by K'wan
Reese immediately felt like someone had superimposed a jackass’s head over hers. For what she had subjected herself to to sleep with the celebrity, there hadn’t been a dime in it for her. The night she had slept with Don B. and his crew, she had been too high to remember the first rule of thumb: Cash for ass.
“I’m saying, he was so much of a gentleman that I didn’t even crack for no paper. I’m setting him up for the long con,” Reese fronted.
“Reese, this is me you’re talking to,” Rhonda said seriously. “I’m your bitch, so I’m always gonna keep it funky with you, and I hope you’d do the same with me. Girl, you can’t even spell ‘long con’, let alone pull it off. You probably got in there with Don B. and got starstruck, that’s why you didn’t crack for no paper.”
“Rhonda, you got some nerve. You act like you’re the only one who got game.”
“Reese, everyone has got game in them somewhere, but if you can’t apply that shit to your life, it don’t count for nothing. I tell you bitches all the time that it’s all about execution. These niggaz gotta pay like they weigh, ma.”
“Whatever, Rhonda. Contrary to what you believe, everybody ain’t out to sell their pussy. Why can’t I just fuck a nigga ’cause I like him?”
“Contrary,” Rhonda repeated, chuckling, “I like that one. Not for nothing, while you’re trying to sound educated, you’re still moving like a fool.” Rhonda saw anger flash in Reese’s eyes, so she explained herself. “Reese, me and you been tight for too long for me to try and sugarcoat shit to try and spare your feelings. You and I both know what Don B. is about, so don’t go thinking that through some miracle that he might consider wife’n you. He’s just like the rest of these niggaz out here, trying to get a nut. Niggaz like him expect to spend paper for a shot of that, so we’re only doing what’s right by demanding our due.”
“All you ever think about is the come-up.”
“You muthafucking right. If I’m gonna lay with a nigga that’s not my man, please believe he’s setting it out. Like my girl Lil’ Kim said, ‘Fuck niggaz, get money.’ That’s the real anthem. It’s not like he’s a regular Joe, that nigga is a platinum artist!”
“Anyway,” Reese said, letting Rhonda know she didn’t want to talk about it anymore, “I wasn’t the only one with a celeb, what popped off with you and True?”
“You know I did me, ho. Rhonda gets hers. But the funny shit was how Von rolled up while True was leaving.”
“Stop playing!”
“Reese, that’s my word. I was walking True out the building and Von pulled up to the curb. I thought the shit was gonna get ugly, but it ain’t go down like that.”
“Von ain’t flip?” Reese asked.
“Nah, you know how True roll wit’ that thing. Von walked up on the car, but it was a short conversation.”
“You lucky as hell. What if them niggaz had butted heads?”
“It wouldn’t have been my problem,” Rhonda said flatly. “Don’t neither one of them have no papers on this pussy.” Rhonda patted her crotch for emphasis.
“Rhonda, you be playing dangerous games.”
“They’re only dangerous if you get caught slipping, and you know slipping ain’t even in my character. Besides,” Rhonda pulled a stack of bills from her purse, “sometimes the gains are worth the risk. Now bring your naïve ass on.” Rhonda began walking.
Reese fought off the feeling of stupidity Rhonda had tossed on her and fell in step behind her.
14
“Check, nigga,” Larry said, wiping his forehead with his tank top.
“You sure are a glutton for punishment,” Paul teased, dribbling the basketball between his legs. “It’s ten-six, me, and your ass is already out of gas.”
“It ain’t over till it’s over, punk,” Larry responded, still trying to catch his breath.
“Have it your way, old man.”
Paul bounced the ball to Larry, who gave it back with an overly aggressive chest pass. As soon as Paul put the ball on the floor, Larry was on him. He slammed his gut into Paul’s back, trying to knock him off balance, but Paul kept his footing. Larry tried to swat the ball away, but ended up slapping Paul on the wrist. Paul dribbled out, then faked right. When Larry bit, Paul went left. Thinking Paul was going in for a layup, Larry darted into the lane. To his surprise, as well as the small gathering of people watching, Paul stopped short. Giving Larry a friendly wink, he put up a jump shot that went soundlessly through the net.
“Game!” Paul announced, tossing the ball to a winded Larry.
“Man, fuck you. All you got is that punk-ass jump shot.” Larry tossed the ball back to him.
“That jump shot just won me twenty dollars of your hard-earned money.” Paul laid the Ball up.
“Ain’t neither one of you niggaz got no skills,” Jah informed them, stepping onto the court with one of his shifty-looking cohorts. They were both dressed in white T-shirts and long denim shorts.
“What’s up, purse snatcher?” Larry joked.
“Still trying to get your girl to stop calling me.” Jah smiled. “What’s good, yo?” he addressed Paul.
“Ain’t shit. Just teaching this lame dude how to hoop.” Paul nodded at Larry. He went to dribble the ball, but Jah swiped it away.
“If you’re done beating up on Jenny Craig rejects, I might be able to show you a thing or two.” Jah tossed up a jump shot almost identical to Paul’s, which fell through the hoop.
Paul smiled lovingly at his little brother. “So the student thinks he can challenge the teacher?”
“Only one way to find out,” Jah answered, pulling his T-shirt off. “Me and my dude against you and Fat Boy.”
“Watch you mouth,” Larry warned him.
Jah winked. “You know it’s said in love.”
Paul watched the miniature version of himself disrobe in preparation of the matchup. He happened to glance down at the sagging waistline of Jah’s shorts and noticed he had a gun holstered to his belt. “Don’t you think that might weigh you down.” Paul nodded at the nine.
“Call it a handicap.” Jah adjusted his belt, but didn’t bother to remove the gun. “We’ll even let y’all have the ball first.”
Paul stood behind the foul line, pressing the ball between his palms. He tried staring into his brother’s eyes, but found that he had to turn away after a while. Though he and his brother were thick as thieves, he knew there were two sides to the young man. There was darkness in him, passed down from their father, that had skipped over Paul. The same darkness, Paul remembered, that had frightened him when he looked into his stepfather’s eyes as a child.
He and Jah had the same mother, but different fathers. Jah’s father was a rude boy named Prince, who had terrorized the neighborhood back in the late eighties, early nineties. Prince was a Jamaican cat who had snuck into the states to flee prosecution for the murder of two tourists, which he had committed in his native town of Kingston. Immediately after arriving in America, he took it to the streets. He was a notorious stickup kid and murderer who would bring it to anyone. Big or small, if Prince thought you were holding, he would put that iron to you. It was this same trigger-happy attitude that had gotten him murdered eight years prior. Jah had never really gotten to know his father, but they harbored the same evil in their hearts. Paul had heard stories about some of the gruesome deeds his brother had committed in the streets, but he loved him the same as he did when they were kids.
Jah was caught off guard by the speed his brother used passing the ball to Larry. The big man bypassed Jah’s partner and put the ball in the hoop. The next time out, Paul hit Larry, who hit him right back. Before Jah could get his footing, Paul had scored. Underestimating Jah, Paul tried the pass again. This time Jah picked it off and hit his partner for the easy layup.
The crowd of onlookers on the sidelines increased to watch the competition. Jah hit his partner with the ball, then hit the paint and called for it. Paul immediately swooped in on him and tried to keep Jah from scoring. As
Jah backed him down, Paul could feel the butt of the gun digging into his hip. In the moment it took for him to try and get his mind off the gun and back into the game, Jah had made a layup.
“Don’t get tired on me now,” Jah said, tossing the ball at Paul.
“It’s kinda hard to D you when that fucking cannon is poking me in the side.” Paul tossed the ball back. “Why don’t you put that off on the side so we can play?”
“Man, that’s like walking in the precinct and copping out to something I already got away with.” Jah tried to go in, but Paul cut him off, forcing him to dribble the ball back out. “As soon as I lay my hammer down, a nigga gonna try to lay me down. You know we can’t have that.” Jah put up another jumper, but it bounced off the rim.
Paul grabbed the rebound and dribbled it out to the three-point line. “See, that’s karma fucking with your conscience. You done did so much bullshit to people that you’re always thinking somebody is out to get you.” Paul tried to go in, but Jah swatted the shot and got the ball back.
“Big brother, you better act like you know. If it ain’t the police, then its punk-ass niggaz that don’t wanna see you shine. Either way, somebody is always out to get you.” He hit a jumper.
“Man, y’all two niggaz is bullshitting.” Larry walked over. “There’s more talking going on that balling.”
“Be easy, dawg. I’m just kicking the facts of life with my little brother,” Paul said.
“Nigga, the only fact of life I know is survival of the fittest.” Jah unclipped his gun and brandished it. Some of the people who had been watching the game ducked for cover seeing the young man pull a gun. Paul, however, just stood there, staring at his little brother.
“Why don’t you put that thing away before you get us knocked.” Larry looked around cautiously.
Jah held the gun out a moment longer, then returned it to the holster. “Nervous-ass nigga.”
“Jah, why don’t you be cool? This ain’t the Wild West,” Paul said.
“Try telling that to the niggaz who gave me this.” Jah lifted his tank top, showing off the bullet wound just below his ribs. “It’s a cold world, big brother, and you gotta always be ready to lay the heat to a nigga, straight cheese. These streets ain’t nothing nice.”
“You telling me like I don’t know, Jah. I was running these streets since before you were thought about,” Paul reminded him.
“I’ll give you that, bro, but there’s a big difference between running your mouth and busting your gun, ya heard? We gotta do this again sometime, fellas. One.” Jah threw his T-shirt over his shoulder and started for the park exit.
“Yo, y’all niggaz ain’t gonna finish the game?” Larry asked, throwing his hands up.
“You two have fun. Me and my man gotta take care of something,” Jah replied, making his exit.
* * *
True stood in the tiny recording booth within the bowels of Big Dawg Studios, glaring at the people sitting on the other side of the soundproof glass. Don B. sat monitoring the instruments while Lex was rolling a blunt. Pain lounged on the love seat playing with a hunting knife. The heat that mixed with the thick veil of smoke within the small chamber stung True’s eyes, but he didn’t need to see the music sheet to know his verses. This was his sixth take.
“Let’s try it one more time,” Don B.’s voice came through the speakers.
True sucked his teeth and lit a clip of haze he had been smoking. “Come on, fam. Why we gotta keep doing this shit?”
“Because it ain’t right yet,” Don B. answered.
“My dude, I’m in here spitting nothing but heat. How we ain’t got it down yet?”
“Because I said we ain’t got it down yet. Do it again, True.”
True and Don B. glared at each other from opposite sides of the glass. True felt he had just wrecked his verse of the latest Bad Blood song, “Never Without My Nine,” but for some reason Don B. kept making him do it again. This frustrated True because he was used to doing his own thing in the studio. When the Asian engineer was behind the boards, he let True and the other members of the group do their thing, but Don B. was a different case. He wanted perfection.
Seeing young True’s reluctance to do the verse over again, Don B. stopped the session. Cutting off the exterior speakers, he stepped into the booth with True. “Yo, what up wit’ you, fam?”
“Ain’t nothing up with me,” True said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.
“It gotta be something wrong with you, son. We’ve been in here for hours and you still bullshitting on the verse.”
“Ain’t nobody bullshitting, Don, I think it’s tight.”
Don B. twisted his lips. “You don’t even believe that shit, B. Your voice is mad flat, and I can hear you wheezing. You need to ease up on them cigarettes, yo.”
“Man, it ain’t the cigarettes,” True said.
“It’s gotta be something, fam. I’m paying too much money for this studio time for you to be in here playing, True.”
“Don, you know I’ll kick you something for the time.”
“Money ain’t the issue here, dawg. It’s your performance that I’m having a problem with. True, do you know the difference between you and them niggaz?” Don B. asked, motioning toward Lex and Pain, who were getting high and playing with the console. When True didn’t answer, Don B. continued. “They’re street cats trying to be rappers, whereas you’re a rapper still trying to be a street nigga. No disrespect to them cats, but I can’t see them putting out no platinum solo albums. They’re always gonna have the streets, but the crossover appeal ain’t there.”
“All we need is the streets,” True said, as if he knew what the hell he was talking about.
“Wrong. True, believe it or not, we’re gonna see most of our bread off them little white kids in the suburbs than we will from the hood.”
“Don B., that don’t make no sense. The hood has had your back since day one.”
“Oh, I know, and I love the hood for that, but they ain’t who’s going to the record stores buying my shit. You know as well as I do that a nigga in the hood is more likely to spend five dollars on a bootleg than to go into a record store and drop thirteen dollars on a CD, myself included. On the other hand, you’ve got those white kids from suburban America climbing over each other to get to the Virgin Megastore to cop that new Don B. shit.”
True sucked his teeth. “Fuck them crackers. They don’t know nothing about what we do down here.”
“That’s my point, God. The only thing these white kids know about the hood is what they hear on records and what they read in books. Why do you think the major publishing houses are suddenly so interested in the urban-book market? They’re making millions of dollars off a genre that they wouldn’t touch a few years ago. It’s all about marketability.”
“Yo, Don, I ain’t trying to be one of these niggaz out here rocking a shiny suit, you know that ain’t my style,” True said seriously.
“Ain’t nobody asking you to change who you are, True. All I want you to do is realize who you can become. We make good money getting spins on BET, but we’ll make more if we get spins on MTV. To get the type of paper that’s due to us, we gotta put out a superior product. Understand where I’m coming from and do the verse over.”
True stood there, finishing off his blunt while Don B. returned to his post behind the board. He understood what Don B. was saying, but at the same time he didn’t. Niggaz loved their camp on the streets and they were making paper, but their paper didn’t match up to Don B.’s. He was a wise young cat, and so far everything he had told True had been right on the money. The kid knew the business. If Don B. believed that the verse could be better, then it probably could. With this thought in his mind, True grabbed the microphone and did the verse over.
Don B. smiled at the newfound vigor that True used to attack the track. The lazy, smoked-out look in True’s eyes was replaced with that fire Don B. knew still burned within the young MC. Pain and Lex even stopped what they were do
ing to admire their partner in the booth killing it.
Don B. kept all the members of the group on a short leash, but he was always hardest on True. The youngster reminded Don B. of himself when he was starting out. The difference was that while Don B. had to learn the game, True was born into it. In the eighties, his mother Gloria ran one of the busiest shooting galleries on Lenox Avenue. It was originally established by her brother Mack and his crew, but when he went to prison, she took over and ran it just as her brother had. With a warm smile and a cold razor game, all the hustlers respected Gloria.
In the summer of 1985, two things happened that would change Gloria’s life. The first was she had gotten knocked, thanks to a snitch who was jealous of her wealth. The DA had a shitload of charges against her and the feds were trying to add their two cents to the mix to pin a RICO charge on the young woman. The second was she found out that she was pregnant with True.
Gloria suddenly found her life very complicated, with impending parenthood and fighting a case, but she was a soldier and was determined to handle it. Feeling the heat that was closing in around her, True’s father disappeared, never to be seen again. It didn’t make much of a difference because Gloria was used to holding herself down anyway. Running back and forth to court in addition to being pregnant forced Gloria to slow down, but she refused to close up shop. She’d be damned if her baby would come into the world with nothing. She herself had had enough hungry nights for the both of them, so it was something she couldn’t see for her seed.
What it eventually came down to was the law wanting Gloria to give up her connect for a reduced sentence. Her response to the DA was “Kiss my ass,” right before she spat in his face. For her reluctance to cooperate, Gloria received five-to-fifteen years in state prison. While out on bond and getting her affairs in order, she considered running, for fear of having her child in jail, but realistically, she knew that it would only make the situation worse. She had no life skills and the little money that the DEA hadn’t snatched was dwindling. Thankfully, having a child in prison was not to be her fate. Three weeks before she was to turn herself in, she gave birth to a baby boy. She named the child True because that was the code she and her family had always lived by. Be true to who and what you are.
