4
Scheming on the Riches
he night had been too long: the drive, playing in the Chicken Shack, Ricky's bullshit, and then the drama with Mr. Purple's girl. Fabiola was exhausted. And then there was Boonie. He had eaten so much of the greasy chicken that his stomach was bubbling the whole ride home. Ricky stopped the van three times so Boonie wouldn't shit on himself and probably would have given him his sixty dollars back if he could've held that gas he was cutting loose all the way down the highway. By the time she reached home, all she wanted to do was take a long bath, get in bed, and go to sleep.
Fabiola turned on the television. She wanted to catch the news to see what was going on in the capital city. She turned up the volume so she could hear it over the running water of the bath while she got undressed. She tested the water with her hand—perfect, she thought, and then the rest of her body followed. After ten minutes of enjoying the soothing water, the news music sounded, so she strained her ears to hear.
I wonder what crazy shit has happened now. Did they find Osama?
“Richmond city detectives are currently on the scene of a shooting that took place during a Halloween Party on the city's North Side. We now go live to the scene, where Taylor Thomas has the very latest. Taylor, what can you tell us?”
A young woman stood outside in front of yellow crime scene tape.
“Yes, Jessica. Only a few hours after the initial 9-1-1 call, I can tell you this is still a very active crime scene. Officers are still questioning some sixty people who were at the party at the time of the shooting. Authorities have cordoned off a section of the street, and while investigators have not officially identified the victim, they did release some preliminary information about him. We're told that the unidentified man is in his fifties and a respected real-estate investor who may have had a checkered past. He has a criminal history and may have served time in prison. He was shot in the torso, neck, and shoulder.”
While the reporter talked, the camera panned in back of her, where there were people standing around and police cars with their strobe lights still flashing. The camera focused on the reporter again.
“The victim is in critical condition at Medical College Virginia, where a spokesperson has told us they cannot release any additional information about his condition. That's it from here. Back to you in the studio, Jessica.”
The screen split to show the anchor and the reporter.
“Thanks for that report, Taylor, but before you go, two questions: Do police have any suspects in this shooting? And when will they release the name of the victim?”
“Jessica, although the police are not officially releasing a name, some of the people who were at the party are saying that he goes by the name Casino.”
That name hit Fabiola harder than any of the hot water ever could. She got up and raced for the television remote, almost losing her balance as she slid across the hardwood floor.
“And as far as suspects, all they're saying at this point is that they are looking for two people of interest. We will, of course, continue to follow this story and bring you the very latest when it becomes available. Reporting live from the city's North Side, I'm Taylor Thomas.”
Casino?
Fabiola turned the television to another station to see if she could learn more about what happened, but caught only the tail end of the story, which offered no new information.
Although she hadn't seen Casino since the night he helped her family, she often thought about him. By now, her family had lived rent free in one of his houses for three years. He never even came around for a thank-you. In fact, they didn't even know how to contact the man if they wanted to pay him anything. But now she knew he was at MCV.
Fabiola sat naked on the edge of the bed, totally distraught. She had thought of Casino as her Superman, swooping in to save the day when her world had seemed to be falling apart. She wanted to find out if he was all right or if he needed her to help in any way, as he had done for her family when they were in a crisis. She owed him that much. One favor deserved another. Her heart was racing like Dale Earnhardt in the Indy 500.
<
br /> “MCV, up, up, and away,” she said as she dried off and quickly got dressed.
After parking her car, Fabiola rushed into the hospital's waiting room. She couldn't believe her eyes. MCV had one of the best trauma units in the country, and they took anyone, regardless of insurance, so they were always overcrowded. But that morning it seemed as if there were wall-to-wall people. There were mothers with their sick children; a guy nursing what looked to be a broken arm; a woman who couldn't stop shaking; and a man with stab wounds who looked like he was going to bleed out at any minute. In addition to the patients, there seemed to be a ton of people standing around.
Fabiola walked over to one of the clerk's stations. The woman had her head down and was filling out some paperwork.
Fabiola stood there for about a minute, and when the woman didn't look up she said, “Excuse me.”
“Yes?” The clerk looked up from her work, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
“I'm trying to get any information you have on a gunshot victim that came in tonight. His name is Casino.”
“He must be one helluva man. Everybody is asking about him. He's real popular in these parts it seems. You're going to have to sit down and wait just like everyone else for the doctor to come out.” The clerk went back to her paperwork.
It turned out that most of the crowd was there for the same reason she was: to find out what was going on with Casino. Because she didn't know any of the people in his circle, Fabiola felt alone. She tried to sit and wait, but there were no vacant seats.
Wow, he has a bunch of people who care about him, Fabiola thought as she stood next to the water fountain. She thought about leaving. Coming to the hospital was an impulsive decision, but she thought that maybe Casino would need her help somehow. However, it seemed like he had plenty of friends there to support him.
Then why am I still here? she wondered. He doesn't need me. Answering her own question, she said to herself: Because Casino took the time to help a family in need instead of minding his own business like most people would have done—that's why.
Fabiola's attention was drawn to a big guy wearing a black denim outfit and black boots who was pacing back and forth across the floor. He had to weigh at least three hundred pounds. And from the look on the tall man's face, he was pissed off. He looked kind of familiar to Fabiola, but whoever he was, she sure was glad that she wasn't the one he was upset with.
After observing the man a little longer, it came to Fabiola: He was one of the goons that were with Casino the morning of the eviction.
“How the hell am I going to pay my rent if Casino dies?” Fabiola overheard a woman say who was sitting across from the water fountain whispering to her friend. “You know he been taking care of me since Mike went to jail.”
Fabiola thought she must have heard the chick wrong. There was no way that man was lying in the hospital, possibly about to lose his life, and all this woman cared about was his pockets. But once she heard the friend reply, she knew she had heard the woman right.
“You mean when he dies,” the woman's friend corrected her. “I heard somebody say he got shot so many times the paramedics almost didn't bother to bring 'im to the hospital. They were 'bout to take 'im straight to Scott's funeral home.”
Two people came to drink from the water fountain, causing a little water to splash on Fabiola, which was her cue to move. She decided again to look for a chair, which was hard to find. She scanned the room and found another spot in the corner to stand and then moved there. Two women made eye contact with her, and, after appraising her, paid her no mind.
“I know I should have got pregnant by that nigga when we fucked last month,” Fabiola overheard one of the ladies say.
“I thought you said he used a condom?” the other girl replied.
“He always does, but damn, I should have put a hole through it.”
“I thought you said he didn't fuck you—that you just gave him head?”
“Yeah, that's how it went, but I should have kept the condom and used a turkey baster or some shit.”
“Girl, you are crazy. And besides, why would you want to be pregnant by a man that's shot up and could die?”
“So my baby can have his fortune.”
“I agree. If I was you I would have just sucked it so good that he would want to give me the fortune anyway. Put me in the will.”
The two chicks snickered a little bit.
Fabiola shook her head. These scandalous bitches, Fabiola thought as she made sure to get a good look at them so she could tell Casino about them when he got well.
A lady that was dressed like a pregnant nun approached the big guy that was doing all the pacing. “Hey, Tonk, how're you holding up?”
“I'm stressed the fuck out, that's all, ain't much to it,” Tonk admitted.
“Me, too, so truly I understand.”
Fabiola continued to look around while she waited and saw a woman sitting in a chair fanning herself. Who is she? Fabiola wondered. The woman was so beautiful that she almost looked out of place. She looked to be in her midforties and was dressed to the nines, but conservatively. Her black Gucci pantsuit fit her size-eight body to perfection. Gucci loafers matched the bag that rested on top of her knee. It wasn't last season's bag either. Fabiola had seen one just like it in a fashion magazine. The way her curls in her hair were laid down, it wasn't hard to tell that her short haircut probably cost a small fortune in one of those upscale salons. Fabiola noticed the Rolex watch and the big ring on her left finger and wondered if she was Casino's wife. Whoever she was, she was a diva all the way.
The woman knew that Fabiola was checking her out but wasn't about to acknowledge it—that was her swagger. She had already sized up Fabiola when she had been standing by the water fountain. Had Fabiola been about fifteen to twenty years older then she would have been worried shitless, but knowing good and well that Casino didn't really keep the company of younger women, she brushed Fabiola off as a groupie to the infamous hood star.
Fabiola's evaluation of the wifey-looking woman was interupted when the trauma surgeon came out. He had operated on Casino for six straight hours. The woman Fabiola suspected was Casino's wife ran to the doctor's side, and everyone else huddled around him.
“First, let me say that Mr. Winn is a strong man, a fighter indeed.” The doctor squeezed his hands together, trying to relieve some of the tension from the long hours of delicate surgery, not to mention the colorful crowd before him.
“Right now he's stable.” There was relief on a lot of people's faces when he said that. “But he's not out of the water yet. And even if he does live, the reality is that a bullet went through his abdomen and grazed the lumbar region of his spine, which could leave him paralyzed from the waist down.”
“Oh my God,” a woman screamed. She was as attractive as wifey, and judging from her reaction seemed to be close to Casino.
Who was she? Fabiola wondered. Maybe his sister.
“Casino is a warrior,” wifey said to the woman. “He'll be fine. And all the theatrics aren't going to make this any better than what it is,” she added calmly. Fabiola sensed that wifey was annoyed at the other woman's reaction.
Maybe she's not his sister after all. Maybe she's his baby momma or his girlfriend. Casino seems like the kind oft man who could pull off a girlfriend and a wife.
“I'm not certain, but he may have to go through a series of surgeries down the line,” the doctor said. “But right now he's stable.” He patted wifey's hand, and then looked at the crowd. “I'm limiting his visits to immediate family only. Mr. Winn really needs his rest.”
“So, what you are saying? Is he going to live, Doc?” a fella bluntly asked. “Will he be able to walk?” another blurted out. The girl who said she needed her rent paid looked like she was about to pass out. Her friend had a smug look on her face like, I told you so.
“I'm saying it's going to be tough, but Mr. Winn is a fighter.”
Spade, Casino's son and right-hand man, walk
ed away as he waved off the doctor's news. “This shit is for the birds. My pops is on his deathbed and we can't get a straight answer from the gotdamn doctor.”
Fabiola was speechless. All she knew is that she wanted to see Casino. But the doctor had said immediate family only. The only person she knew was the big dude that everyone called Tonk—if seeing a man one time for a few minutes counted as knowing him, then maybe she could get a favor from him. But he wouldn't understand why this is so important to me. Maybe he would. What do I have to lose?
Fabiola looked around for her only shot. Tonk was talking to a lady that looked almost as glamorous as wifey. But this one was tall and thin. She had light-caramel-colored skin and a Farrah Fawcett feathered hairdo. Fabiola couldn't hear what they were saying, but Tonk reached in his pocket, pulled out a twenty, and shoved it in her hand. It looked like feathered hairdo said, “thank you,” before switching down the hall as if she had a million dollars in her hand. Tonk went the other way. Fabiola followed Tonk, trying to work up the nerve to approach him.
Then wifey popped up.
“Tonk, I don't know what to do. I'm so devastated.”
Tonk gave her a hug. “Roxy, everything is going to be okay,” Tonk assured her.
“I hope so.”
“It will.” He nodded, trying to convince himself.
“What are you driving?” Roxy shifted the conversation.
“I got the Range Rover outside.”
“I'm sure that Casino would want me to get the keys from you and keep the truck at my house.”
Tonk looked at Roxy like, Bitch, no you didn't just say that, but instead said, “No disrespect, but Casino left the Rover in my care and that's where it's going to stay. I've been his driver for ten years, and never had an accident, a scrap, or scratch. Besides”—Tonk tried to make light of the encounter—“who's going to pick him up when he comes home from the hospital?”
“And until that day comes—and I pray that it isn't that long—it won't be necessary for you to be racking up any additional miles on it,” Roxy said.