Dirty Music

by Shaun Sinclair

  Flame stepped out his room in a blue pinstriped suit with a red tie, ready to show his business side. The world knew him as a raunchy rapper. He knew that in order for him to be taken seriously he had to dress the part.

  Flame tapped Amin on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Our ride is waiting.”

  A few minutes later Flame and Amin glided through the clean streets of New York in Diamond’s Maybach. Amin was giddy like a kid, peering up at the tall buildings through the panoramic roof like he hadn’t been living there for half a decade. Flame initially was disgusted at Amin’s open display of groupie-ism, but he could sympathize with him. The world just looked better when you looked at it from behind the glass of a nice automobile.

  The shock-and-awe campaign continued as they stepped foot in Diamond’s office building. It was like the nigga was determined to show the world he was the shit. Everything was super-sized. All glass, brass, marble, and gold. Diamond’s receptionist ushered them into Diamond’s personal office where they enjoyed a view of the city from forty floors up while they waited for Diamond to materialize. After allowing enough time for the leather conference chairs to form to their bodies, in walked Diamond wearing expensive carpenter pants, retro Jordans, and a hot white t-shirt with a hologram logo on it. A short, balding, obviously Jewish man was at his side.

  “Flame, what up, my nigga.” Diamond greased Flame’s palm and took a seat beside him. To the Jewish dude he said, “This the guy I was talking about.”

  Flame introduced Amin as his business manager, and they got down to business. A Jew, a Muslim, a Christian, and a thug.

  Only in New York City.

  Diamond threw his pitch like he played for the league. He spit words, facts, and figures quicker than Russell Simmons on speed. He whipped out a chart to show projected figures for the first two quarters of the year. The following year. Things were moving so swiftly Flame attempted to look to Amin for clarity, but he was just giddy to be at the table.

  From what Flame saw in the papers, what Diamond was proposing was a dream come true. He was basically gifting Flame a chance to finance all his dreams on Diamond’s dime. All Flame had to do was design the patterns with his team and promote the line on his public appearances. That was it. The profit, again, would be split fifty-fifty.

  The deal almost sounded too good to be true, so Flame was skeptical. He knew all about bad contracts. Hell, he still owed ABP millions from his first contract. Millions sold, and he still owed.

  However, that did teach Flame to prepare for the future. There was no guarantee he would be hot tomorrow. With what Diamond was suggesting he could use it as his backup plan. There was no way he could lose in the long run.

  So despite the warning alarms ringing in his head, he signed some papers and made it official. He was now in business with Diamond Barker.

  Then the other shoe dropped.

  “Word, son. That’s what’s up. Check it, I already got, like, a hunnid-thou made up just like this shirt,” Diamond relayed. He pulled his t-shirt down to expose the logo.

  For the first time, Flame realized what the logo on the shirt was. The hologram was actually a diamond on fire.

  “Flaming Diamond, that’s what this line will be called,” Diamond explained as if he could read Flame’s mind. “After the t-shirts, we’ll drop the denim, then the leather jump-offs. Since it’s official, I’ll get on the horn and tell my man to put the shirts in the street. Then, tomorrow we can go on Wendy and hype shit up.”

  “Whoa. What now?” Flame said.

  “You look worried, fam,” Diamond said. “No need to worry. I got this under control.”

  “It ain’t nothin’,” Flame lied. “I was just tripping on how fast everything happening.”

  “Yo, I’m saying, fam, the early bird gets the worm,” Diamond reasoned. “I had a few printed up by my peoples to get the word out. Way I see it, the initial run of the t-shirts will pay for everything else. We break profit in a few months.”

  Flame looked at Amin. Amin nodded and smiled. Flame grimaced.

  He was officially in business with Diamond.

  * * *

  Qwess stared at the murals on the walls with a heavy heart. The images were a testament to the duality of the man that had occupied the space. To understand King Reece, you had to understand dichotomy. On the one hand, he destroyed his community. On the other, he helped his community. He raped, but he also saved.

  Qwess rubbed his hands over the marble walls, and it was as if the coarse material transported him back in time. They made so much money together . . . caused so much pain, death, and destruction . . . but their bond was unbreakable—even in death. Every time Qwess came home, he came to the mausoleum to pay his respects. Inside these walls he found peace.

  As irony would have it, Qwess wasn’t the only person to come pay his respects. King Reece had grown larger in life than in death. Hustlers from all over the country came to the mausoleum in Raeford to pay their respects and present offerings at his feet. Some would make the trek to pray as if it was the dope boy’s version of the Ka’ba, as if the ground was hallowed and could confer special powers on them. Some of them left stacks of money and jewelry at the entrance to the mausoleum in tribute. Some would even camp out. In the little town of Raeford, so much traffic upset the locals. It became so much of an issue that security eventually had to be hired. Qwess was here to honor his comrade, but he also was here for other reasons as well.

  Qwess heard a car outside. He said his goodbyes and saluted to the entombed body of Reece, then he walked outside.

  A cream-colored Maybach had pulled up outside the mausoleum right beside Qwess’s red F12 Berlinetta. Green flags flapped on the front corners of the half-million-dollar vehicle, and the chrome grill gleamed in the sunlight. Qwess had to squint just to see the whole car. The driver’s door opened, and a large man crawled out. He saluted Qwess then reached out to open the rear door for him. Qwess returned the salute and climbed in the back of the Maybach.

  “As salaam alayka, good brother,” Bone greeted.

  Qwess almost didn’t recognize Bone. He wore a red-and-white-checkered keffiyeh on his head and a long white collared jellabiya. His beard was thick and trimmed and hung down on his chest.

  “Wa alaykum as salaam!” Qwess replied proudly. “How have you been? Shit, from the looks of things, life is good,” he said, looking around the luxurious Maybach. “The deen looks good on you.”

  Bone smiled and bowed his head slightly. “Ma shallah. Allah blesses the believers.”

  Qwess was trying hard not to be surprised by this new Bone. He knew Bone had dedicated his life to Islam, but he also knew that Bone was still heavy in the streets. Again, dichotomy.

  “Indeed, indeed,” Qwess replied, nodding. “So what’s going on? You said you needed to holla at me while I was here, and I definitely need to holla at you about something.”

  Bone perked up. “Word? What’s up, OG?”

  Qwess pumped his hands. “Nah, nah, it’s on you first. I came here to see you.”

  Bone chuckled. “That’s peace. So check this out,” he said. “Hold up a second.”

  Bone touched a button, and the tinted partition bisecting the front and back of the car slid up. As soon as the partition was closed Bone pulled out his phone and plugged it into the screen on the back of the front seat.

  “Hold up, you might want a drink for this,” Bone said. He pulled down the middle compartment and retrieved a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne and two flutes. He poured up while the video loaded on the screen. He grabbed the remote and started the video.

  On the screen was a grainy video that cleared up and revealed an image of Chabo gagged and bound to a chair in a room. He was badly beaten, and his left eye was dangling from his face. He was groaning and spitting gibberish in Spanish. The surround sound in the Maybach made it seem as if he was in the car with them. Bone appeared in the frame holding a long, curved saif. That’s when things really got interesting.

&nbs
p; “Watch this,” Bone said with glee. Between sips, he began mouthing the words along with his image on the screen as he tortured Chabo mercilessly.

  “You the king, huh? El Rey, right? Look at me, KING!”

  Bone slapped Chabo with the face of the sword, and a loud cracking sound echoed throughout the leather and wood of the Maybach.

  Qwess squirmed in his seat. He already knew where this was going. He croaked, “Yo . . .”

  Bone pointed at the screen. “You gonna miss the best part.”

  On the screen Bone slowly fastened a necklace around Chabo’s neck. It was the same necklace he had taken from him earlier outside the lounge.

  “You want to wear this around your neck and disrespect my family, KING? Well, heavy is the head that wears the crown, so let me help you with that.”

  Bone stood behind Chabo and snatched his head back by his hair. He held it and placed the saif beneath Chabo’s sweaty neck. Bone paused a brief second before he screamed, “Allahu Akbar!” and dug in with the blade.

  Blood spurted high into the air from Chabo’s neck as the oddly-shaped sword sliced a gaping wound in his neck. Chabo tried to scream but instead he gurgled then wheezed as nothing was connected to create sound. Bone dug the blade in deeper and moved the sword back and forth over Chabo’s neck until his head was hanging on to his neck by a thin string of meaty flesh. Bone dropped the blade and twisted and yanked Chabo’s head until he detached it from his body. Chabo’s headless body fell over onto the dirty ground, convulsing and shaking.

  Bone held Chabo’s decapitated head in his hands. He spun it around and looked directly into the eyes that were, surprisingly, still open. Chabo’s detached head blinked at Bone. Bone didn’t even flinch. Instead, he smiled and placed a kiss on his bloody forehead. Then the screen went blank.

  Qwess was spooked. He looked around outside the car as if the authorities were going to rush in at any moment. He was speechless, but he eventually found the words to articulate what he was feeling.

  “Yo, what the fuck did I just witness?” Qwess asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Bone smiled like a proud child trying to please his father. “That was Crew business—new and improved. This is the final chapter in King Reece’s story. This is the last guy that was there when the god was killed.”

  “Yeah, I figured as much when you first told me.”

  “What’s wrong, OG? You don’t look too good over there. I didn’t do too much, did I?”

  Qwess shook his head. “Nah, you did what you felt you had to do. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It’s just . . .”

  “Gruesome, huh?” Bone finished his thought for him. “Yeah, you been away awhile. Living too good will make you forget what it’s like when a wolf is hangry.”

  “Hangry?”

  “Yeah—hungry and angry.” Bone chuckled lightly. “But, yeah, you been away from this scene for a while, living the high life and shit.”

  Qwess raised his eyebrows and gestured around the Maybach. “I’m living the high life?”

  Bone smiled mischievously. “I mean, this is street shit, street money. It’s all dirty. I have to move a certain way, keep things low and stay in touch with the streets or else I lose it. You up in lofty offices and I’m down in the trenches, so it’s easy for you to lose your edge. No disrespect intended, OG.”

  “None taken.”

  Qwess wasn’t offended by Bone’s words, he was offended that his actions didn’t match up. He claimed to move “low” but probably owned one of only a few Maybachs in the whole city. He definitely had the only Maybach with flags flapping on the fenders. Then he was traipsing around town like the damn Taliban in expensive robes. Qwess followed him on Instagram, and Bone regularly flexed with mountains of cash and jewelry. He was of this new era, the era of what Qwess called the “Missouri” hustlers—they had a show-me mentality.

  However, Bone did have a throwback quality that was immeasurable: He was loyal to the bone and just as deadly as Reece had been. That’s the real reason why Qwess had summoned him.

  Qwess leaned over and whispered directly in Bone’s ear. “I need something from you, though.”

  The move caught Bone off guard, but he understood. Qwess was old-school; he had seen his whole family dismantled by listening devices. Even if he knew his line was thorough, that didn’t exempt them from the watchful eye of the law.

  Bone nodded for Qwess to go on.

  “I need all the info on that AMG raid from a few years back,” Qwess whispered. “Names of who was there and who knew about it. You know the one, right?”

  Again, Bone nodded.

  “I need that, like, yesterday.”

  Bone nodded and whispered. “Say no more, OG. I got you.”

  Qwess thought about something else. “Aye, when the last time you spoke with the big homie? You know who.”

  Bone adjusted his headdress and scratched his temple. The diamonds in his Rolex flashed like paparazzi. “Ahh, I heard from him a few weeks ago. He in the box right now. Had to serve some Mexican niggas in there. Ever since this war out here started, it’s been making things hard for him in there.”

  Qwess shook his head. “Damn, he supposed to be laying low in there. If any of that other shit come out . . .”

  Bone nodded vigorously. He frowned. “Yeah, you right, but he gotta do what he gotta do.”

  “You haven’t heard anything else about that other thing, though, have you? Nothing came up?”

  Bone understood now. Qwess was fishing. Something had him spooked. “Not that I know of,” he replied. “He holding it down, and you know he gonna stay ten toes down to the end.”

  That was all Qwess needed to hear. But if Samson wasn’t going soft and leaking, then who was?

  “Yeah, find out that other thing for me ASAP,” Qwess insisted.

  “I got you.”

  Qwess reached in his pocket and peeled a stack of hundreds from his roll. “See to it that the big homie get this for me, and make sure he know it came from me.”

  “No doubt.”

  Qwess dapped Bone up and tapped on the window to exit. As he waited on the soldier to open the door, he turned to Bone. “Yo, I’m proud of you, man. You holding this shit together and repping that flag like you supposed to. You holding our line together and making it stronger than ever. That’s what’s up.”

  Bone bumped his chest. “It’s Crescent Crew to the death with me, homie. You already know. Death before dishonor. Stay up.”

  “I’m up.”

  Qwess exited the Maybach with his mind a little at ease. His line was still intact, and even though he wasn’t active, he still felt good that what he’d built so many years ago was still standing.

  Chapter 6

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Flame stepped into Atlantic Beach Productions’ reception area with Amin in tow and an extra bop in his step. Getting new money on his own felt good. Showing Qwess that he didn’t need him felt even better.

  As soon as the receptionist, Khadijah, saw them she extended an Islamic greeting to Amin, scoffed at Flame, and then whipped her scarf around her face like a ninja.

  She muttered, “Khafir.” Then she hit a button on the phone. Seconds later, Qwess’s wife, Lisa Ivory, peeked out from behind the oak office door.

  Lisa was a star in her own right. She used to be an R&B star and child prodigy on the piano. Her first two albums went multi-platinum, but rumors of her sexuality began affecting her record sales. She married Qwess in a desperate attempt to salvage her career, but the damage was already done. She and Qwess had a child, and now her career was as cold as the ice on Flame’s watch.

  Flame and Amin strolled toward Qwess’s office door feeling like a billion bucks, but Lisa stopped Amin with a frown. “This is a private meeting,” she told him.

  Here come the bullshit, Flame thought. He felt Qwess had been holding him up for too long, and he was ready to strike out on his own.

  Flame stepped inside the office, and his ca
mel colored Ferragamos melted into the cream carpet. Qwess sat behind his large, shiny, green desk looking like a boss. He was dressed comfortably in a tailored pinstriped business suit without a tie while his wife stood behind him with her left hand on his right shoulder. On the wall behind his desk was a huge oil painting of their family.

  Qwess motioned to the leather chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, let’s talk.”

  Flame remained standing.

  Qwess shrugged, “Aiight. Look, you know you got to do the Breakfast Club tomorrow and then in a couple of weeks we got to do the BET Awards in Cali?”

  Flame scoffed, “Of course I know.”

  “Yeah, I know you know. Just making sure you don’t get, uhh, sidetracked.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, Joey, what’s up with you and ole boy?” Qwess asked. He knew Flame hated to be called by his government name. Even his mama called him Flame now. Qwess purposely did it to pull rank, piss him off. He had been hearing rumors about Diamond and Flame gallivanting all around town.

  “Who?” Flame asked innocently.

  “Diamond,” Qwess slid through gritted teeth.

  Diamond was the northern counterpart to Qwess. What Qwess was to the Southern hip-hop scene, Diamond was to the Northern hip-hop scene. He had been a splinter in Qwess’s side for a while now, pulling stunts to get his attention, showing up at industry functions trying to hog the spotlight, and taking digs at Qwess on social media. Then, Diamond repeatedly tried to one-up Qwess. Everything Qwess did, Diamond followed. Qwess came out of retirement to rap, Diamond came out of retirement to rap. Qwess shot movies, Diamond shot movies. Qwess opened restaurants, Diamond opened eateries. Qwess bagged an R&B chick, Diamond bagged one. Qwess came out with a jewelry line . . . you get the drift. Qwess tried his hardest to ignore him, but that splinter was turning into a thorn.

  “Oh, that’s just business,” Flame replied nonchalantly. He knew he was digging into Qwess’s skin.

  Qwess’s eyes narrowed. “Business, huh?”

  “Yup.”