Samson sucked his teeth so loud the phone crackled. “You keep thinking shit, your ass gonna be right there with him.”
“Wait, so you saying Qwess snitching?”
“Nah, I’m not saying that at all. Far as I know he solid—for now. But I know a nigga not gonna give a million-dollar lifestyle up for no bullshit. He gonna do everything he can to protect himself. You see me up in this motherfucker, don’t you?”
Bone replayed his recent interactions with Qwess. It could be conceived that Qwess was already in survival mode, cutting all ties to his past, ordering the murder of more than a dozen of his brethren—supposedly because they were sour. Who knew if that was even true? Bone had never seen any proof other than Qwess’s word.
“I hear you, Big Homie.”
“Nah, you better feel me and keep an eye on that nigga. The King left this family to me, and I got big plans for us when I touch down. All I want you to do is hold this car in the road until I can drive it again.”
Bone nodded obediently. “Okay, Big Homie.”
“Oh, yeah, and that other thing with my people . . . end that shit immediately.”
“Big Homie, they murdered over a dozen—”
“It wasn’t them!” Samson yelled. Then his voice lowered to just above a whisper. “You know my reach is long. I talked to everybody who is somebody, and they assured me it wasn’t them.”
Bone swallowed the lump in his throat. What did Samson know?
“How you know they telling the truth? How can you trust them?”
Samson chuckled. “Trust me, they know not to fuck with me. They don’t call me Monstruoso for nothing.”
“So, if it wasn’t them, then who was it?” Bone asked, attempting to get Samson to lead him to what he knew.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out. And when I do, I will let you know so you can introduce them to Crew business.”
Bone closed his eyes. The image of him firing the missile into the cabin appeared on his mind’s eye as vividly as it was when he was there. In his head, he heard the whoosh of the missile as it careened from the tube.
“Yeah, Big Homie, it doesn’t make sense. They’re the only ones we were beefing with,” Bone said, steering the heat as far away from him as possible.
“Yeah, well, new crews spring up every day and want to be the man. Who knows?”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“But if you ask me, it sounds like an inside job. Otherwise, how would they know that all of them were going to be in the same place at the same time?”
Again, Bone damn near swallowed his Adam’s apple. “I don’t know, Big Homie, but now that you brought it to my attention, I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
“Yeah, between me and you, we’ll figure it out. In the meantime, cease fire, my nigga. Cease fire.” Samson chuckled. An empty silence sank between them for a second. Then, Samson spoke, “I’m proud of you for bringing the heat to them niggas, though. They need to know the Crescent Crew still a force out there in them streets. They need to know that we didn’t get fat and get soft. They need to hear us, and you did that, brother. You put the fear of the God in them muthafuckas. They came crying to me, ‘Por favor, por favor, no más! No queremos más!’” Samson chuckled again. “Muthafuckas was shook—as they should be. But now it’s time to get back to the money. So, do whatever you have to do. I’m going to send someone to you from the other side and make it official soon. Just wait for word from me.”
Samson ended the call, leaving Bone utterly befuddled. He didn’t know who he could trust at this point. Qwess? Samson? His own crew?
Then he was confused as to what Samson knew about the murders at the cabin. What exactly did Samson know? Where was he receiving his info? Did he know Bone was responsible and that Qwess put the battery in his back? Were Qwess and Samson playing him? Testing him? Was he doing too good a job as leader, and Samson felt threatened? Bone didn’t know what to think!
Bone gathered himself and morphed back into boss mode before he summoned Twin with a beep of the horn. Twin heaved his hefty frame from the Benz and walked over to the Porsche. Again, Maleek let him pass, and Twin stooped down by the window of the Porsche.
“I appreciate that, brother,” Bone said, passing Twin the phone back. “You doing a good job out here. Money flowing like the Nile. Keep up the good work. You making me proud.”
“Oh, yeah, I told you I’ma paint this whole city cream and green,” Twin promised. “I’m trying to be riding in one of those by the summer.”
Bone smiled. The Porsche did the trick. “Aye, man, you stay down and stay loyal, you’ll have a fleet of these shits. You should see my Sunday car.”
Twin erupted in laughter. “I already know how you do.”
Twin stood to leave, and Bone gave Maleek the nod that he was ready to roll.
Before Maleek got in the car, he passed Keisha his phone. She had been standing near the car the whole time observing how he moved. It was clear that she was enthralled with him. She was digging his style, and she definitely wanted in on whatever he had going on. With a smirk, she programmed her number in his phone and gave it back to him.
“I’m going to text you,” Keisha said, and walked back up the street.
Maleek watched the yoga pants cut into her soft, jiggly cheeks as she walked away. Her hips were wide like a cobra’s head, but she had a gap that allowed him to see clean through her legs. Her waist was smaller than her head, and a long brown weave cascaded down her back.
“Yeah, I’ll be fucking her next time we come down,” Maleek predicted, as he watched her slide into the house.
The ride back to Fayetteville was a quiet one. Bone was lost in his thoughts, digesting what his big homie had put on his plate. He knew that everything that happened in the dark eventually came to the light. If Samson said he was going to find out what happened at the cabin, then Bone knew he would. He had already proven he still held considerable power. If he fished with enough influence, then Bone knew he would catch the right word. The right word was him, and there were only two people in the world who knew the truth. One of them was riding shotgun, and the other was his other big homie, Qwess.
Samson’s call left Bone with more questions than answers. Like, why did Qwess conceal the fact that he’d issued the order to purge their line if he knew the line was spoiled? And what murders were Qwess being charged with? Was it the cabin murders? If so, and if push came to shove, would Qwess hold firm, or would he turn on Bone? Would he sacrifice the Crescent Crew for the music business?
Bone had enough bodies under his belt to be classified as a serial killer. If Qwess turned on him they would bury him beneath the jail in an electric chair with a needle in his arm.
Yeah, Bone’s mind was racing at a million miles a minute.
Too many times to count, he looked over at Maleek as he scrolled through social media, and he thought about cutting that loose end, but Maleek was proving to have too much potential. He was always on point and Bone never had to tell him what to do. His type of raw skill and heartlessness couldn’t be taught. Even though he wasn’t even twenty-one years old yet, he was a throwback hustler. He wasn’t trained to go; he was born to go. It would be a shame to clip such a promising future, but the game was the game, and if he had to, Bone would swing for the fences to protect himself.
Suddenly Maleek smacked the leather dashboard and cackled. “Ohhhh, shit! Look at this!” he said, showing Bone the phone. “This the Sasha Beaufont bitch getting dicked down again, yo! Look!”
Bone looked at the phone, and sure enough, there was another video of Sasha getting drilled. This time, it wasn’t by Flame, though. This man’s skin was too dark to be Flame, and the video was nearly professional quality, unlike the amateur video that nearly got Flame killed.
On the video, the only thing that could be seen is a man’s wide back and ashy ass as he pumped what appeared to be a baby leg into Sasha from the back. The cameraman stood over the man’s right
shoulder and positioned the camera to record his huge penis entering her vagina again and again. The man pulled out and spit on his penis, lubricating it with his saliva. Then, he opened up her soft, red cheeks that made her famous, and laid his erection at the tip of her back door. Slowly, he pushed himself into her back door. Sasha screamed so loud it distorted the small speakers on the phone.
“Yo, that’s enough,” Bone barked. “I don’t want to see that shit.”
“Bruh, look at this shit, though!” Maleek scrolled down on his phone, and there were at least three more videos of Sasha getting piped down by different men, each video more humiliating than the last.
Bone shook his head at the wicked display of power by Diamond. It was clear that Sasha wasn’t under her own volition in the videos. It appeared that she was drugged, from the way her head rolled around aimlessly. Her movements were lifeless, like she was there in body only. Still, this was Sasha Beaufont, a woman that men had been lusting after all over the world for years. It didn’t matter to these dudes that she was getting slutted out like a #ghettogangbang. As long as they were seeing her naked body on display, they were okay with the terms. Diamond knew this. Bone figured Diamond had to humiliate her and destroy her brand for what she had done to him. That was a real street nigga move. Instead of killing her physically for violating him, he opted to kill her and leave her alive to smell the stench of herself. By recording these videos and posting them, Diamond was effectively showing the world that Sasha now belonged to the street. He had used the very tool she used to end them to end her.
The only question was, where was Diamond?
Chapter 21
Flame drifted in and out of consciousness. His days and nights merged seamlessly together. The painkillers they were pumping into his blood had him hallucinating, but they also eased the pain. When he was awake, Flame just stared at the walls and tried to move his legs, but each time his legs refused to comply with what his brain told them to do.
Each time Flame awoke, he saw 8-Ball at his bedside.
His friend hadn’t left Flame for one day. He had camped out in the hospital as if he was on a field detail in the military, watching his friend, praying for him and praying with him. Flame’s condition had improved slightly, so they moved him to a bigger room where he could receive visitors. Still, Flame was reluctant to see anyone, so 8-Ball acted as a buffer, screening everyone who wanted to come in. Flame’s room was like a hotel suite so at night, 8-Ball stretched his large frame over the pullout couch and slept. During the day, he did hundreds of pushups. After his friend’s vicious beating, 8-Ball vowed to get in shape and take his job more seriously. A part of him felt that if he had accompanied his friend outside, the results would have been different.
Each day Flame’s injuries healed a little more. Well, his physical injuries anyway. The goal was to pull Flame out of the woods far enough so he could be transferred to his home in Atlanta to begin his long road to recovery. There was a full medical team on standby waiting to nurse him back to health.
Flame awoke and rose up in the bed. He looked around the room at all the flower arrangements from various people in the music industry. It seemed that his life hadn’t existed before the music industry. There were no heartfelt mementos or gushing soliloquies from people that truly loved him, nothing from family or close friends. Just empty well wishes and cardboard condolences. It had taken tragedy for Flame to realize he had sacrificed his family ties for stardom, and now he regretted it.
“Aye, hand me my phone, man,” Flame wheezed to 8-Ball.
This was rare. This was the first time he had asked 8-Ball for his phone. In the nearly seven weeks he had been in the hospital, Flame had not had access to the outside world. It was as if he had been hibernating in a cave. He didn’t know what the people were saying about him. He didn’t know about the raw footage someone from Diamond’s camp had posted online that showed him being power bombed into the pavement. He didn’t even know Qwess was locked up, facing a litany of charges.
He hadn’t even seen his own face.
“Uhh . . . I don’t think that’s a good idea, homie,” 8-Ball replied.
“What? You don’t think I know my face is fucked up? Man, I know that shit! I can feel these fucking bubbles on my cheek. They itching me like a pile of ants biting me. I feel all that shit, nigga . . . I just can’t feel my legs.” Flame sniffed away the tears. “Just give me my shit, man.”
“Yo, Flame—”
“Don’t call me that shit no more either! Flame is dead! Okay? He’s dead. My name is Joey, all right? Fuck Flame, man!” Flame’s body convulsed as if he was about to break down, but he held it in. “Fuck Flame,” he hissed.
8-Ball shook his head. “Nah, man, don’t say that. Times is just a li’l rough right now, but we’ll get through this shit, homie. You’ll be killing crowds again soon.”
“How, man? I’m a fucking invalid, yo! Mu’fuckas ain’t checking for no cripple.”
“Yo, this shit just temporary, man. You muthafuckin’ Flame—everybody love you.”
“No, they love Flame, the nigga that could rock a crowd and back up all the shit he talked. The pretty boy nigga that the bitches love. They don’t love me. My name is Joey. Muthafuckas ain’t checking for a nigga named Joey, a fucking invalid. Doctors say I’ll never walk again.”
“Man, fuck them doctors! We believe in God, Joey. With God, all things are possible.” 8-Ball had been praying so much while Flame was in the hospital that his knees ached, but the fact that Flame was up and talking made him feel as if his prayers were being answered.
“Man, I ain’t with all that church shit, man. I was a god before this shit, a Superman. Now pass me my phone and let me see what I look like as Clark Kent.”
8-Ball was believing in God lately, but he knew it would take an act of God to keep Flame together after he saw his face.
Flame waved his hand at 8-Ball. “Come on, man, give me my shit. I might as well see what I look like. I’m ready to get back to the world. Let me see what’s been going on while I’ve been hanging out on this side.”
8-Ball dropped his head and shook it. He refused Flame’s request for the phone repeatedly, but Flame flipped on him.
“Man, give me my shit, nigga!” Flame roared.
He barked on 8-Ball so loud it pissed him off. 8-Ball walked over to the bed, tossed the iPhone on his chest, and walked to the door.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” 8-Ball said, still shaking his head.
Flame put the code in, and his phone screen lit up. Flame felt like a junkie getting his first fix in months. His phone was more than just a mobile device. It was a gateway to the world, a world where he once reigned atop the entertainment industry.
Flame scanned his apps and quickly located the blue Twitter app icon with the white bird in the middle. Right beside it was the Instagram icon. Below it was the camera app icon.
Flame’s finger shook as it hovered over the Twitter icon. One press and he could leave the hospital and see what the world was doing while he was away. If he dropped his finger he could see what the world was saying about him. But he knew the Twittersphere could be vicious, so he chickened out.
He held his finger over the Instagram icon. Instagram was more gentle. People came on the ’Gram to stunt more than take jabs at strangers. And he couldn’t forget about the women on Instagram. They were ready, willing, and able to give him some cooperation. It definitely went down in the DM on IG. Flame felt that checking up on some of his women on IG was just what the doctor ordered. He pressed on the IG icon and the phone flashed vibrant in his hands. He was anxious to see what he had been missing, but just when he thought he was in, his Instagram account was requesting he log back in with his email and password.
Flame tried to remember his email and password, but every time he tried to recall it, a black spot appeared in his brain.
“Shit!” Flame hissed.
8-Ball stood by the door with his arms folded across his chest. �
�What’s wrong?”
“I can’t remember my email and password for IG.”
8-Ball shrugged. “Maybe that is a sign that you shouldn’t be on it.”
Flame cut his eyes at 8-Ball, but he didn’t say a word. While he was still looking at 8-Ball, he pressed the Twitter app icon. At least that’s what he thought he pressed. In actuality, he had pressed the camera app icon, and it was on selfie mode.
For the first time in nearly two months, Flame saw the damage that had been done to his face. A long, stitched cut ran down his left jaw, extending from the bottom of his earlobe to the top of his mouth. On his right jaw right beside his mouth was a two-inch horizontal scar that virtually bisected his cheek. His left eye had been placed back into its socket, but it was still swollen, red, and crooked. Scratches were on his forehead, healed, but there nonetheless.
Flame stared at his face in shock. He couldn’t believe he was looking at a reflection of himself in the digital mirror. No way was that . . . creature him. No way! He slowly lifted his hand and touched his face. When he saw his finger enter the frame on the photo, there was no denying it. The monstrosity on the screen was him.
Flame dropped the phone and screamed.
* * *
Qwess sat across the table from his wife and Malik Shabazz. He was in the attorney wing again, so everything said was in confidence. Still, Qwess never trusted the system, so he only said what was needed.
While Shabazz was desperately fighting to get Qwess extradited back to North Carolina most expeditiously, his civil suit wasn’t going anywhere.
After Qwess had replied to the interrogatories and admissions admitting that he knew Samson, but not Chabo and Gil, and that he had once been a member of the Crescent Crew, AMG’s attorneys filed for a motion for summary judgment against Qwess on the grounds that his being acquainted with one of the known extortionists was enough proof to infer that he had orchestrated the plot and instigated a tortuous interference with AMG’s business. Their attorneys had drawn up a beautiful summation, complete with case law supporting their claims. Now Shabazz was here to discuss the worst-case scenarios.
Dirty Music Page 19
