Backstage: Street Chronicles

by Nikki Turner

  “Now boarding flight three seventy-two to Costa Rica,” Trey heard over the phone.

  “Well that’s my cue, ‘bye, Trey,” Susan said and hung up the phone.

  Trey just sat back and stared at the wall. He didn’t even have the capability to celebrate. He’d lost all the energy to.

  Ain’t No Party Like a Street Chronicles Party …

  Cuz Street Chronicles Don’t Stop!

  STOLEN LEGACY

  by Allah Adams

  Chapter 1

  he tour bus drove down a desolate Midwestern road. Platinum-selling rap artist Trapp was completing a thirty-city rap tour. Trapp had become a huge success in the rap game, and his first album went platinum in a week. He had the hottest rap album out, hands down. Trapp was riding a wave of success that many could only dream of. He was living the life.

  “Pass that kush over here! I didn’t pay all that money to watch you all get high,” Trapp arrogantly demanded of one of his crew.

  The man passed him a pregnant blunt of the finest marijuana on earth. Trapp took a deep pull of the potent substance and closed his eyes. He thought about his road to success and what he had to do to get to this point in his life. He thought about his former friends and his former lifestyle. Trapp wasn’t the most popular guy in his Brentwood, Long Island, neighborhood. All his life he was treated like a stepchild. Trapp never knew his real parents, he was raised in foster homes all his life. Now he was the biggest rap star in the country.

  Trapp’s mind started to drift as he thought back to how it all got started.

  Two Years Ago

  The music blasted from the twelve-inch speakers in the back of the midnight-black Chevy Tahoe. The three young Black men in the vehicle nodded their heads to the melodic beat as if they were in a trance. You would think that the young men were deaf or would be compelled to turn the extremely loud music down, but instead, the loud rap music fueled their adrenaline and thoughts of getting paid.

  The driver, Jamal Jenkins, aka JJ Gates, was the rap artist the men were listening to. JJ was also the biggest drug dealer in his Brentwood, Long Island, neighborhood. His right-hand man, Dee, was always in the passenger seat of JJ’s Tahoe, he was second in command of JJ’s drug operation. The youngest of the crew was Trapp; he sat in the back rolling up a blunt of the stickiest haze on earth.

  JJ was feeling himself. He was only twenty-three and he managed to stack over $100,000 selling drugs in less than two years. He considered himself Hood Rich. “If you have $100,000 or more in the hood you are considered Hood Rich, my nig. I am officially a Hood Rich nigga, ya dig,” JJ said to his underlings.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. I’m trying to get my paper up, too,” Dee replied.

  “Stick with me and you, too, can be Hood Rich. I’ll show you how to get this paper, ya heard.”

  JJ’s ego had become a monster over the past two years. Sometimes things happen in a person’s life that seem to be a golden opportunity, but that’s only on the surface.

  Two years ago Jamal Jenkins was a twenty-one-year-old college student with dreams of becoming a rapper. He had never sold drugs, nor did any major crime besides stealing a shirt from Macy’s when he was thirteen.

  Jamal came from a good family. His parents paid for his college tuition, they also tried to give him the money to pursue his rap career. But like any other middle class family in these times, they could give their only son so much before they went broke.

  “Dad, do you think I could borrow two hundred dollars for the studio?” JJ asked humbly.

  “Son, I have to pay the mortgage this week so you have to wait.”

  “But, Dad, I have to get these songs done before next week so I can get on these mix tapes Underdog Classics, and Street’s Most Wanted. I can get on both of them,” JJ said in despair.

  “Son, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you this time. With your tuition and the mortgage, I can’t afford to give you any extra money until next week.”

  He walked away feeling desperate to get the money for his studio session. “How am I going to get this money?” Jamal’s mental wheels were turning a hundred miles a minute. “I could just ask my man OG Rosco to lend it to me.”

  OG Rosco was the biggest drug dealer in JJ’s neighborhood at the time. Rosco was an older man in his early forties, thus the O in OG stood for Older. You wouldn’t know it from the way he acted. He wore his pants hanging low like he was twenty-one, and he was the leader of the Bloods in his hood. He ran a group of teens and young men.

  JJ went to Rosco’s house to see if he could get a loan for the studio. When he arrived, there were four young Black men all wearing red T-shirts and red bandannas. They all looked at JJ like he was a stranger even though they all knew who JJ was. The tough looks were all a part of the act whenever they were around OG Rosco. They were all bent on impressing their general.

  OG Rosco saw JJ walk up to his fence. “What’s popping, fool?”

  “Ain’t nothing, OG Rosco. I need to holla at you for a minute.”

  Rosco ushered JJ into his house. “What can I do for you, young gangster?”

  “Yo, OG Rosco, I need a loan to pay for my studio time. I promise to pay you back.”

  “How much money you talking about?”

  JJ had to think about it. I might as well ask for a little extra, JJ thought. “How about a thousand dollars?”

  “A thousand; let me think for a minute.”

  OG Rosco thought like an old wolf. He was always trying to get more soldiers for his drug empire. All his soldiers were younger men that he could control because they believed that he was a gangster. The truth was that young men were the only men that OG Rosco could deceive into believing that he was the toughest man alive. Older men already knew that was game.

  “I tell you what, JJ. I’ll give you a thousand for your studio time. But I want back twelve hundred. I will give you some drugs to get me my twelve hundred back and you can make extra for yourself.” OG Rosco was scratching his chin as he spoke.

  JJ had to think about the drug selling part of the deal. He was against selling drugs, but he was desperate right now. Fuck it, if I sell drugs this one time, it won’t hurt.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Rosco reached into his pocket and pulled out about ten thousand dollars. He peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills. “JJ, I knew you all your life. You know not to play with OG Rosco’s paper.” Rosco squinted his eyes to give JJ a serious look.

  “Believe me, OG, I would never play with your money.”

  OG Rosco walked to his kitchen and came back with an ounce of crack. “This is an ounce of crack. I want eight hundred for this ounce. You should be able to make about twenty-five hundred. You owe me two thousand all together.”

  “I got you, OG. I won’t let you down.”

  JJ left that day feeling nervous and happy at the same time. He knew nothing about selling crack, but he knew someone that did. He called his best friend Dee.

  “Yo, Dee, I need your help.”

  JJ explained the whole deal with OG Rosco.

  “You are crazy for fucking with OG Rosco like that. If you don’t have his money the whole Blood nation will try to kill you,” Dee said. “But fuck it, I will help you get the crack off.”

  JJ recorded his songs, then him and Dee sold all the crack in three days. When the crack was done they had all OG’s money and three hundred fifty left over for themselves.

  “That was the fastest money I’ve ever made in my life,” JJ said in amazement.

  “I’m telling you, son, we can get rich. OG got the best product on Long Island. That’s why it moved so fast. See if you can get more. My fiends love it,” Dee said with enthusiasm.

  “How much should I ask for?”

  “Get another ounce for now.”

  JJ went back to OG Rosco and got another ounce after he paid him his money.

  “You’re a natural at selling crack. I tell you what, I’ll give you two ounces, just give me back fifteen h
undred this time.”

  “I got you, OG.”

  JJ and Dee knocked off the two ounces faster than the first one. They were blowing up faster than they imagined. They gave OG his money again and he gave them more crack to sell. And again, they got it all off faster the third time.

  “Yo, JJ, we have to find out who OG’s connect is. If we could get it for the same price he is getting it for, we can be rich,” Dee advised JJ.

  “How do we get his connect?” JJ asked.

  “We can follow him when he goes to Washington Heights to re-up. I know that’s where he goes to get it because one of his soldiers named Trapp is my man, he told me one day.”

  “Do you think Trapp will help us without telling OG we’re trying to get his connect?” JJ asked.

  “Let’s find out.”

  Dee called Trapp on his cellphone.

  “What’s good Trapp? I got a business proposition for you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I will give you a hundred dollars if you help me get OG Rosco’s connect.”

  Dee knew he was taking a huge chance telling Trapp that, but he knew that Trapp was a grimy dude. Trapp would do anything for money.

  “Hell yeah I’ll do it. OG Rosco be on some bullshit. He got me hustling for nothing. He doesn’t pay us right. That’s how he’s able to get money because we do all the selling and he doesn’t pay us much,” Trapp replied.

  “How long do you think it will take you?”

  “No more than a week.” Trapp paused. “I’m going to need half of that hundred up front, a nigga fucked up right now.”

  “Here we go with the bullshit. I tell you what, if you don’t have the info in one week, you give me sixty back instead of fifty.”

  “Bet.”

  JJ heard the whole conversation. “Now all we have to do is find out when he is going and follow him to see the connect’s face and then just approach him.”

  “That’s the plan,” Dee replied.

  Chapter 2

  Trapp sank into the plush white leather of the sofa. He took a pull of the exotic weed and started choking. “Damn! This is some shit,” Trapp said, coughing. He took a sip of the Hennessy and drifted off to Fantasy Island. “One day I will have it all, the money, fame—”

  Trapp was brought back to reality by the sound of OG Rosco’s raspy baritone. “Nigga, pass that muthafuckin exotic! That shit cost me almost eight hundred an ounce and you sitting there letting the shit burn into the air. You lucky your bum ass is even sitting on OG’s couch.” OG paused to look Trapp in his eyes to see if he didn’t like what he said. “Now what the fuck is so urgent? You said you had to tell OG something important, so get to telling.”

  “I have somebody that wants to buy some weight from you.” Trapp made up something fast.

  “You can’t be serious. That ain’t fucking urgent.”

  “I know but they wanted—”

  OG held up his hand as a sign for Trapp to stop talking because his cellphone rang.

  “Petey what’s poppin, my man?” OG quickly changed his tone to a pleasant one.

  “I just got them new Jordans in that I was telling you about. They’re cheaper, too. When you get a chance, come see them.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  OG sprang up from the sofa so fast that he spilled the glass of Hennessy on his Gucci shirt. In the midst of all the chaos, OG didn’t notice that he had dropped his cellphone on the floor.

  “Dammit! Now look what you made OG do!” OG headed toward the bathroom. “This Gucci shirt cost me almost a thousand dollars.”

  Trapp saw the phone on the floor. As he stood, he scooped the phone off the floor in one motion.

  “I’m out, OG. I’ll get up with you later.”

  “I hope not, with your bad-luck ass.”

  Trapp ran out of OG’s house, then down the block as fast as he could. He didn’t want OG to notice the phone was missing before he was out of sight. When he got to his house he looked into the call history of OG’s cellphone. The last call was Petey.

  “Now I got the connect’s number and OG’s customers.” Trapp had a sinister scowl on his face. “Just to think I was going to put OG on to Dee wanting his connect, for a small fee of course. But since my ‘bum ass’ is lucky to sit on your couch, fuck your old ass.”

  Trapp had another idea. He called Dee up.

  “What’s goody, my man? I got something better than what you asked for. I have the connect’s number, and something else that might be of service to you. I got OG Rosco’s cellphone with all his customers in it.”

  “Here we go with more bullshit. How much do you want for the phone?” Dee said in an annoyed tone.

  “I was thinking around a G.”

  “A thousand dollars! My fucking iPhone didn’t even cost that much. I will give you five hundred, no more no less.”

  “Since you’re my dude, I will give it to you for five hundred but under one condition.”

  “Here we go with more bullshit. What is that one condition?”

  “I want to get down with you and JJ. Fuck that old-ass nigga, OG.”

  “Okay, you can get money with me and JJ.”

  That was how the three-man drug team was born. JJ Gates and Dee became the new drug lords of their hood; Trapp was just a worker.

  A month after JJ and Dee bought OG’s customers, OG was set up by the Feds on a half-kilo sell. The Feds charged OG Rosco with the 848 kingpin statute. He faced life in prison without the possibility of parole. OG Rosco’s career in crime was over.

  With OG Rosco officially out of the picture, Dee and JJ quickly took his spot. Within no time they rose to the top of the food chain. The whole hood was buzzing about the new neighborhood superstars, JJ Gates and Dee Money.

  Chapter 3

  Petey took a liking to JJ Gates upon first meeting him. Petey was heavily into American rap music. He listened to all the top rappers. Even though he couldn’t speak English that well, he understood the drug talk that he heard on most of the rap songs.

  JJ gave Petey a copy of his new songs when they first met. Petey drove around in his new CL600 Benz listening to JJ Gates all day. Petey loved the songs so much that he became a fan of JJ’s music.

  “Why isn’t your music on the radio? Your shit is better than half the stuff they’re playing,” Petey said with excitement.

  “I don’t have any money backing my album. If I had some money to invest in my career I could get it popping.”

  “How much money do you think you’ll need?” Petey asked.

  “A good fifty thousand will do the job.”

  “Say no more. I have that for you. All I want is twenty percent of everything you make from the music business. Just say I’m a silent partner.” Petey smiled and stuck out his hand for a deal-sealing handshake.

  “Good looking, my man. You won’t regret it.”

  “I believe in you.”

  When Petey gave JJ the fifty thousand, JJ only put twenty thousand into his career. The other thirty thousand he invested in the drug game. That was how JJ ended up with more money than his mentor Dee.

  JJ couldn’t see it, but his activity in the drug game was changing him. Before he got involved with the drug game he wouldn’t rap about drugs and violence. All his new songs were about drugs and violence. Now that he had become a big-time drug dealer, his ego was out of control. Because he had more money than Dee, he thought he was a bigger boss.

  The truth was that Dee was the brains behind the operation. Without Dee at the wheel, JJ wouldn’t be as successful on his own. But you couldn’t tell JJ that. Let him tell it, his quick rise to the top was all because of his skill.

  “I’m that dude,” JJ said, gloating out loud as he drove his Tahoe. “Who else in the hood just came in the game and caked up like the kid?”

  Dee never responded to JJ’s narcissistic rants. However, lately JJ was starting to get on Dee’s nerves.

  Trapp noticed that Dee was getting tired of JJ’s c
onstant bragging. Every day he was reminding them that he had more money than them.

  “My album is about to blow, my cash flow is crazy. My swag is up.”

  “My man, I’m tired of hearing that shit. All day that’s all you talk about,” Dee stated defiantly.

  “You sound like a hater right now.”

  “You sound like a dickhead right now.”

  JJ pulled up to Lobo Studios. That’s where he recorded all his new music. Lobo was the most advanced state-of-the-art music studio in New York.

  When they entered the building, JJ went straight into the microphone booth. He took the 9mm from his waist and put it on a table. “This is for the haters,” JJ said into the microphone. “It’s your boy, no, it’s that man, JJ Gates.”

  Whenever he was in the studio his egotistical bragging was turned up.

  “That nigga JJ is fronting too much,” Trapp said to Dee.

  “I know. He was never like that until I put him on to hustling,” Dee responded.

  “I knew him as the dude that always rapped, not as no gangster or money getter.”

  JJ couldn’t hear what they were saying because the microphone booth was soundproof. He was too busy spewing his raps into the mic.

  “Son is acting like he can hold down this operation without you,” Trapp said, planting seeds of deceit.

  “We all know who the real boss of this operation is.”

  “I don’t know, son, that nigga JJ got the brand-new Tahoe, mad ice. The hood thinks he is the boss, not you.”

  Trapp was deliberately pushing Dee to hate his best friend. Dee was steaming with angry thoughts about JJ. Trapp got a kick out of playing the puppet master.

  “Next time JJ say some slick shit about him being the boss, I’m going to show him who the real fucking boss is,” Dee said with venom in his tone.

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” Trapp was amplifying Dee’s anger.

  JJ was in the booth finishing up his verse. “Yeah, that’s a wrap,” he said to the engineer.

  JJ stepped out of the booth and headed toward the exit, Dee and Trapp followed him silently. Anyone could tell there was something on Dee’s mind.