Street Rap

by Shaun Sinclair

They were interrupted as the waiter brought their food. When the waiter left, Qwess took the time to change the subject to the business at hand.

  “All right, now that I got everyone’s attention,” Qwess began.

  “Not for long, nigga. You already was late. I got shit to do,” Reece interjected, checking his Rolex for the time.

  Qwess gave Reece a stern look. “Anyway, like I was saying,” he continued. “You know I been politicking with AMG, trying to get them to do right. Well, they finally agreed to the terms,” Qwess shared.

  “Word! When?” Doe asked, excitedly.

  “That was them on the phone earlier,” Qwess informed them.

  “What were the terms?” Reece inquired. “You’ve been keeping shit all secret like Mission: Impossible.”

  “Remember I told y’all I was gon’ try and get the whole crew out of the street?” Qwess reminded them. “Well, that’s how. I’m going to use these crackers’ money to get us out. All you gotta do is roll with me.”

  Reece turned serious. “Just how much are they offering you?”

  Qwess grinned. “Check it, they want to give us seven for a P and D deal to distribute all of A.B.P.’s recordings for the next five years.”

  “Seven hundred thousand?” Doe asked, slightly disappointed. He was hoping for more.

  Qwess shook his head and grinned even harder. “Seven million.”

  Doe whistled. “That’s a lot of fucking money, Ock. I can’t believe they offering you that much.”

  “Us that much,” Qwess corrected. “It’s a package deal. If I sign this deal, y’all rolling with me.”

  They noticed Reece tense up at the mention of both of them rolling. He had yet to say a word since Qwess had first begun breaking down everything.

  Qwess clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms. “This is it, baby! We made it.”

  Doe was excited as well. “Tell us more about the deal,” he prodded.

  “It’s simple. Under the terms of the deal, we—A.B.P.—would keep full creative control, a majority percentage of the masters of our own records, and AMG will foot the bill for the first two big-budget videos,” Qwess explained.

  In addition to that, they wanted him to go on an international promotional tour for six months to start at the beginning of spring—two months from now. They wanted to re-release his freshman album Janus to an international audience and back it up with appearances.

  “Basically, we killing shit out here, and they want in on what we got going on,” Qwess added, citing their success. They had essentially locked down the Southeast, dominating the radio and selling 50,000 units without a video or major-labeling backing. Now they were poised to reap the fruits of their labor.

  There had only been one problem with the deal.

  “I been had ’em,” Qwess bragged, “But they wouldn’t meet my final demands until a few minutes ago.”

  “Which were?” Doe asked.

  Qwess smirked. “You ready for this? I told them muthafuckas they had to cover the salary of my VP for the first two years.” Qwess paused to let his words sink in. “Get this . . . at three million dollars total!”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Doe could hardly contain his excitement.

  Qwess held up a finger. “And . . . they also agreed to an unprecedented deal that said they would pay a seven-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar advance to the first new artist signed to A.B.P. once the deal is finalized. To top it off, the advance would have to be paid back over a five-year span, without taking any royalties from that artist’s first album.”

  “Nooooo!”

  “Yep. So, you know what that means?” Qwess leaned back and folded his arms. “That means everybody at this table is about to be a legal millionaire off this rap shit. I told you I got us!”

  There, it was out there. Qwess had done what they said couldn’t be done. He had found a way to get the Crescent Crew out of the streets, and become rich, all in one move. Everyone at the table didn’t seem too happy, though.

  Qwess looked over at Reece. “Yo, you heard what I said, nigga. I said, we good now,” he reiterated.

  Reece shook his head. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s not that simple, bro. I mean, you did good, but what about me and the crew?”

  “Apparently you don’t get it,” Qwess countered. “I negotiated the seven fifty K for you! I plan for you to be the new artist to get that money.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Reece threw his napkin on the table. “I ain’t nobody’s rapper.”

  “Are you kidding?” Doe chimed in. “You can still rap your ass off! I see how you punish cats on that mic in the studio.”

  “Yeah, but I just be fucking around. I’m not trying to make no career out the shit.”

  Qwess eyed Reece in disbelief. He had held out for a long time to get these terms. Truth be told, AMG had come to him numerous times with very favorable deals, but he never bit, because he had his whole crew in mind. He had Reece in mind to be that franchise artist, and now it seemed that Reece wasn’t going along with the plan.

  “Knock it off, Reece. This is the promised land; this is why we started the crew—to get legitimate money,” Qwess reminded him. He knew that Reece had been getting major money in the street, especially for the last few months. However, three quarters of a million dollars—legally—was a big step in the right direction. Any crime is only as good as its escape route, and drug dealing was still a crime, no matter how much money was made off it. Reece seemed to be refusing the escape route.

  “Yeah, well, shit changed. You not the only one that made moves,” Reece informed them. He leaned in to the table and lowered his voice. “I just got linked with the plug, plug, straight from Mexico. We getting them thangs right out of papi’s hand now, two hundred at a time.”

  Doe whistled. Even he knew that was the big leagues.

  “Yeah, but what’s the cost of that?” Qwess wondered.

  “The price is lovely,” Reece assured them.

  “No, I’m not talking about the price. I’m talking about the cost! Mo’ money, mo’ problems,” Qwess preached.

  “Well, I’m down with you,” Doe stated, letting his position be known. “I really don’t know what else to say, but thanks. Thanks, bro.”

  “Yo, Ock, don’t even sweat that. You know you want for your brother what you want for yourself,” Qwess reminded him.

  “Yo, that’s love,” Doe responded. He felt as if his body was floating as he tried to grasp the magnitude of what Qwess had just dropped on him. He was about to become a millionaire.

  Qwess turned to Reece again. He had a look of deep concentration on his face. “What you gonna do?”

  Reece deflected. “Ahhh, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Reece, you down or what?”

  Reece peered out into the traffic riding by, weighing his options. He had achieved the hustler’s dream, a plug straight out of Mexico. Yet Qwess was offering him a ghetto dream. To be the crème de la crème of the music industry was what every young boy from the hood desired.

  “Yo, excuse me for a second,” Reece said. He stood and went to the bathroom to gather his thoughts.

  While Reece was in the bathroom, Qwess took the opportunity to clarify some things with Doe.

  “Listen, bro, I don’t want you to think this is a charity position. I chose you to be VP because you’re the man for the job. I couldn’t have done this without you. So, I’m gonna make sure you get what you deserve for your part. This ain’t a cush job, though. It’s gonna be a lot of work, especially if we sign that kid Flame off of Bunce. I heard he is a live wire.” Qwess kept his ear to the street. Flame was the hottest thing spitting right now, and he needed him on his team.

  “No doubt,” Doe nodded. “You already know, whatever it takes from me, I’m there.”

  Just then Reece reappeared from the bathroom looking a lot more comfortable. He sat back down in the seat directly beside Qwess.

  “So, are you down or what?” Qw
ess asked.

  Reece released a huge sigh. “As much as I appreciate it, I gotta decline.”

  “What!?” Doe and Qwess both exclaimed.

  “I have to,” Reece insisted, holding firm. “As much as I appreciate you going all out for the crew, I gotta decline. Believe me, it’s for the best. My heart is in these streets.”

  “What?” Doe was confused. “Nigga, you know on your worst day these niggas couldn’t fuck with you on that mic! This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “Yeah, well, I make my own opportunities these days.”

  “But you know how this game go,” Doe insisted.

  “Look, it’s deeper than that,” Reece said. “You know what I do. It ain’t no secret. You two know me better than anyone. You know I ain’t no quitter. This is the life I chose.” He inched in a little closer and lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Man, we ’bout to lock down this whole state. Charlotte, Greenville, Raleigh . . . all this shit ’bout to belong to the crew. Hell, at this rate, I can probably see that seven fifty you talking about in a week.” He shook his head. “Nah, shit is going too good to bow out now.”

  Qwess spoke low, in measured tones, “You know everything comes with a price.”

  “Well, it’s the price I’m willing to pay. Everyone has their own destiny. I’m just fulfilling mine.”

  “Man, you know that’s bullshit!” Qwess blurted out. “I was in it, and got out. And in my family that’s unheard of. Shit, it was like the thing to do. So, don’t give me that.”

  “Look, like I said,” Reece repeated, “I appreciate you going all out, but I’ve already chosen my life. Now, I gotta live it. I’ve gone too far to turn back now. I can’t go from being a shot-caller to being controlled.”

  “Man, you know it wouldn’t be like that!” Qwess insisted.

  “Yo, brother, please just respect my call?” Reece asked, looking him dead in the eye before continuing, “You know it’s nothing but love. Crescent Crew until we die, but I can’t go backwards. Now let’s just rejoice in the good fortune that we’re all about to become millionaires at twenty-five. Regardless of the route we took, we all got there.”

  At that, he lifted his glass of tea to propose a toast. The others did so as well, albeit reluctantly.

  “To prosperity!”

  “To prosperity!” they all repeated and clinked their glasses, then drank.

  “I gotta go to Charlotte in the morning to sign the papers and it’ll be official,” said Qwess as they were getting up from the table.

  “I gotta give my two-week notice,” said Doe.

  “I gotta go get my stick dipped,” said Reece, and they all laughed.

  Before they left, Qwess dropped a thirty-dollar tip on the table for the waiter. They all shook, embraced, and peeled out.

  Life was good. Or so they thought.

  Chapter 4

  The Mobb Deep track banged through the subwoofers, enveloping the car’s passengers in a cloud of bass. The weed smoke was pungent and prevalent. The tint on the windows was so dark it was impossible to see through to the inside. The occupants felt safe and secure. It was rather ironic considering they were plotting the assassination of an adversary.

  “Yo, are you sure that nigga Qwess don’t fuck around no more?” Black Vic asked his driver and right-hand man, Hardtime.

  “Nah, he taking that music shit serious now,” Hardtime assured his leader. “Ever since he got out, he ain’t really touch shit.”

  Black Vic leaned back in the plush leather interior of the Lexus and listened as Hardtime ran the game down. “Well, shit, I wonder why he reached out to me, then?” Black Vic wondered aloud.

  “Shit, matter fact, word is AMG ’bout to give him a big-ass deal, yo. A few mil or something. So, shit, I can’t see the nigga taking a chance at fucking all that up over some street shit.” Hardtime paused long enough to inhale the potent marijuana deep into his lungs, then passed the blunt to Black Vic.

  Black Vic took the blunt and shot him a vicious stare. “See, mu’fucka, you don’t understand shit. Listen and take heed,” Black Vic schooled. “Once a street nigga, always a street nigga. It’s in his blood. All his peoples—his pops, uncles, everybody—they all street. And they all vicious, or was at one point. Most of ’em dead or in the feds now, but the fact remains.” Black Vic hit the weed hard, then continued his lesson with the smoke wrapping around his words. “And Qwess and Reece are like brothers; they started that little funky-ass Crescent Crew together. You think he will let something happen to Reece and not retaliate? Would you let something happen to me and not retaliate?” Black Vic posed, illustrating his point.

  Hardtime humbled down to his mentor. “I understand,” he conceded. “But if you ask me, we should keep our eye on the prize. That nigga Reece is dangerous enough.”

  “Reece is a dead issue, as far as I’m concerned, pun intended. I took care of that already. Trust. Just be on point for the storm that follows,” Victor warned, as they pulled into his driveway. “I’ll link up with you later.”

  Black Vic walked into his house with Ruger in hand. He cleared every room in the three-bedroom home before he finally relaxed. Each time he closed his eyes, a vision of his lieutenant dangling from a high-rise appeared. Alvin had been a good dude, very loyal to their gang. He would be missed, but his death would not be in vain.

  Black Vic pulled a plate full of cocaine from under the bed and placed it on the nightstand. Methodically, he diced the coke up into thin lines on the plate. Satisfied with his construction, he pinched one nostril and dunked his head in the plate like an ostrich. He snorted deep then leaned his head back until he felt the drip. High, he was now able to focus his thoughts.

  Reece had been a thorn in his side for the past few months now. He was letting work go for too low, so low that no one else in town could eat. In the game, this happened from time to time. Say a hustler scored a bad package. The remedy would be to get it off for the low in hopes of breaking even on his investment before his name became soured for pushing bad product. Although frowned upon, it was still accepted from time to time as a necessary evil of the game. This was different. With Reece and the Crescent Crew, their prices were low and the product was top-notch. Now it was beginning to encroach on his money and territory.

  Black Vic took the civilized approach. He approached one of the youngsters of the Crescent Crew and tried to get work for the low. He laughed at him. So Black Vic took the work. On another occasion, he approached them on some partnership shit. They hit him with consignment, but the price was too high. So again, he kept it. He concluded that what they had done to Alvin was their clapback. However, he was determined to get the last laugh.

  Black Vic dialed a number on his phone. “Yo, you took care of that yet?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m on it,” the man promised.

  “Don’t disappoint me.”

  Black Vic ended the call and snorted two more lines of coke. His thoughts shifted to Qwess.

  He had respect for Qwess because he always showed love. He recalled when Qwess used to come up from Atlantic Beach and spread love throughout the city with the potent work he copped from the Dominicans. Black Vic had been one of Qwess’s biggest customers. Then when Qwess went to prison, all that changed. In a way he was happy Qwess was out of the game. Sometimes he wished he could get out himself, but that wasn’t his life.

  Black Vic knew that Qwess was still down with Reece. He hated to do it to him, but if Qwess brought drama, he was gonna lay his ass down, too—rapper or not. Bottom line: Ain’t nobody getting in the way of his paper. Reece was gonna find out firsthand.

  There was a war going on outside, and no one was safe from it.

  Chapter 5

  A week after Reece declined Qwess’s deal, the brothers had just left the masjid on Murchison Road after attending Jumu’ah, the Friday prayer service for Muslims.

  Attending Jumu’ah was essential for a Muslim staying on the correct path, a ritual that reiter
ated a Muslim’s purpose every Friday. When constructing the Crescent Crew, Qwess and Reece had drawn from the ranks of their Muslim community because they knew the brothers bore allegiance to one another on the strength of Islam. Muslims had rights over one another that included loyalty, protection, and the responsibility to lend aid to their brother when needed. Of course, their initial recruitment of the brothers wasn’t nefarious. It started as them lending a hand to a brother, then another, then another, in secret, away from the community. Word quickly spread among the brothers that were already in the streets that Qwess and Reece were the guys to see. After that, it was a no-brainer to cull their soldiers from the ranks they were already in. The rest was the stuff of ghetto legend.

  Reece centered the business of the Crescent Crew around Jumu’ah Friday, since everyone would be in attendance. After the imam released them, hyped up on a sermon, Reece would gather the members of the crew and break bread with the fam. This day was no different.

  Except someone was watching their every move.

  After Reece hit the crew with their work for the week, he dipped off in his Porsche, headed to his car dealership on Skibo Road. He hung a left on Country Club Road, and a brown Chrysler made the turn with him. Oblivious to the tail, Reece bent down and fiddled with the radio. When he raised his head, the Chrysler was right beside him at the stoplight. The driver of the Chrysler was staring at Reece with a mean mug.

  “What’s up, homie? You know me?” Reece asked, throwing his hands up.

  He never saw the Uzi hanging out the back window until it spit fireballs into the Porsche. The first volley shattered the small back window. A piece of glass ripped through the air and slashed Reece’s face. He smashed the accelerator, and the Porsche rocketed forward, leaving the Chrysler in a cloud of smoke.

  “Muthafucka!!!” Reece swore. He ducked low and piloted the Porsche through traffic at insane speeds, wiping the blood from his face. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the Chrysler had been reduced to a small dot in the chaos of traffic. Reece wasn’t sure if the men in the Chrysler were alone, so he didn’t slow down one bit. When he made it to McPhearson Church Road, he hung a left and pinned the accelerator to the floor. The inline-six engine roared to life and carried Reece to safety.