by Nikki Turner
“To speak to you in the other room. It's important.”
Casino asked Fabiola, “Do you mind?” Fabiola assured him she didn't, and Casino and Spade walked off to have some privacy.
“What's on your mind, son?” Casino said once they were alone.
“You getting shot,” Spade blurted out. There was no use in him beating around the bush. “That can't go unpunished.”
“And it won't.” Casino put both his hands on Spade's shoulders and looked him square in the face. “But for now, all we can do is be patient and wait. Sooner or later the bitches that shot me are going to slip up and say something, and when that time comes … we take care of our unfinished business in a way that'll make their friends' friends wish they didn't know them.”
TRACK 16
The Body's Calling
ater that night, Fabiola and Casino were together in his upstairs master suite. She adored his bedroom; it was her favorite room in the house yet. It was huge, and the focal point was the tall four-poster mahogany super-sized king bed, truly fit for a king. In the far left corner from the end of the bed was a life-sized Roman-looking statue of a half-naked woman. Fabiola made herself right at home in the warmth of the gold-and earth-toned colors of the suite.
Casino was sprawled out on his stomach across the bed while Fabiola sat up next to him, feet curled under her butt, giving him a massage. Casino turned over onto his back and suggested, “You know what? You've been pampering me so much over the past few months I think it's about time I give you a massage.”
“Sounds good to me.” Fabiola shrugged, totally game to be on the receiving end.
Casino rubbed his hands together. “Get undressed so that you can be more comfortable.” Fabiola looked into his eyes as she undressed. Casino was pleased by what he saw—her body was flawless. The long erect nipples of her firm C-cup mountains looked as if they were coming out of circles of deep chocolate. Her tiny waist made her hips and silky smooth dairy bottom appear to be more pronounced than they really were. Casino was mesmerized but he didn't let it show.
Fully naked, Fabiola gladly took Casino's place sprawled out across the bed on her stomach. Casino positioned himself on her lower back, careful not to press all of his weight onto her. Gently, he began kneading her shoulders.
This man definitely knows what he's doing, Fabiola thought.
Moans spilled from her lips as she enjoyed the treatment. “I didn't know how much I really needed one of these,” she purred. It felt so good.
Casino worked his strong hands down, maneuvering them in a circular motion; her moaning and limp body was indication to him that he was making all the right moves. Fabiola was in nirvana, but she had no idea how much Casino was enjoying his work until she felt a third arm poking in the small of her back. She smiled a little. Moments after that, he leaned over and planted soft wet kisses on the back of her neck. “Oooooh,” she crooned, unable to hide the fact that his hot tongue touching her skin and his manhood grinding against her ass was turning her on in a big way. She wanted him inside her; every second that he wasn't felt like an hour. The anticipation was driving her crazy, and then something happened that rarely happened to her: She felt unsure of herself.
She knew that a man like Casino was very experienced, and the fact that she might not be able to deliver to his expectations made her nervous. She was afraid of not giving it to him the way that he was accustomed, but that didn't keep her from desiring him. Luckily for Fabiola, her body took over where her mind was ambivalent. Fabiola pushed back toward him, hoping that he would get the hint, and it didn't take long before he did.
He pushed his finger in between her second pair of lips. She was soaking wet. He put his finger in his mouth. Sweet. Casino wasn't small by any standards, and by the way her pussy gripped his finger while warming her engine Casino knew he had to be careful with her. He started with just the head. She tensed a little, sucking in a breath. After dipping the head in and out a few times, he explored a little farther. With each gentle thrust he added an inch; working it in little by little. Once she had taken all nine inches he lost control and began pumping faster.
“This pussy is so tight,” Casino panted. Before she could panic from the anxiety of not pleasing him, he added, “And so damn good.”
Fabiola was matching him thrust for thrust now.
“Are we supposed to be doing this?”
“Two consenting adults.”
“Yeah, but the”—she moaned—“the hospital and all.”
He didn't answer her question but his moans let her know that his heart could take it. “You like that?” he asked, not really expecting an answer, but pleased with what he heard.
“I—I love it,” Fabiola declared.
“Tell me how much?” Casino pleaded. Hearing Fabiola compliment him while he made love to her was an aphrodisiac for Casino's ego and his libido.
“This much,” Fabiola panted, popping her juice box like a Luke dancer.
After about eleven or twelve more strokes, Casino's toes curled, and he froze midthrust in the pussy. If she hadn't turned it up a notch after that, maybe he could have recovered, but she did, and he didn't. Casino's floodgate was released.
“I need to get back in shape,” Casino breathed heavily, somewhat embarrassed. “Build up my endurance.”
“Maybe it was just that good,” she boasted. “Having a younger woman may be what you've needed.” A smile crept across Fabiola's face because she knew she had pleased Casino.
TRACK 17
Heavy Rotation
he buzz started to build for Fabiola and radio stations from New York to Miami were getting lots of requests for Fabiola's new work, putting her song in heavy rotation for a week straight. Then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, all that seemed to change. All the stations stopped spinning the record without notice. When Viola called several of the local stations in an attempt to try to find out why they removed the song from rotation, no one would speak to her or return any of her phone calls. If anyone knew what was going on they weren't talking. Even the local mix djs had unknown issues with playing her song, and usually they could play whatever they wanted within reason.
“Mommy, someone has to know something.” Fabiola was talking to her mother on the phone while she lay in Casino's arms.
“No one will return my calls, baby. I spoke to this one guy off the record and he said they can't play it anymore. That's all he would say. But don't worry; I am still trying to get to the bottom of it.” Viola wanted to make her daughter believe that everything would be all right, but deep down inside she wasn't sure if she even believed it. What they needed was a miracle, but Viola wasn't going to tell her daughter that.
Heartbroken, Fabiola hung up the phone. “No one will give a reason why my record is no longer getting any airplay. Everyone my mom talks to gives her the runaround.” Casino could see the frustration in her face.
“I don't know why this is happening—why the heck can't I catch a break in this industry? Maybe it ain't meant to be.” Tears were forming in Fabiola's eyes but she didn't cry.
“It's a law of nature that it must rain before the flowers can bloom.” Casino tried to lift her spirits. He believed somewhat in what he told her, but he also didn't believe in coincidence. “Now listen to me carefully. Do you or your mother know who's in charge of making the decision about what songs get played on the radio?”
“I think it's the program director.”
“I need you to be sure. Call your mother to ask her who's the motherfucker that's calling shots. We need to know who the real boss is.”
Fabiola called her mother and found out that the operations manager was over the program director, so he was ultimately the one in charge.
Once she told Casino what her mother said, he kissed her on the cheek. “Don't worry,” he said. “Everything will be all right. I promise.”
Fabiola knew that she was placing a lot of faith in Casino, but he was her superman and had made everything happen th
us far. She looked into his eyes and felt a little better.
* * *
Airproof Airways controlled more than forty percent of the FM radio stations in the country, and at forty-seven years old, Mike Moss was the vice president of programming for the entire East Coast region. As the head honcho, he was the one that told the local operations managers to instruct the program directors what to play on the radio, when to play it, and how many times.
Mike was looking around the parking lot trying to remember where he parked his Cadillac DTS—the Christmas present to himself. There it was, right where he left it way in the back of the lot, far from every other car and with less risk of getting dinged by any other car. Everybody knew that Mike exercised religiously four times a week at the Philadelphia Fitness Center. All he wanted to do now was get home, get a bite to eat, relax, and watch the Lakers play the Mavericks on cable. After getting in the automobile and pressing the button that brought the engine to life, he felt a cold piece of steel tap the crown of his head.
“I don't have any money,” Mike said. “You can have the car and my credit cards though.”
Tonk, the man holding the nine-inch-barrel .357, said, “You can keep your car and credit cards, but you may lose your life and those close to you if you don't cooperate with me.”
“Who are you?”
“That's not important, but what is important is that the man that sent me here wants you to do him a favor and he doesn't take no for an answer, so listen carefully. All he wants is a song played on the radio.”
“You could have done that over the request line, you didn't have to commit a felony,” Mike said.
He ignored Mike's attempt to humor him. “We want the song in heavy rotation: every other hour, Monday through Friday. That's sixty spins a week during the weekdays and every hour on the weekends.”
“What song?”
Tonk said the title slow and deliberate so that there would be no misunderstanding, “The name of the song is ‘Touch Me’ and the singer is Fabiola Mays.”
“It's not as easy as it seems. As a matter of fact I like the damn song myself, but it's bigger than me or you.”
“You gotta do better than that.”
Mike looked around without moving his head, praying that someone would come to his rescue, before just telling the truth. He took a deep breath. “If this ever gets out, I could lose my job. If you repeat it to anyone I will deny it to the bitter end.”
“If you don't stop procrastinating you're going to lose more than your job.”
Mike Moss didn't need any more encouraging. “This girl you're talking about has somehow managed to piss off Johnny Wiz.”
“And?” Tonk gazed into Mike's eyes, still clutching the gun.
“And Johnny Wiz is a very powerful man. He called me personally to say that if I continued to play that song, he would pull his sponsorship money, the under-the-table payola, and forbid his artists to do promotion on our stations. He said he wouldn't allow them to perform at our summer concerts and he would no longer make sure we get his artists' music before anyone else. Damn near half the stuff we're playing on the radio are artists that are under Johnny Wiz's umbrella. It would destroy us if we didn't have access to them.” Tonk didn't say anything, so Mike kept talking.
“I wish I could help you, because I don't even like the arrogant little fuck, but in this industry, Johnny Wiz is not a person to get out of favor with. My bosses would kick me in the street so fast it wouldn't even be funny. The man has at least thirty top-selling artists at any given time, and no disrespect to you or your boss, you only have one and she's still an unknown.”
“I get it.”
Tonk returned back to Richmond and reported to Casino everything that he'd learned from Mike Moss. When he got to Casino's new office at the Ghetto Superstar record label that he'd created, Tonk found his boss surrounded by boxes of pressed-up singles of Fabiola's song. Viola had told him earlier that they were having problems with distribution—even the mom-and-pop stores weren't taking the record.
Casino was sitting at his desk thinking about his next move, when he caught a glimpse of the man that was causing them all the trouble. Johnny Wiz was doing an interview on one of the video channels talking about an upcoming tour of his artists sponsored by Hypnotic. It hit Casino right then and there. “I know what's got to happen,” he said out loud.
First, he called Taz and began telling him what he had in mind. After briefing him, Casino added, “I need you to be able to get me an in-da-streets dj, not one of those industry chumps.”
“Then you want K-Slay or DJ Envy,” Taz said.
Casino didn't know too much about either one of the men, so he would have to take Taz's word. “You got a number and a relationship with one of them?”
“Sure do, I fuck with both of them. Good thorough cats that ain't on none of that shady bullshit.”
With one phone call, K-Slay was spinning the song as if it was no big deal. It was a hot song and that's what K-Slay did—play hot songs.
Casino wasn't finished. Now he had to put the fire under Johnny Wiz so that he could understand fully that the heat was on.
TRACK 18
The Heat
n Monday night, a rose-colored 500 SL Mercedes Benz pulled up in front of The Bridge Night Club amidst a sell-out crowd waiting to get in. The spot was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and was the latest must-be spot in the city on Thursday nights; they had a different hot performer each week.
Royce and Petey exited the Benzo, giving the keys to the valet. “I still think we should have gone in from the back,” Petey warned.
“I want to be with my fans,” Royce said. “They love me and I love them.”
People started screaming, pushing, and shoving when they saw Royce exit the Mercedes. “That's Royce over there!” someone yelled.
“That's my girl,” screeched another.
“Damn, that bitch is fine,” a dude said to his friend.
“Who's that clown she's wit?” the friend responded.
Royce wore a rose, tailor-made print dress that fit her petite frame to a tee. The dress matched the color of the foreign car she was driving and complimented her chocolate complexion too well. Petey took her hand and smiled. “That dress is strangling yo ass. Let's get you inside before I have to get the National Guard to keep these fools off of you.”
“You stepped on my shoe, nigga! Watch where you muthafuckin' goin', fool!” a two-hundred-pound plus-size black guy, who was standing near Royce and Petey, said to a light-skinned dude.
“First of all I'm Puerto Rican—not a nigga—and fuck you and your sh—”
Before the light-skinned dude could finish his statement, he was corrected by a straight right to his left eye.
“Oh, shit,” someone said. “Did you see that?”
“Hell yeah,” another person responded. “He knocked that muthafucka out!”
The light-skinned dude wasn't at the club alone, and when his friend saw him stretched out on the ground, he fired a punch at the man that had hit his friend. But the guy ate the punch and sent him to meet his light-skinned friend on the ground with a left hook. At that point all hell broke loose. It was like the Royal Rumble on one of those wrestling networks. Fists and feet were flying all over the place and no one was exempt—not even a superstar.
A chick dressed in Goth clothing snatched a handful of Royce's hair, pulling it clean off her head. Until that moment no one had known that Royce's trademark flowing black hair was a wig.
Underneath the wig Royce had on an old black stocking cap with a big hole on the side of it. “Y'all bitches then done it now.” Royce let loose with a punch of her own, grazing the cheek of the Goth chick who snatched her wig. “And get that fuckin' camera out of my gotdamn face,” she said.
When it was all said and done, eleven people ended up in the hospital, three in serious condition. Petey had to be flown away by chopper to the emergency room to tend to a knife wound in his side, but he wo
uld be okay.
* * *
The next evening, Johnny Wizard's controversial rap group Zinc was having an album release party in the civic center in Cleveland. It was a great turnout, and many old-school and new-school artists were in attendance. Everything was going fine until someone called in a bomb threat, causing the building to be evacuated.
“I'm sorry, but no one is going to be allowed to go back into the building tonight,” the fire chief announced.
“You can't do that,” the event promoter protested. “The Wizard spent over seven hundred thousand dollars to put this event together. It's being covered nationally. If you shut it down it will be a disaster!”
“I just did,” the chief said bluntly.
The next night, The Wizard's “Move the Crowd” tour in Chicago was taking place, which was a media-covered extravaganza. Everybody was interested in the hot, young multiplatinum gangster rapper from Compton—Death Wish. His songs “Fear Nothing,” “Got Dat Gat,” and “Felon” garnered him national attention. Were his songs art imitating reality, or reality imitating art? That was the question among most music intellectuals. Most real street toughs labeled him as a fraud, but Death Wish dismissed them as envy-filled haters who wanted to be him.
The stadium event was booked to capacity and everyone was on their feet when Death Wish was introduced to the stage. Then it happened. Gunshots roared through the air. “Get down!” someone on the stage yelled. The dj dove off the platform. People in the crowd were being stampeded or worse; some ran toward and others ran away from the stage. Meanwhile, random shots continued to ring out. It didn't matter who fired the first shot or what that person was shooting at—the stadium was now the scene of a miniwar. Chicago was a city of real gangsters and gang members who didn't need a whole lot of encouragement to buck their gats.
Death Wish dove behind a set of large speakers for cover and pulled out his phone.
“9-1-1,” the lady on the other end of the phone answered. “What is your emergency?”