Section 8

by K'wan

  “Dude claims that we’re trying to use beats that he already purchased from some other kid last week. We thought the nigga was bugging until he had his people FedEx over the contracts and master copies of the tracks. I don’t know what kinda games ya little man is playing, but he didn’t make these beats, and now we’re in a nasty situation with Telescope Records over the use of them. The kid tried to trim us and leave Big Dawg holding the bag,” Tone said heatedly.

  The blood rushed to Don B.’s face, turning him an off-shade of red. It was one thing when he was the one doing the duping, but someone trying to get over on him was an unforgivable crime. “Yo, step out here for a sec, Hollywood,” Don B. said into the intercom that connected to the recording booth. “Tone, go downstairs and get some of the little homeys that’s lounging in the green room.”

  Tone smiled, knowing just what Don B. had in mind. “I got you.” He ran off to rally the troops.

  “What’re you gonna do?” No Doze asked nervously. He had heard stories about what went on behind the locked doors of Big Dawg studios and didn’t want any part of it.

  “Ima slap this nigga’s head off when he comes out here,” Fully threatened, as he slipped on a pair of leather gloves.

  “Hold ya head, my G. The Don got this under control,” Don B. assured him.

  “Man, I’m outta here.” No Doze made for the door, but Don B. moved to block him.

  “Nah, Doze, y’all are a part of the team, so you need to know the inner workings of this organization. Just have seat over there with your boys; this won’t take too long,” Don B. said. It wasn’t an order, but it felt like one, and No Doze reluctantly did as he he’d been told.

  Hollywood came out of the booth drenched in sweat and smiling like a kid on Christmas. “Yo, y’all might need to get another mic when I’m done, because I’m about to short-circuit this shit,” Hollywood said, as if he’d just laid the best verse ever heard.

  “Nigga . . .” Fully started, but Don B. waved him silent.

  “Yeah, son, you was killing it. I think we might use you on one of the lead singles,” Don B. lied.

  “I was thinking the same thing. Me and ya man Fully would be ill on a track together,” Hollywood said, pouring himself a glass of Hennessy from a half gallon they had sitting in the studio. “I could set it off and he could come in, on some real back-and-forth shit.”

  “Back and forth, huh?” Animal asked mockingly. It was almost sad to see Hollywood digging his ditch even deeper.

  “Yeah, yeah. See, he got that hard shirt, and I got silky delivery. We can make this shit a classic.” The conversation was interrupted when the studio door opened and in came four hard-faced young boys who had been trying to get down with Don B. Tone stood behind them, glaring at Hollywood. Hollywood looked from the kids to Don B. quizzically. “Are they part of the group, too?”

  “Yes and no. These little niggaz are my human lie detectors, and you’re in the hot seat.” He slid a chair over to Hollywood. “Sit down, my dude.”

  “Don, what’s going on? Didn’t you like the vocals I laid?” Hollywood asked nervously.

  “Nigga, your vocals are trash, but I can live with that because you’ve got an incredible ear for music; ain’t that right, Hollywood?” Don B.’s voice was pleasant, but there was no mirth in his face.

  “Yeah, yeah, kid. You know how I do it.” Hollywood sounded unsure.

  “Dude, if you made them tracks, then I’ll dig up Lou-Loc’s corpse and kiss him smack in the mouth, and we both know that shit ain’t gonna happen. This lying piece of shit is giving Harlem a black eye,” Fully said to everyone in the room.

  “He ain’t from no streets these Timbs have ever touched, so we make no claim to that boy.” Animal propped his boots on the coffee table and folded his hands behind his head.

  “Yo, I don’t think I even like the way y’all niggaz is coming at me like you signed any one of them checks Big Dawg cut me,” Hollywood said, trying to shift the focus to the hecklers instead of having to address Don B.

  Animal leaned forward, with his medallion making a loud clang when it hit the coffee table. “You’re right, because if I’d signed those checks and you tried to shit on me, I wouldn’t be trying to figure out how or why you did it, I’d be trying to figure out where to dump your body.” There was a chill throughout the room when Animal spoke, and everyone felt it, especially Hollywood.

  “Don.” Hollywood turned to Don B. with pleading eyes. “What’s going on, man? Why these dudes coming at me like that; I thought we was good?”

  Don B. lit a blunt and began to slowly pace the studio. He got a rush watching Hollywood squirm under his shaded gaze, still trying to make heads or tails of what was going on. When he felt like he’d toyed with him enough, he got down to business. “I’m good with cats that do good business, but I ain’t got no tolerance for snakes. I’m gonna ask you a question and your answer will determine whether you walk outta here or are carried, smell me?”

  “Don . . .”

  “Nigga, shut the fuck up before I wash you,” one of the young thugs said. From the way he was dancing back and forth in the corner, you could tell he was looking forward to the trouble that was brewing.

  “Hollywood,” Don B. continued in an easy voice, “who made those tracks you sold me?”

  “Don B., on my kids, those tracks were made in my home studio,” Hollywood said, trembling.

  “Do I look stupid to you, Hollywood?” Don B. glared at him. “I asked who made them, not where they were made. And while I’m thinking about it, what’s your connection to Telescope Records?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hollywood stammered.

  “A better question, then,” Tone cut in. “Who is Robert Morris?”

  Bobby—the name slammed into Hollywood’s brain like a jackhammer. It was true that the tracks had been made using Hollywood’s equipment, but Bobby had done most of the work. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he knew how to work the boards. He and Bobby had tried to shop the demo to Telescope Records a while back, but they were more interested in the beats than the group. Bobby wanted to go for it, but Hollywood had pulled out of the deal. He was more concerned with becoming a star than making smart business moves. When he’d hastily fired Bobby and stolen his beats, it had never occurred to him that Bobby might’ve had backups. This slipup was now coming back to take a big wet bite out of his ass.

  Smack!

  Don B. delivered a powerful backhand that sent Hollywood sailing across the room and crashing into the far wall of the studio. One of the plaques hanging on the wall fell and broke over Hollywood’s head. “Do I look like a pussy to you, because you sure as hell are trying to fuck me.” Don B. lifted him to his feet by the front of his football jersey.

  “Don, I can explain all this,” Hollywood said through bloody lips.

  “You can save your defense because the sentence has already been passed.” Don B. flung Hollywood over to where the young thugs were standing. “Y’all just make sure nothing gets broken in here, and be mindful of his hands because he’s gonna need them.”

  Animal and the others watched as the thugs proceeded to tear off into Hollywood’s ass. They beat him nonstop for a full ten minutes before Don B. ordered them to stop. “That’s enough,” Don B. said, stepping back into the center of the room, where Hollywood was curled up on the floor. In his hand Don B. held a length of chain.

  “Please . . . I’m sorry,” Hollywood rasped from his fetal position.

  “You sure are.” Don B. pulled him up roughly by the back of his shirt. He looped one end of the chain around Hollywood’s neck and fastened the other to one of the legs of the control panel.

  “What’re you doing?” Hollywood yanked at the chain futilely.

  Don B. leaned down so close that Hollywood could smell the staleness of his breath. “You owe me money, and until the debt is paid off, you’re property of Big Dawg entertainment.”

  “Don, you can’t leav
e me like this. What if I gotta use the bathroom?” Hollywood pleaded.

  In answer to his question, Don B. hit him in the head with a wastebasket, raining cigar guts and ashes on Hollywood. “Knock yourself out, dick head.” Don B. walked through the doors that connected to his office. As soon as he was gone, the thugs started fucking with Hollywood, throwing things at him and threatening to burn the bound man with cigarettes.

  Fully laughed, Chip shook his head, and No Doze looked too frightened to move. Animal, however, was just disgusted. He was disappointed in Don B. for how he handled the situation, but he understood that no matter how many records he sold, Don B. would forever be a thug. He was more disappointed by Hollywood for going out like that. He was wrong for trying to play Don B. over the beats, but he should’ve tried to defend himself against Don B. Regardless of what Hollywood had done, he was still a man—well, at least that’s what Animal had thought before the show. Tiring of watching the pitiful specimen, Animal went into the office to confront Don B.

  “Yo, I’m sorry you had to see that, but I had to make an example out of that nigga for what he did. I can’t just have muthafuckas trying to play the Don out, smell me?” Don B. started explaining as soon as Animal walked in the door.

  “Man, I ain’t really too bothered by that shit. Unlike some of ya peoples, I ain’t no stranger to blood. Besides, a nigga who don’t even make an attempt at standing up for hisself ain’t worth my sympathy,” Animal told him.

  “You would’ve fought back even if you knew you could’ve died for doing so?” Don B. was curious.

  Animal weighed the question carefully before answering. “Be it in life or death, all a man has is his nuts. You take those and he ain’t got nothing, so he’d be better off dead anyway. I’ll always choose death over cowardice.”

  Don B. shook his head. “You are one crazy little muthafucka, Animal.”

  “My mental health is a matter of opinion, but that ain’t what I came in here to talk to you about. Do you remember shorty from the other night at Mochas?”

  “The pretty dark-skinned one? How can I forget when she costs me three thousand dollars in lawyer fees? What about her?”

  “Her and her homegirl wanna get up with us tonight,” Animal explained.

  “Say word you bagged shorty with the phat ass?” Don B. asked proudly.

  Animal shrugged. “We’re trying to come to an understanding. So, are you with it or what?”

  “Yeah, I’m wit’ it. We can take them broads back to the spot and see about doubling up on them.” Don B.’s mind was already scheming.

  “I don’t know about all that, Don. How ’bout we just play it by ear and see how the night goes.”

  Don B. stared up at Animal in amazement. “You stuck on this broad or something?”

  “Nah, I ain’t stuck, just trying to see where her head is at,” Animal said, downplaying it.

  “Bullshit, Animal. I know that look. Dig this, my nigga: when you getting paper, everybody wants to get next to you. Chicks that would’ve never given you any play before will fuck your brains out if they think it can get them closer to the brass ring. Those broads we met at the club is bad as hell, but they’re sack chasers. I’ve seen a million Tionnas and Guccis in my day, and I’m gonna see a million more before it’s all said and done, and they all reek of the same shit—larceny.”

  “I can’t speak for Tionna, but from what I get from Gucci, she seems pretty cool,” Animal defended her.

  “Of course she does. Do you think she’s gonna come right out and try to tap your pocket? Shorty gotta gain your trust before she even thinks about reaching, and from the look in your eyes, she’s already gotten into your head and you ain’t hit the pussy yet, have you?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But nothing, blood. Look at Tionna, she got a man that’s in prison, probably for trying to take care of her, and she’s in the club trying to lick the rapper. I believe that a chick’s actions speak louder than anything else, and those bitches are suspect at best. If that was my bitch, I’d have her clipped, but her man ain’t built like the Don. If he wants to wife her, that’s cool, but I ain’t trying to do shit but one-night that ho.”

  Animal shook his head. “Don, you are one of the most warped individuals that I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across.”

  “Call me what you want, nigga, but you won’t call me caught up!” Don B. laughed. “I’m just fucking with you, Animal. Yeah, we gonna go on the little double date so you can feel your boo out, but if you knew like I did, you’d have your mind on fucking, because that’s what they’re coming to do.”

  “Whatever, man. I’ll meet you here at like eight so we can get uptown to scoop them by nine.” Animal headed for the door.

  “You do that, my nigga, but if you show up with flowers and candy, you ain’t getting in my whip!”

  CHAPTER 27

  It had been a week since Bobo had been murdered and the projects were still quiet. The police had tapered off, chalking Bobo’s death up as a drug-related homicide, therefore not a priority on their list of cases that needed solving. You’d think that with the hood back open it would’ve been business as usual, but it wasn’t. With Styles in prison and Bobo in the ground, nobody had a good connect to speak of, but all that was about to change.

  “I don’t believe the hood is this dead,” Bernie said to Wise, as they sat on a bench, passing a blunt back and forth. They had been out there all morning and couldn’t manage to sell ten bags between them. It wasn’t for lack of product but lack of quality. The shit they had was so weak that all the fiends opted to walk a few blocks up to buy their drugs.

  “Yeah, man, ever since Bobo got killed, this shit has been suspect. If I don’t get a line on something soon, I might fuck around and have to get a job,” Wise agreed. He and Bernie had always been cool, but he had found himself spending more time with him since Happy had gotten Ron-Ron locked up. He secretly hated Happy for the snake move he’d pulled, but as it stood, Happy’s handouts and the little bit of crack he sold were his only means of eating.

  “I know what you mean, dawg. I got a lot of hungry mouths to feed, and the little money Boots gets from welfare ain’t gonna cut it,” Bernie said.

  “Man, if I was you, I’d either make that girl get a job or tie her fucking tubes!” Wise joked. His laughter came to an abrupt halt when he saw a group of people walking in their direction. The youngest two he didn’t recognize, but the guy and the girl he remembered from the day they’d confronted Bobo in the parking lot. “Bernie, you got your gun, man?”

  “It’s in the mailbox. Why?” Bernie asked nervously. He didn’t know the quartet, but they seemed to have Wise spooked.

  “I’ll explain it to you on the way.” Wise slid off the bench and started walking toward the building.

  “Yo, my man!” Brasco called after him, but Wise kept walking like he hadn’t heard him.

  “Let me try it, son.” Ashanti pulled his little pistol. “Nigga, if you take another step, I’m gonna shoot you in the ass!” Ashanti called to Wise. This got him to stop. “I told you.” Ashanti smiled at Brasco.

  “Now why y’all wanna pull some track-star shit when all I wanna do is talk?” Tech asked when he reached Bernie and Wise.

  “Dawg, we don’t want no problems; we ain’t even fuck with Bobo like that,” Wise tried to explain.

  Tech looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. “What do I know about anybody named Bobo?” he said, faking ignorance. “Nah, y’all got me wrong. I didn’t come to bring problems, I came to bring gifts.” Tech nodded at Silk, who handed Bernie a brown paper bag.

  “What’s this?” Bernie asked suspiciously.

  “The answer to your problems, dummy.” Silk shook her head like she was speaking to an unruly child.

  “What my homegirl is saying is that we’re here to put y’all back on the map,” Tech explained. “These projects have become the Mojave Desert and we’re the closest water source.”

&n
bsp; “There were a few cats moving weight under Bobo; we’re just bag men, so why bring the package to us?” Wise asked. He needed the money, but he knew that taking that package would officially put him on Tech’s radar.

  “Because neither of you look like you’ve got the balls or the brains to try and run off with my drugs. But character assessments aside, either you can take the package or I can give it to someone else; either way you cut it, these projects are under new management.” He motioned to Brasco and Ashanti. “Get the word out to the rest of your homeys, too, that we got food if they’re hungry.”

  “What do you think, man?” Wise asked Bernie.

  Bernie tested the weight and placed it at about an ounce or so. With the drought that had hit their hood, they could knock it off in no time, especially if it was anywhere near as potent as what Bobo was putting on the streets. “I say I’m tired of sitting out here starving. Let’s set up shop.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Tech said, beaming. “That’s all soft, so you’ll be responsible for bagging it and cooking it. Y’all do know how to cook crack, right?” Both boys nodded. “Good to hear. Y’all are from this hood, so however big or small you make the bags is on you, as long as y’all got my bread when one of my people come around for it, understand?”

  “Yeah, we got it.” Bernie stuffed the bag into his pants. “But how do we contact you when we’ve got your money or need more coke?”

  “You don’t. This will probably be the last time you ever see me, unless you do something stupid. From now on you report to either Brasco or Ashanti, cool?”

  “Yeah, that’s cooler than a muthafucka,” Bernie said, sizing the two high-school kids up. The big one had a street-brawler look about him and the little one didn’t look old enough to have lost his virginity. He would be able to do what he wanted with them running things, or so he thought.

  “That’s what it is, then.” Tech nodded in approval. “Y’all got it from here?” he asked Brasco and Ashanti.