When it was just Doe, Qwess, Flame, and 8-Ball, the conversation resumed.
“What you two getting into?” Qwess asked them.
“Nothing.”
“I want to get at you. You want to go get something to eat?”
“Damn right,” 8-Ball offered, rubbing his stomach. “Always!”
They all laughed.
“Word. Let’s take a ride then.”
They all climbed into the Benz. Doe was driving; 8-Ball was in the passenger seat. Qwess and Flame sat in the back.
Inside the Benz, everyone got comfortable. 8-Ball pushed buttons adjusting the front seat. Flame sat in the back with his arm on the rest all relaxed, as if he rode in a ninety-thousand-dollar car every day. 8-Ball started touching buttons on the center dash display, until Doe slapped his hand.
“Ow, nigga! Chill, you don’t know me like that.”
“You better keep your hands off them sounds!”
“All right, nigga, damn!”
Qwess spoke up from the back seat. “Yo, where can we sit and blaze in the car? I know y’all get down.”
“Damn right!” 8-Ball answered. “It’s a spot over by the park. The rollers don’t never come by there.”
“All right, cool, show the way.”
As they were en route, Qwess pulled out some rolling papers and an ounce of hydro-weed. He meticulously rolled a joint. Flame just looked on, enjoying the ride. He felt like he was in a forest by all the rawhide and wood inside the Benz.
8-Ball looked in the back, noticing Qwess rolling a joint, and immediately spoke up, “Ah, nigga, you rolling a joint! All the paper you sitting on, I know you can afford to roll a blunt.”
Qwess shot a glance at Flame. Flame shrugged his shoulders in surrender.
“Yo, chill, nigga,” he told 8-Ball.
“I’m just saying, though. The nigga come round here on some ballin’ shit, and got the nerve to roll a joint. Nigga, please.”
Qwess had had enough. “Nigga, how often do you blow dro?” 8-Ball looked surprised. “Yeah, I thought so. Your li’l young ass probably can’t take this much. Now you need to turn your ass around and show where to go before you get an unwanted workout—walking.”
8-Ball recognized real and turned around to find Doe gritting on him as well.
Doe tapped him playfully. “Man, calm your big ass down.”
8-Ball smiled in return. “All right, I’m cool. Turn here.”
Moments later, they reached their destination. They pulled into a spot on the edge of the woods. As Doe turned the car off, Qwess passed him a CD to put in. Then he lit the joint.
“Yo, check this out,” Qwess began, talking to Flame. “I’m feeling your shit. I hear you on the radio all the time. I even came to the talent show you did a few months back. You nice. Real nice. You remind me of when I was your age. What you, seventeen?
“Nah, I just turned eighteen.”
“Yeah, I been clocking for a minute.”
“Aw, nigga, you the man. Stop fronting.”
Qwess chuckled. “I like your style.”
“I like your style.”
Qwess passed Flame the joint. Flame took a pull and started coughing, “Goddamn, this some strong shit!”
“Yeah, all we blow is dro. Give it to your man. Let him taste it.”
Flame passed it to 8-Ball, who hit the joint and coughed also.
“Come on, tough guy,” Doe told him, laughing. “Man up!” 8-Ball waved his hand in surrender. He passed it to Doe, who declined. It went back to Qwess. Qwess inhaled deeply and started talking again.
“Yo, Flame, I’m talking about us putting you on, nigga. Changing your situation. Making you a star. Only thing is . . .” Qwess paused to blow out the smoke. “I keep hearing you down with that jack shit. See, if we put you on, and you do some bullshit, we all look like fools, and I done been a lot of things, but a fool ain’t one.”
“Word!” Doe affirmed.
“So, if you doing bullshit, why should we put you on?”
He passed the joint to Flame. Flame took a hit and held in the smoke.
“See, I’m a product of my environment,” Flame explained. “I gotta get it how I can. Ain’t nobody giving me shit.” Flame blew out some smoke. “I ain’t never seen my dad, and I don’t hardly see my mom. She always working. So, if a nigga can show me a better way to make it, I’ll do it. The only thing I know how to do is hustle and rap. My rapping ain’t paying bills, so for bread and butter I catch niggas in the gutter.”
“Thank you, Biggie Smalls,” Doe joked. “Seriously, though, we talking about putting you in a situation where money is your last worry. At eighteen, nigga, you driving a Benz. What you know about that?”
“Sounds good.”
“Sounds good? Nigga, that should sound great! We talking ’bout making you a star. Going all over the world. Boning the baddest broads. Ménage à trois style. All you gotta do is listen to the guidance we give you, stay out of trouble, and do what you do: rap.”
Flame took it all in, realizing for the first time how serious these cats were. He noticed the music bumping through the speakers. The music was a beat CD that Qwess had recently made.
“Damn, that beat is hot!” Flame said, bobbing his head and rapping to himself.
“No, it’s not hot,” Qwess told him. “It’s missing that Flame. It’s missing you. I made that beat with you in mind.”
Flame sucked his teeth in disbelief. Qwess sat up in the seat looking directly at Flame and got his full attention. “Yo, straight up, no bullshit. I been hearing about you for a while, so that means you got drive. I like that. It seems like all you need is a chance. Now we willing to give you that chance, but you got to want it. You got to want this music shit like you want your next breath, nigga. You can’t slack up for a minute ’cause that’s when you lose your edge. You got to be willing to do what it takes to get where you want to be. You got to be professional. You understand that?” Qwess leaned back in his seat and continued. “See, I ain’t have nobody to throw me a bone. I wish I did, but I didn’t. The only reason why you see my shit in stores is because I put it there. I paid outta my pocket. I hit the highway. I got on my grind. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted this shit! Now do you want it?”
“Hell yeah, I want it!”
“How bad do you want it, though?”
“Bad enough.”
“You can’t want it bad enough, because a brother trying to put you on, and you acting like you offended.”
“Nah, it ain’t like that. It’s just that, in my experience, anything that sounds too good to be true usually is.”
“See that’s what I’m talking about,” Qwess said, nodding his head. “You sharp. I like that, but listen,” He looked him dead in the eye. “All I got is my word and my balls. I don’t break ’em for nobody. So if I tell you something, you can bank on it. Ask any nigga in the street about me. They’ll tell you. They may not like me, but they’ll tell you: I don’t break my word.”
“I kind of heard about you,” Flame admitted.
“All right then, listen. Word is bond, if you give me one hundred percent, I’ll do the same to you, and we’ll smash this muthafucking game. We’ll put Carolina on the map like it’s supposed to be.”
“Word, that’s what up,” Flame said, looking at 8-Ball in the front seat listening intently.
“I only ask one thing, though,” Qwess informed him. “Never lie to me. I gotta be able to trust you to an extent, feel me? We gonna be all over the world. The last thing I need to worry about is the loyalty of the dudes in my camp.”
“I can dig that.”
“All right, so you with us or what? You gonna help us put Atlantic Beach Productions on the map?”
“Damn right!” 8-Ball answered from the front seat. Doe playfully slapped him on the arm again.
Flame thought for a brief second and answered, “Where do I sign?”
“Word!” Qwess said. �
��We’ll get to that later. I got to put you to the test first. I got make sure you the nicest in the Carolinas.”
“Nigga, I’m the nicest in the world,” Flame arrogantly assured him.
“We’ll see at my party next week. All the top shottas gonna be there. If you smash them, we’ll sign the papers and give you your advance.”
“Advance?”
“Yeah, advance,” Doe threw in. “You think it’s a game? We serious about this thing.”
Flame nodded his head, “All right then.”
8-Ball interrupted, “Aye man, I thought somebody said something about some food. I’m hungrier than a muthafucka.”
Everyone agreed. “Let’s get some Chinese food,” Flame suggested.
“I said I’m hungry, not desperate,” 8-Ball joked. “I don’t eat nothing I can’t pronounce.” Everyone broke into laughter.
“We’ll get some Captain D’s,” Doe told them, cranking up the car.
Qwess reached in his pocket, pulling a knot of money out. He counted out six hundreds, six fifties, and five twenties. He slid them to Flame on the low.
“This should keep you out of trouble ’til next week,” he told Flame. Flame put it in his pocket without counting it.
“Learn how to budget your money,” Doe suggested. “You going to have a lot of it soon. Trust me.”
“All right.”
“By the way, tell J.D. he’s invited to the party. It’s Thursday. One week from today.”
Flame nodded and kicked back, enjoying the ride. This was the chance he had been waiting for. No way was he going to mess up. He always said the world was going to know his name. He was finally on the brink of his destiny. As of today, he was retired from crime. He was finally getting the chance that he thought everyone got at least once in a lifetime. He was going to run with it. He refused to be denied.
The world was going to be calling his name.
Chapter 8
Reece looked in the mirror one last time, tucking his long locks under a knit cap. It had been three days since the attempt on his life, three days since they had awakened the warrior in him. At this moment, he was in his spacious yet modest home outside of the city waiting on Samson, as he was known in the streets. They were going to spend the day collecting money from his various spots. He had to see this one unscrupulous fella in particular. Reece had broken his own rule and given someone outside the Crescent Crew some work. Now this fella was having “problems” coming up with the money. Reece figured there shouldn’t be any “problems” coming up with the money. He damn near gave him the kilo at twenty thousand dollars. Reece knew the guy from way back, which is why he had decided to put him on his feet. Now he wanted to get cute? One thing Reece couldn’t stand was for someone to take his kindness for a weakness. If the guy didn’t have the money, he was going to find out the hard way, which was why he was bringing Samson.
Samson was six foot seven, three hundred pounds of solid muscle. As if that wasn’t enough, he had a twin brother named Wali, whom everyone called Hulk because of his beefy six-foot-six, three-hundred-thirty-pound frame. Together these two had been the muscle for the Crescent Crew since its inception. Back when Qwess came home from the army, he had brought them back with him. They were originally from Mobile, Alabama, and countrier than catfish and grits. Qwess had met them both while in the army. They had brutally assaulted their company commander after he called one of them stupid—in front of the whole platoon. The commander wasn’t completely off his assessment; however, neither brother was too fond of it. So, when they were kicked out, they had nowhere to go. They definitely didn’t want to go back to Mobile. So Qwess offered them a job with him. As long as there was money involved, they didn’t care what the job was. They weren’t the most morally adept men. They figured if they could kill for a country, they could do whatever was necessary to obtain a certain lifestyle.
Qwess bought them back to the Carolinas with him. He introduced them to the burgeoning crew. Their orders were simple: Samson went with Reece on pickups (since they clicked) to watch his back, and Hulk shadowed Qwess. Over time, as the Crescent Crew grew in stature and money, Samson and Hulk grew in rank. Now Samson was Reece’s lieutenant, keeping all of the others in check; and Hulk still rolled with Qwess everywhere. Only this time, it was on frequent trips out of town to promote his album. Hulk and Samson were both paid to the bone, and loyal to a fault.
Reece checked his Movado for the third time in as many minutes. He was trying to keep schedule because he had a date later that night with Destiny. She was the woman he had met at the restaurant the day Qwess had offered him a record deal. He remembered her like it was yesterday. Her smooth brown skin and thick, slightly bowed legs. When he first saw her, it was like she was waiting on him to approach her. Almost like she was profiling in her coochie-cutters. Surely, he didn’t disappoint her. He had only spoken with her once since then to confirm their date. Now, for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to going out with a woman. There was something different about her. She seemed different, a challenge. She was feisty and firm, as if she didn’t give a damn about who he was out here in these streets. This excited him. After all, every man loved a chase.
He looked out the window and saw Samson’s black Yukon roll up. Actually, he’d heard the pipes rumbling before he saw it. He double-checked to ensure he wasn’t leaving anything behind, grabbed his pistol, and left out the door.
Samson got out of the truck and greeted Reece as he walked out. Samson was dressed identically to Reece: black cargo pants, long black polo shirt, and black Timberlands. War attire. Samson’s jet-black skin and bald head were in direct contrast to Reece’s light brown complexion and long dreads.
“Peace, God.” Samson greeted Reece with dap and a hug.
“Knowledge,” Reece responded, getting into the truck.
Inside the truck, Thug Life: Vol. 1 quaked the four twelve-inch speakers. Reece leaned the seat back a little and rode in silence as they headed into the city. He loved to bump Tupac’s music when he put in work. It was as if he was speaking directly to him, exhorting him to ride out on his enemies and bomb first. ’Pac never failed to put him in that zone.
As they were riding down the long, winding country roads, Samson interrupted Reece’s thoughts.
“Yo, God, I heard you turned down the deal Qwess got for you. What’s up with that?”
Reece let the question linger for a moment before he answered.
“See, it’s like this,” Reece began, lifting his seat up. “I’m in too deep. I’ve done too much dirt in the streets to seriously pursue a career in the music business.” He chuckled. “I mean, picture me being on somebody’s TV nationwide. Niggas would flip! I can see it now, ‘Yo, that’s the nigga that sold me those bricks!’ ‘That’s the nigga that shot my cousin.’ Shit, and we ain’t gonna talk about concerts and touring. You know how many families I ruined behind this shit? I’d never feel safe!” Reece shook his head and shuddered at the thought.
“Them niggas you hearing rapping nowadays talking about they did this, and they did that, and woo woo woo, are straight faking. Either that, or them niggas who they claim they did it to are more pussy than them for letting them get away with it. Nah, hell nah! Not me. You won’t catch me slipping.”
Samson took in what Reece was saying and weighed the words before he responded. “I feel ya, but Qwess facing the same dilemma, and he going through with it.”
Reece laughed loudly, pointing his finger at the air, shaking his head. “See, that Qwess is different. He sneaky as shit and he smart. He always dealt exclusively with the crew when it came to handling the work. We all know the fam is mad loyal.”
Samson conceded, “True, but what about when he got grimy and had to handle business?”
“He always went by himself!” Reece exclaimed, as if he had made his point. “And the niggas he would go see were never seen again. So, he can do as he pleases. At best, all anyone has is speculation. With me, I like to get d
own and dirty and leave somebody to tell the tale. Feel me? When I act a donkey, I want the word to spread.”
With that point being made, they rode in silence until Reece had another thought.
“See, me, I’m in this until the end. I’ve been tainted by these streets. I’ve done too much to ever look back. Plus I’m paid. Shit, the whole crew is paid! What other way can a black man in the United States make the money we’re making at our age. Fuck telling me I can’t drive a Benz until I’m thirty. Says who? I made up my mind a long time ago. I’d rather die rich than live poor. Ya feel me?”
“Hell, yeah.”
Samson turned onto the expressway leading into the city. As they drove closer to the city, an issue that was weighing on his mind kept resurfacing.
“Yo, word on the street that nigga Black Vic dropping salt on you. Talking about he going to shut us down for killing his man. Said he ain’t gonna stop until you’re dead.”
“Man, fuck that nigga!” Reece exploded. “Them niggas got that shit off the other day, but I will never get caught slipping like that again. Mu’fucka must be crazy. I’m going to get him right, though. And wait a minute, why the fuck whoever said this shit felt so comfortable saying it to you?”
“Some guy at the gym said he had some info for me about you, so of course I had to see what he was talking about. Said he fucked with you because you gave his kid a backpack when you did your back-to-school drive for the community last year. Anyway, he said his cousin was a part of Black Vic’s crew and that they beefing with you because you disrespected Black Vic when you turned him down a few weeks ago for some work.”
Reece remembered the incident all too clearly. Just a few weeks ago Black Vic had approached him about partnership. Said it was enough money for everybody. There was no need to go to war. Reece dismissed him in a not so flattering way. Reece knew he had all the cards in his favor. He had the whole Crescent Crew with him, which had expanded throughout the Carolinas. All of them, thoroughbreds, proven in bloodshed. Then he had the better connection. With his new connect, he was getting kilos at ten grand a pop. So, of course, he spread the love to his crew. He would give them to his crew for fifteen grand a pop. Exclusively. At those prices, the other dealers—including Black Vic—would go broke trying to compete. He knew this. Reece also knew it was only a matter of time before they had to go to war. He honestly felt like the Crescent Crew was too strong. So, if Vic wanted a war, he’d get one. In Reece’s eyes it would only make it easier to monopolize the Carolinas. With rival crews out of the way, the Crescent Crew would run North and South Carolina.
Street Rap Page 6
