Kaven staring at my mouth shuts me up. It’s too hard to try to explain in front of him, and like Big says, “Never let them know your next move.” Kaven is lying about something. The question is, what?
Over Kaven’s shoulders, the mini security monitor has four views of the house. Four cameras.
Four possible ways of finding Steph.
28
Jarrell
After school on Friday, Jasmine left a message to give Pierce a call. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since I dropped the song off at his office. I don’t know if that’s a good sign or not. With Mom still out shopping, I tell Quady to come through ASAP.
“So where’s your boy at now?” Pierce says over the phone, his voice short. Sounds like he’s at the studio, beats playing mad loud behind him.
“He’s . . . at the cemetery. You know how funerals be.”
“Oh. Well, send him my condolences and shit. Anyway, this song . . . this song is hot, y’all. We definitely got something here. And who’s this chick you got singing the hook?”
From my desk, I look into the living room at Quady on the sofa, holding the other receiver to his ear.
“Uh, just a . . . homegirl, from around the way,” Quady says with a smile.
“Shorty got pipes. We need to get her in here too. Anyway, I played the track at a meeting with the president this morning. He loved it! His words were, ‘Get that mutherfucker in the studio tomorrow!’”
Quady and I throwing each other silent cheers from across the room. I even throw the twins some love, even though I have them tied to a chair, mouths duct-taped, and they fighting for freedom.
“Aight. But first, we gonna celebrate! So I’ll see y’all Sunday night at the Tunnel.”
“The Tunnel! Oh shit, kid,” I yell, slapping a hand over my mouth.
The Tunnel. The mecca of all hip-hop clubs. The most popping, most exclusive spot in the city. I mean, it’s been in mad rap videos.
“Yeah, I already put y’all on the Red Starr list, so tell your boy no funny shit. He better show his ass Sunday night or I’ll throw this CD straight in the trash like it never happened ’cause he ain’t ever gonna happen. You feel me?”
“Uh, yeah,” Quady starts off real hesitant. “It’s just that um, he . . .”
“Yo, we’ll be in the building, son! No doubt!”
“Rell, you bugging,” Quady shouts under his breath and I wave him off.
“Good. See y’all Sunday.”
I slam down my receiver and slide into the living room with a spin.
“Son! We going to the Tunnel. We gonna be up in there with all the fly honies! Forget an E. Roque party! People can’t tell me shit once they see me up in the Tunnel! Yo, I gotta get my hair cut, pick up my shirt from the cleaners . . . damn, maybe I should cop some new kicks . . . you know they got a dress code. And . . . what? Why you looking at me like that?”
Quady stares up at me, leaning his face in the crook of the L his fingers made.
“Really, Rell? ‘WE’ going to the Tunnel?”
I’m still sitting dumb when it hits me.
“Oh shit.”
29
July 10, 1998
There’s nothing like Brooklyn summers, filled with the type of heat that brings the crazy out of the sane and ruthlessness out of the mundane.
The boys had a regular routine during the summer: cereal and morning cartoons at Steph’s house, then hoops at the courts, post up by the bodega for lunch, chill on the bench to watch all the shorties in the courtyard before dinner, then maybe a late-night game.
It would be the last summer they spent as a whole.
Steph sat on the stone bleachers of the courts, freestyling, waiting for the chance to jump in a game. A true wordsmith, he could make up a rhyme for just about anyone that passed by. The cute girl in the powder-blue dress, the grandpa with his old dachshund, the mailman hitting his route . . . they all become subjects in his impromptu poems.
Quadir laced up his sneakers, egging him on, always impressed with Steph’s natural abilities that made him seem superhuman.
Jarrell strolled onto the courts, feet dragging, hands stuffed in his pockets. He had missed breakfast and didn’t seem particularly interested in being outside at all.
Steph noticed Jarrell’s demeanor and cut his last rhyme short. “Yo man, what’s up with you?”
“Yeah, man, you ain’t your usual jolly self,” Quadir chuckled.
Jarrell plopped down and took a long sigh. “This kid from my science class got murk yesterday.”
The boys instantly straightened. Murder deserved their full attention.
“Damn, son, I’m sorry.”
Jarrell isn’t afraid to show his emotions. He’s not above expressing his sadness in the way most boys are taught not to. A quality Steph always admired about him.
“Yeah. It’s just so fucked up. He was cool, mad smart. He even let me copy his homework sometimes.”
“R.I.P. What was duke’s name?”
“Rashad. Lived in Brownsville but he stayed over here on the weekends with his pops.”
“Yooo . . . Rashad?” Steph exclaimed. “I knew that kid! I used to play ball with him. My pops used to coach us both. Damn, he was nice with it!”
“Yeah, scouts were already clocking him. Heard he got caught up in . . . something. He could’ve . . . you know, been somebody. Ain’t saying, like, we nobodies, but I wanted to see him on TV, playing for the Knicks so I could say I went to school with duke.”
Quadir shakes his head. “This summer ain’t no joke. I heard about this emcee out of Marcy that got murked by the cops on the Fourth of July over some dumb shit. His bars were hot! Now . . . he’s gone too.”
“Man, I just don’t get it sometimes,” Steph fumed. “We see all these cornballs dropping wack-ass albums or making it pro. Yet cats from the hood who can really spit or play ball end up dead.”
“Cats be famous in the hood but not mainstream.”
“Shit like this makes me think like they’re trying to keep black folk in the hood forever,” Jarrell barked. “Don’t want none of us to make it! They either throw us in the pen or they kill us.”
“Who’s they?”
Jarrell sucked his teeth. “The man!”
Quadir and Steph glance at one another before busting out laughing. Jarrell jumped off the bench, his fist balled up tight.
“I ain’t playin’! You know they always trying to keep a brotha down!”
Steph held a hand up. “Yo, relax, kid! Besides, you already know someone that’s gonna make it.”
“Who?”
“Me, fool, that’s who. And if I make it, then we all make it. Aye yo, Rell! You owe me a bag of chips if I can make you laugh before I finish.”
Yo, check it,
As I sit on this bench with bad news, tryna escape it
Hoping one day to say, “Look, Pops, we made it!”
Head Facing North
Like the jacket I sport
It’s either rap’s takin’ off or be mad up in court
But F that,
‘Cause they expect that
Plus I seen ya/senior
Two times,
Like I ain’t graduate and got left back!
So picture me going to bookings,
A tree grows in Brooklyn
I hold the spot like bookmarks, but hold it down like bookends
Till they all know the hood like Dawson’s Creek
I’ll get us all out the hood, I know talk is cheap
But my thoughts worth g’s. . . .
Twenty-carat mind of his
You might wanna sign the kid
I’m Midas with . . .
The golden touch, better yet, plat-i-num,
Rocking bigger ice than that ship in Titanic!
Get my man Q dipped in leather, the butter’s vintage
Get Rell his own room with no little brothers in it!
Now that’s something, isn’t it?
30<
br />
Quadir
Weather ain’t so bad, chilly but warm enough that cats are still on the courts trying to squeeze in a few games before that New York winter hits and makes you want to hibernate until May. Rell and I sit on the sidelines, watching a late-night three-on-three game.
“Son, I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna pull this off tomorrow,” I say, clutching my ball. “You saw how heated Pierce got the last time we came without Steph.”
Jarrell sucks his teeth. “My bad again, son. I just heard ‘the Tunnel’ and got mad excited! You know everybody be talking about that spot.”
“You think we can just tell him Steph’s busy or something?”
“Psst. And have them two goons Hulk-smash our faces into the ground? Nah, b,” he chuckles, biting into a ham-and-cheese on a roll he picked up from the corner store. I don’t know how he has the stomach to eat anything right now. “I mean, you can’t blame Pierce for wanting to meet the artist he’s trying to put on. It’s the whole ‘Red Starr don’t wait for you. You wait for Red Starr’ threat that got me shook.”
“We need a plan. And a good one,” I say, hopping off the bench to pace.
“And figure out what to tell Jazz.”
Damn, just the mention of her name got me daydreaming. That was the first time I ever hugged Jasmine, like really hugged her, and I can’t get it out of my head. But I gotta chill. I can’t get with Jazz and fuck it up the way I did with Ronnie. I don’t ever want to hurt her. And I know the truth I’m keeping is going to hurt her most of all.
A ball rolls off the court and hits my ankle. I throw it back in the game, wishing I could jump in. I low-key miss the days when all I had to do was worry about playing ball and Ronnie. Ronnie ain’t even talking to me no more, and I doubt homies will let me sub in . . .
“YO! That’s it! We need a sub!”
“A what?” Rell asks, glancing down at his sandwich.
“A sub! You know, like when Jordan’s tired of whooping asses, he calls a sub in the game for him. So that’s what we need. A sub! Like an . . . actor to take Steph’s place.”
“Son . . . that ain’t a bad idea! Problem is we’d have to find someone who looks kinda like Steph. Pierce already saw his picture on the cover.”
“Damn, how we find someone that fast, though? We talking about tomorrow night, and . . .”
I do a double take before staring at a figure moving through the shadows on the opposite side of the court. Something or . . . someone.
Jarrell follows my gaze, mumbling “Oh shit” to himself.
There he is: Steph. Hoodie, sweatpants sagging, cornrow-wearing Steph! In the flesh, heading straight for us. I blink a few times as Jarrell inches up to his feet. Cats are so deep in their game they don’t even notice the ghost walking pass them.
“What the . . . ?”
“Yo, you see it too?”
A single streetlight by the gate flickers, straight out of some horror movie. It flashes until it steady and the shadow steps into the light, moving in our direction.
Rell strains to see and whispers, “Jazz?”
Within a few feet, Jasmine lifts the hoodie covering her face with a frown. Her hair cornrowed back, just like Steph used to do. She stops in front of us, glancing over both her shoulders.
“What? What y’all looking at?
“Shit,” I gasp with a laugh.
Jarrell clutches his heart, screaming out a breath.
“Merciful! I thought you were a duppy,” he says, making a cross over his chest. “Father God, I was ready to run to mi mummy and throw salt on our doormat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Deadass, you scared the shit out of us, Jazz!”
Jarrell claps my shoulder. “Son, I almost peed on myself. It would’ve been a wrap for these silk boxers.”
Jasmine huffs. “What the hell is wrong with y’all?”
Rell catches his breath. “Aight, not for nothing Jazz, I ain’t really see it before, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you look just like your brother.”
Still in shock, I nod.
“I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas Past coming through six weeks early,” he laughs. “What you out here all late, looking like a dude for anyways?”
“Shut up. I snuck out and I ain’t want anyone recognizing me.” She stuffs her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “This used to be Steph’s.”
“What you got to sneak for?” I ask.
Jasmine slicks back her edges, avoiding my eyes. “Um, no . . . reason.”
This definitely ain’t her first time. Where she have to sneak to?
Jarrell takes a long, hard look at Jasmine again, rubbing his chin.
“Hmm . . . you really do look just like him.” He nods to himself. “Yeah . . . yeah.”
A grin spreads fast across his face and he got that look in his eye. I ping-pong from Jazz to Jarrell, smelling the crazy plan cooking up in his head.
“Nah, don’t even think about it. Nah, son. Hell no! No!”
The Tunnel is on Twenty-Seventh and Twelfth Avenue in the city. Except the line for the club starts at Eleventh Avenue, a whole long city block away. We huddle up around the corner behind a U-Haul truck to regroup.
“Aight, y’all. How I look?” Under his butter leather jacket, Jarrell has on a black-and-gold silk button-up shirt, black slacks, and some alligator loafers.
“Who cares how you look? What about her?”
I readjust the loose fitted hat and stunner sunglasses on Jasmine, pulling the hoodie farther up to cover her round face.
Jarrell shrugs. “She looks soft . . . but funny-looking enough to pass for a brotha.”
Jasmine inhales deep, her chin trembling, then sucks her teeth. “Shut up, Rell!”
I slap his arm. “Yo, that shit ain’t cool.”
“I’m only playing,” he laughs, bumping elbows with her. “You know that, right?”
Squirming, she pats her cornrows under the black durag I let her borrow. She doesn’t have to say it, but I know that comment bothered her. I wish I could tell her, even with her breasts wrapped down and her clothes way baggy, she still looks like a girl to me. A beautiful girl.
I pull her hoodie down some more, and she waves away my hands.
“Stop, Quady,” she snaps. “I’m fine.”
“Sorry. I’m just—”
“Well, I’m good! I got this.”
“Just remember, you can’t walk with no switch in ya hips,” Rell warns. “Put a bop in your step. Hold your arms loose. And when you sit down, spread your legs wide.”
“Other than teaching her how to be a boy, what’s the plan?”
“Okay, so boom: Pierce said he’s gonna be chilling by the stage. We gonna roll through, show face, have a drink, ask to use the bathroom, and by that time, the club should be closing down, and we’ll dip before anyone notice we gone.”
“What if they ask her a question?”
“Just grunt, nod, and shrug.”
“That’s it? That’s your plan? Have her act like a monkey up in VIP? Yo, deadass, we should bounce.”
“Would you relax? This is gonna work. I heard the Tunnel be mad dark. It’s three in the morning. Pierce probably drunk, so she won’t have to do much talking.”
“What if something pops off in there? You expect her to fight like a dude too?”
Jasmine folds her arms. “I like how y’all talking about me like I’m not even standing here!”
“And don’t be rolling your neck like that either,” Rell says, pointing. “That’s a dead giveaway you a chick.”
Jasmine chuckles but I can’t shake the feeling that this is a bad idea.
“Just . . . stay close to me, aight?”
“Dag, Quady. For the last time, I ain’t no baby!”
“This ain’t about you being a baby or not! Shit gets crazy up in there! I know you heard what happened to Lil’ Rocko.”
Lil’ Rocko used to live on the second floor of Step
h and Rell’s building. When he turned eighteen, he made a big deal about going to the Tunnel for his birthday. The Lox was performing; it was a whole Bad Boy Entertainment night. He waited on line for two hours, and as soon as he made it through security, some dude Mike-Tysoned his ass and knocked him the hell out. Case of mistaken identity, but within ten minutes, Rocko lost his wallet, chain, Timbs, leather jacket, and woke up in the hospital with a wired jaw.
The Tunnel has been closed down a few times for fighting. And not no small fights neither. I’m talking full-on brawls with cats snatching whatever’s not stapled to your body right on the dance floor. The security stay confiscating all kinds of weapons at the door and it’s still crazy.
“Yo, I’m with Quady. For real, Jazz, it’s mad gully up in there.”
She sniffs the air and shrugs. “I hear you, aight? But I can handle myself.”
Jasmine ain’t the type of girl you can just tell what to do. She has to see for herself, always.
“Besides,” she says. “If we pull this off, get a deal for Steph, then we’ll have the funds to find out what really happened.”
“Um right,” Rell mumbles. “Aight, let’s do this.”
We head to the front of the club, walking past the line that starts almost two blocks away, metal barricades keeping people flush against the building wall.
“Shouldn’t we be in line too?”
“Pierce said ask for Jessica at the door. She has our names down on a list.”
At the entrance, the line turns into a hurricane.
“Ladies to the left, men to right. Single-file line,” a bouncer yells from the steps. There’s dozens of them at the door, looking like the Giants’ starting lineup.
“Shoes, jackets, belts . . . off!” Another one yells.
“What line should I get into?” Jasmine whispers.
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 16
