Street Rap

by Shaun Sinclair

  “Yo, yo, New York. What’s up.”

  “All right. Now in case you haven’t heard by now, Qwess sold fifty thousand records independently! So you know what that mean cha-ching! Okaaay.” She pushed a button on the computer, and it made a cash register sound, much to everyone’s amusement. Then she continued. “Okay, Qwess has been touring the entire last quarter.”

  Diane the Diva gave her spiel about who, what, when, where, how, and why he was in New York. Then she decided to get creative and open up the interview.

  “So, Qwess how is the touring going? I know you can’t keep the ladies off you, huh? Ladies, Qwess is guapo! You hear me?”

  Qwess saw she wanted to play, so he played. “Nah, diva. You the one. Y con su sonrisa hermosa.”

  “Ooh, and he speaks Spanish!” Diane the Diva cooed.

  “So, Qwess, who is this wit’ you? ’Cause I heard from some of my girls on the road that you got an ill team.”

  Qwess motioned for Flame to step up closer to the mic. “I’ll let them introduce themselves to you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, New York, this ya boy Flame repping Fayettenam, North Crack, ya heard?”

  The Diva covered her mouth in surprise. “Oh, so you the brash youngsta I been hearing about. He’s a cutie, too, ladies.”

  Doe saw an opportunity and seized the moment. He stepped to a mic and issued a challenge. “Yeah. I heard NY got those top shottas tuning into this station. I got a G that say nobody fucking wit—oops I mean—messing with my man Flame on the mic.”

  “Wait, wait, now who are you? Tell the people who you are.”

  “Oh, my bad. This ya boy Doe repping A.B.P. VP of all operations. And New York, I got a G to any young or old spitter who can take my man Flame out on the mic.”

  Diane the Diva, loving controversy, amped things up. “Okay, so you telling me you’ll give a G to any rapper who can beat your rapper in a battle right now?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wait, you do realize this is New York, home of hip-hop?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  For an answer, Doe pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills.

  The Diva issued the challenge. “All right, New York. He’s serious. All you rappers needing that money call in now. 917-555-1031 or 1-888-555-1031.”

  In less than an hour, all hell broke loose as a gang of New York rappers was in the lobby attempting to bust in the studio. They all wanted that money. Fuck calling in! They wanted to get their cash firsthand. Diane the Diva had seen rappers come to the studio to battle other rappers before, but never in numbers of this magnitude. She believed it was because the mere thought that a Southern rapper calling out New York rappers was a smack in the face! After all, everyone knew New York started this rap shit!

  Security was trying to gain control of the situation, but it only calmed down when some of New York’s finest stormed the building, putting an end to all of the ruckus.

  “Damn, and I really wanted to tear into these niggas, too,” Flame declared over the airwaves, obviously disappointed.

  Diane the Diva was impressed. “You Carolina niggas are wild,” she said. “I can’t believe y’all didn’t think New York was goin’ to represent. You know it’s still real in the field!”

  Qwess was pleased with the publicity and assured her, “It’s real everywhere.”

  Doe cosigned that. “No doubt. I’m telling you, my man Flame would’ve roasted those cats.”

  Diane the Diva noticed she was outnumbered and was eager to get back on track. They returned from a commercial, and Diane explained to the listeners what had transpired and why no one came in the studio. Then, taking everyone by surprise, she asked Flame to spit an on-air freestyle. She smirked at Doe and shot him a wink, as if to say, “I got ya.”

  Doe returned the smirk and passed the mic along to Flame. Flame took his place before the mic and commandeered the airwaves. “New York, get your decks ready. It’s on!”

  * * *

  Flame had just finished setting the New York airwaves on fire, and everyone was in the lobby preparing to leave when a man accosted Flame and passed him a card. “If you ever get tired of your situation, holla at me. I can get you to the next level,” the man offered.

  “Nah, that’s okay. I’m straight,” Flame replied, curving him.

  From the side, Qwess observed the whole exchange silently. Watching Flame display his loyalty, he gained a newfound respect for the young rapper.

  Later that night, they all attended an industry party. AMG executives had arranged to get the whole crew VIP passes so they could be among the movers and shakers.

  While at the party, Doe used some of his old contacts in New York to get next to the number one mix tape DJ in the city. Doe arranged for Flame and Qwess to drop some exclusive freestyles on his next mix tape. The DJ was more than happy to do so because that would give him an edge on his other competitors in the Southern market. He wasn’t a fool. He was the number one DJ for a reason. The South was on the rise. He recognized opportunity and took advantage of it.

  Flame and 8-Ball were getting pissy drunk in the VIP section, but they were handling themselves well. Some industry groupies found out that Flame was a rapper and started sweating him relentlessly. Before long, Flame was standing in a dark corner getting head with a huge smile on his face.

  While the rest of A.B.P. were languishing in the come-up, the head of the label was off in a corner by himself lost in space. He was having one of those moments.

  Ever since Shauntay’s murder, Qwess would drift off into deep thought in the most awkward places. It’s not that he loved Shauntay tremendously, it was the fact that she didn’t deserve to go out like that. He partly blamed himself. He hadn’t been calling home much while on the road, and he knew that Reece was taking care of everything. He just didn’t know if killing Shauntay’s killers would alleviate his frustrations and quell his demons.

  Only time would tell.

  * * *

  While A.B.P. was taking New York by storm, Scar was waiting on the Blood Team to arrive. He paced back and forth inside his secluded parking garage looking at his Rolex. He was completely alone, because the Blood Team didn’t like dealing with outsiders. They knew about D, but D was the reason they were having this meeting.

  It had been more than a month since the Crescent Crew had kidnapped his partner, and Scar was finally ready to get it over with.

  It was simple to meet their demand of setting up a meeting with the Blood Team because the Blood Team was still indebted to Scar. Reece was still breathing.

  Apparently, everyone had underestimated Reece and his Crescent Crew. However, Scar swore that wouldn’t happen again. Once he got D back, he was going to wage war himself. He didn’t care what happened to the Blood Team. Far as he was concerned, if they would’ve taken care of business properly, then they wouldn’t be in this predicament. So fuck ’em. Scar had his vest on his chest, his pistol on his hip, and a getaway car in the back. So, when the heat came, he could go. He didn’t know where Reece and his crew were. All he knew is that once Blood Team arrived, they’d be shortly behind. Everything else would be left up to those two parties. Or so he thought. Could it be all so simple?

  The 4Runners finally arrived. One entered the garage; the other truck parked out front. The first 4Runner rolled up slowly and came to a stop inches from where Scar stood in his full-length black leather trench.

  Murda jumped from the driver’s side of the big truck. Scar could make out a silhouette of a passenger in the front, but that person never exited the vehicle.

  As Murda walked up to greet Scar, a red dot appeared in the center of his head. Before he could warn him, Murda’s head exploded like a melon, spraying Scar with blood and brain matter. A split-second letter, a hole appeared in the windshield on the passenger side of the truck, as the passenger was struck also. He never got a chance to duck before death claimed him.

  Inside the other 4Runner out front, T. Gunn watche
d as Murda’s head exploded into a dust of gray and red. He was taken aback and briefly confused, since he never heard the report of a gunshot. However, his confusion only lasted a second. The next second, he was gunning the powerful V-8 engine in reverse. When he spun the truck around, he saw the narrow path leading to the garage was now blocked off by two Range Rovers parked side by side, bumper-to-bumper. Nino, who sat in the passenger seat, immediately stuck his HK assault rifle out the window and began firing while T. Gunn barreled toward the two trucks.

  Samson, who was already positioned on the hood of one of the Rovers with a .50-caliber sniper rifle, never flinched when he saw the 4Runner careening toward them. He methodically fired one round into Nino’s head, bringing the gunfight to a quick halt. He calmly shifted the barrel to the left and fired one round into T. Gunn’s head, ending his existence. The truck skidded to the left, spun out of control, and tumbled toward the Range rapidly. Jersey Ali and Muhammad, who piloted the Rovers, both backed the Rovers up quickly, allowing the flipping 4Runner to flip past them in a heap of twisted metal and smoke.

  Back inside the garage, Scar attempted to make a hasty retreat for it, but Seal—he had the name because he used to be a Navy Seal—thwarted his plan. Seal had been posted up on the roof of the garage with his .50-caliber rifle twenty minutes after Scar called Reece to confirm the meeting place. It was he who had orchestrated the wonderful plan, and he was ecstatic to see it playing out to the letter. He had been salivating for the opportunity to prove his worth.

  When Scar tried to run to his Corvette parked in back, Seal shot the gas tank. The car exploded in flames. Shrapnel caught Scar in the leg, flooring him, where he lay until the Rovers pulled around back to pick up him and Seal. The hatch of one of the Rovers opened up and Seal tossed Scar in the back. Seal hopped in the back with him, and the trucks sped off into the night onto a rendezvous point to link up with Reece.

  * * *

  Inside the cabin in the country, Scar and D were tied up sitting across from each other. Surrounding them were Jersey Ali, Born, Muhammad, Seal, and Samson. The crew had orders to bring them there and wait for Reece—no doubt so he could torture them. They didn’t have to wait long, as Reece’s brand-new green Aston Martin crept up, the wide tires crushing the gravel. Reece hopped out wearing a full-length beige shearling coat. He looked as if he was going out for a night on the town instead of about to commit multiple murders, but that’s where he was in life. For Reece, when he was forcing his enemies to pay homage to his strength, that was the equivalent of a night out on the town.

  Reece joined the others inside amid admiring stares. “Damn, nigga, where you going?” Samson asked when Reece shed his coat, revealing a green two-piece crocodile suit with matching boots.

  “I got a date tonight,” Reece whispered back.

  “Damn, god. I like those shoes,” Samson said, inspecting the intricate details of the Luccheses. “Man, is that a claw I see? Damn, those grooves are deep!” he joked.

  Reece chuckled. “Cut it out, let’s handle this business.”

  Before Reece could say anything, D started whining. “Y-yo man. You said you wouldn’t kill me if Scar came through for you.”

  Reece put his index finger to his forehead, then pointed to him. “You know, you’re right. I did say that. And . . . I’m a man of my word. Right, fellas?”

  His crew shrugged nonchalantly. “I guess.”

  “So this is what I’m going to do.” Reece pulled his .44 Magnum from his waist and emptied all the shells except one. He spun the cylinder. “I’ma let Scar decide. If you can survive three rounds—huh, no pun intended—then I won’t kill you.”

  Reece motioned for Samson to untie one of Scar’s hands. He did, and held it steady in a vice grip. Reece put the pistol in Scar’s hand.

  “Whaddaya say, Scar. Are you your brother’s keeper?”

  Scar gripped the pistol and aimed it straight at D’s head with Samson’s assistance. With no hesitation he pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Both Scar and D exhaled deeply. Neither one flinched anymore, because they both understood they’d never see another sunrise. This was where they would take their last breaths.

  Reece took the gun and spun the cylinder again. He placed it back in Scar’s hand. Scar aimed and pulled the trigger.

  BLAUW!!

  “You fuckin shot me!!” D screamed, grabbing his head.

  Reece smacked D upside his head. “Shut the fuck up! If he was playing right, you would’ve never known. Pussy mu’fucka!”

  Blood oozed from D’s head where the bullet grazed him.

  Reece was fed up. “Fuck it! Just fuck it! Try an’ give niggas a chance . . . fuck it! Yo, Ali, shoot these bastards!”

  Reece stood a distance away so as not to get blood on his three-thousand-dollar outfit. He looked Scar in the eyes. Before Ali shot him, Reece whispered, “I did this to you. Me!”

  Scar never heard the last word. Ali put his brains in D’s lap. Then he went around and put D’s brains in Scar’s lap.

  When it was done, Reece congratulated everyone. “This war is now over,” he announced. “Now let’s reap the harvest of our labor.”

  Everyone present was relieved. They had been through a war and only sustained one injury when Nino squeezed off his lucky shot into Power’s chest earlier that night. Power would live, though, while their enemies were now fertilizer.

  “I want everyone to meet up tomorrow at the god hour. Samson, you know what to do with the bodies, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “All right. I got a date. Peace!”

  Reece returned to his Aston Martin and slipped off into the night a happy man. While some crime bosses used murder as a last resort, Reece was a fan of using it as a first resort. In his world, murder represented the ultimate balance. If it was done correctly the first time, he wouldn’t have to do it again. He hoped that all the blood he had shed in the past few months could be put behind him now. He had remained true to his word and killed two birds with one bullet. He had avenged Shauntay’s death, while solidifying his position in the streets.

  With Black Vic and his whole crew dismembered, there was no one standing in the way of the Crescent Crew’s ascent to the top of the underworld. It was time for expansion.

  As Reece put his foot into the raucous V-12 engine, he felt stronger, wiser, and richer than he had ever been. For the first time in life he truly felt like a king. From now on, everyone would address him as such.

  Chapter 14

  Atlanta, Georgia, was known as the strip club capital of the world, the mecca of the South, and possibly Ghetto, USA, depending on whom you asked. One thing that couldn’t be disputed about Atlanta was its women. Atlanta had arguably the most beautiful women in the world. Hands down. A-T-L, as it was called by its residents, boasted more dimes than a piggy bank. And as was customary in a capitalist society, for the right price, you could see anything and maybe experience everything.

  Since the ATL was known worldwide for its women, it would come as no surprise that one of its main attractions was its numerous strip clubs. On any given night, you could feast your eyes on some of God’s most beautiful creations, from the bottom of the barrel to the top of the crop.

  When the A.B.P. posse rolled through Atlanta on its end-of-tour bash, they only wanted the best. So it was only fitting that they invaded Blue Flame. And boy, did they ever!

  Since Atlanta was “where the playas played,” everyone knew they had to represent lovely. Money attracted money. Therefore you couldn’t go into a money spot looking shabby. Even though Qwess was realizing success with his album, Atlantic Beach Productions was still a fairly new and unestablished record label. So, if they wanted to get to that next level, and attract new business with the production arm of the label, they had to court attention at all cost. What better way to say “I’m about business” than your wardrobe. That’s why when Qwess, Hulk, Doe, Flame, and 8-Ball fell up in Magic City, they were suited and booted.<
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  Qwess, a Crescent Crew member ’til the death, represented that cream-and-green to the fullest with a hunter-green sharkskin suit with matching boots. From his neck swung the massive diamond chain with the diamond-encrusted A.B.P. charm. His ears glowed like stars were in them from the square-cut diamonds that filled his lobes.

  Doe, who had finally come out of his shell, wore a peach-colored linen suit. He capped his ensemble with peach ostrich boots and gold Cartier frames. With his hair in a ponytail, he resembled a Dominican drug kingpin.

  Even Flame and 8-Ball represented with matching Versace shirts and slacks. Flame’s was red, 8-Ball’s blue. Taking a cue from Qwess, they wore gators.

  Tomorrow, they were returning to North Carolina to shoot a video. Tonight they celebrated a job well done. They were in a festive mood.

  Word had traveled that Qwess and his crew were in the house, since Qwess was well known in these parts. The bartender sent him drinks, for which Qwess thanked him. The dancers wanted to come over and get their grind on, but felt discouraged by the 330-pound hulk in his green Armani suit guarding Qwess. After a moment, Qwess realized the deterrent and ordered Hulk to go have some fun. When he did, the floodgates opened, and Qwess found himself surrounded by dimes.

  Flame and 8-Ball were having a ball from the moment they pimped through the door. They had both been to strip clubs in North Carolina, but the women weren’t so beautiful, or so . . . naked. I’m talking about butterball, birthday-suit naked! Not a stretch mark, gunshot wound, or honeybun in sight. It was mesmerizing. Women so beautiful, strictly for your enjoyment, with only one rule: You couldn’t touch. They had already witnessed one fool get toted out the club by a burly bunch of bouncers.

  “Damn, nigga, the hoes clocking these bitches harder than the niggas,” stated 8-Ball, observing the large number of women inside the club who weren’t dancing.

  “Hell, yeah. These dyke bitches are something serious,” Flame agreed when he saw a woman giving another woman a lap dance.