Three bouncers drag a guy out by the collar, launching him into the street. He falls like a brick, his face lumped up and bleeding. One even rips the chain off his neck.
“If I catch your ass in here again, I’ll break your fucking jaw!”
The guy passes out and two girls step over him.
“Girls!” Rell and I say together.
“Just wait for us by the door until we inside,” Rell whispers. “Keep your sunglasses on, and don’t say nothing.”
We each walk through the metal detectors and get patted down by a team of bouncers. I don’t even think they do this type of thorough search at the airport. They turn all my pockets inside out, bang my shoes together, feel up every square inch of me. Satisfied I’m clean, they let me through.
“Hey, where’s Jazz?”
“I don’t know,” Rell says. “I lost sight of her.”
I double back to the door but it’s swarming with people. Shit, what if they looked too close at that ID we gave her? What if they take her to some back room? What if . . .
Jazz walks out, adjusting her glasses, smiling, and I resist snatching her up in my arms.
The club looks exactly like its name, a long, narrow straightaway with old train tracks. There’s one bar almost the length of the entire club, packed with people damn near climbing over the counter for drinks. The crowd is mad thick, barely room to breathe, but everyone is dancing like they have all the space in the world. In the back, there’s a small platform for the DJ booth. Funkmaster Flex is on the turntables, light shining around him. That’s when it hits me: we’re really up in here.
It takes us almost forty-five minutes to walk through the crowd to the stage. Pierce is posted up with a gold bottle in his hands, ladies surrounding him. But he ain’t his regular smooth self. He got a bop in his shoulders and a giddy smile, slurring the lyrics to Biggie’s “One More Chance” loud as hell. Rell was right; duke’s sloshed, and behind the stage is dark enough that he may not even notice Jasmine’s thick lips.
Not that I was paying attention to them like that or nothing.
“Well, damn, it’s about fucking time,” Pierce shouts, spotting us. “What took you so damn long?”
Jarrell steps right up. “You know how that door be!”
“Yeah, that door is crazy,” Pierce laughs. “Heard they even turned Tupac away once.” He looks at Jasmine. “What up, kid! Beginning to think you weren’t real or something!”
He daps and pulls her up into a hug. She freezes, her back stiffening. Jarrell grabs my wrist, stopping me from yanking her out of his grasp.
“Son, LONG time! Glad to finally meet you,” he says, all proud, staring at her with dollar bills in his eyes. “Yo, you have a drink yet?”
Jasmine shakes her head, keeping mute.
“Oh nah, son, we can’t have that. Here you go. Got some Cristal on ice.” Pierce pours two champagne flutes. “To a new partnership. Now, let’s get this money!”
They clink and he takes his glass to the head. Jasmine hesitates, drinking slow.
“Oh nah, you need more than that. Here, have another glass. So like I was telling y’all over the phone, I got some big plans for you. Once I run this past the big dawgs, we gonna get that contract drafted, cut you a check, and you’ll be good money. The world’s about to know your name.”
Jarrell and I share a stupid silly grin, giving each other a pound. Yo, I’m so happy I could jump twenty feet.
We did it, Steph. We did it.
“Got a surprise for you. I—”
“Here you go, boss!” One of Pierce’s goons pushes through the crowd with two drinks in his hand.
“Finally! In fact, here.” He passes the glass with light-green liquor to Jasmine. “Don’t know if y’all up on that Incredible Hulk yet.”
Jasmine readies herself and I catch the glass midway to her lips. “Actually, he’s already pretty done. He’s had a lot already.”
Pierce sucks his teeth. “Who you? His momma?”
Jasmine glares over her glasses and grabs the drink from my hand, knocking it back like a shot. She gasps and chokes as Pierce pats her on the back.
“Damn, son,” he laughs. “You from Bed-Stuy and you can’t handle your liquor? Here, have mine. Drink it slow.”
“What’s an Incredible Hulk?” I whisper to a chick strutting by.
“Hypnotiq and Hennessy,” she whispers back with a wink.
Jarrell makes an “oh shit” with his lips as Jasmine coughs harder, her shades falling on the floor. Jarrell jumps in front of us.
“Oh yo, isn’t that . . . ummm . . . Halle Berry?” he yells.
Pierce spins around. “Oh word? Where she at with her fine ass?”
I scoop up the glasses and pass them to Jasmine. “Jazz, you okay?”
She nods, scrambling to fix herself but coughing like she about to pop out a lung. That Incredible Hulk must’ve burned the hell out of her throat. I glance up at Jarrell and shake my head. This ain’t going well.
“Come on, Jazz,” I whisper. “Follow me.”
I grab Jasmine’s arm, pulling her toward the stairs leading back to the dance floor.
31
Jarrell
I ain’t gonna lie: I knew this plan was trash from the start. Still, I figured, what we got to lose? This night could either go right or wayyyy left. But I damn sure wasn’t gonna miss out on a chance of going to the Tunnel and seeing all the fly honies. Picture that with a Kodak!
But I never expected to play defense this heavy.
I push Quady and Jazz out of the way, side-stepping in Pierce’s line of sight.
“Man, your ass need some glasses,” he barks with a slur, turning back to me. “That ain’t Halle Berry! Just some . . . hey! Where those two going?”
“Um . . . think Arch wanted to check out the ladies. He’ll be right back.”
“Huh. Aight. Anyways, thirsty?”
“Yeah! Hey, thanks.”
“Thanks? Nah, little homie, I was talking to myself. Asking if I’m thirsty,” he snickers, taking a huge swig from the bottle. “If you don’t treat yourself well no one will, right?”
Damn, he’s an asshole for real. Surprised he ain’t ask us to pick him up a pork fried rice from Chinatown on the way here. But I ain’t gonna let him ruin my night. Not when I can see Funk Flex up close and in person. This is his party, his night. And I’m here to witness him take over the city.
“Aye yo,” Pierce coughs, tapping my arm. “What the fuck is homeboy doing now?”
I spin around, hoping my eyes are playing tricks on me. Hoping I ain’t seeing Jazz all up in Quady’s face on the dance floor, two-stepping like some old lovebirds at the cookout.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mumble, and straighten up before facing Pierce. “Yeah, um, Arch is just trying to show . . . Quady this new dance everyone been on!”
Pierce eyes them with the screw face. “That don’t look like no dance moves I’ve ever seen.”
“Nah, it’s just something we do in the hood. It’ll catch on soon—you know we always starting the fly shit in Bed-Stuy. Aye, where you say you from again in Harlem?”
“Wh-at? Oh, yeah, I’m from 135th and St. Nick. Born and raised.” Pierce is distracted by the question like I knew he would be. Cats like him love talking about themselves heavy. “In fact, I was just like your homeboy. Living in the projects, trying to get into this music thang. For real, son, I was nice with it. Used to call me P Smooth.”
“Oh word?”
“Yeah. Brothas were paying two stacks just to battle me, and I’d rip them to shreds, bars straight off the dome!”
“Ha! Just like Steph.”
“Who?”
“I mean, Arch!” I choke out a laugh. “My bad, son, I ain’t mean to call out his government like that.”
Pierce doesn’t look confused enough and starts searching the crowd again.
“Uh . . . SO . . . why you stop?”
He smirks, stretching his arms out like h
e’s the king of world. “Stop what? What you mean? I’m out here, running this ish! Half the music you vibing to is from one of my artists.”
“But you behind the scenes. I thought you wanted to be up front, on the mic.”
Pierce sets his bottle down on the table by the stage with a laugh.
“You a cocky little mutherfucker, but I like you so I’mma teach you something ’cause I could tell from day one you about your paper, while your other homie is all about the ‘love of the game.’”
Damn, duke read us like the Sunday funnies.
“Not everyone was made for center stage. Some people are better at moving the puppet strings around, you feel me? Yeah, I could’ve signed a record deal, made some hits, but that ain’t where the real money’s at, kid.”
“You bugging. Who wouldn’t want to be out here pushing a Benz, flossing in Versace and Gucci shades?”
“Let me ask you, do you want a fly-ass car or do you want a driver? Do you want to drop stacks in the mall or do you want a stylist? Do you want to be in first class or do you want your own private jet? There’s a difference between being rich and being wealthy. The rich get paid, but the wealthy . . . they own the fucking bank!”
Whoa. I ain’t never really thought about it like that.
“Is that why you started working at Red Starr?”
He smiles and finally pours me a glass. “Best job in the world!”
“And you working for Steve Dunn, right? He’s, like, your boss at Red Starr?
His grin falls a little. “Been my mentor since college.”
“Wait, hold up. YOU went to college? What for?”
Pierce looks dead serious. “Like I said, you wanna be rich or you wanna be wealthy?”
“Bet,” I laugh with a nod. “So when you gonna, you know, start your own thing?”
“My own thing?” he asks, with a chuckle.
I shrug. “My Old G says you should always start your own thing. Can’t grow under a rock, y’knowwhatumsayin?”
The side of Pierce mouth twitches, and he has this weird look in his eyes. Maybe he didn’t hear me right. I mean, it’s mad loud in here, and duke has had a lot to drink.
“Hmm. Maybe your Old G is right,” he mumbles.
One of Pierce’s goons come over and whisper in his ear.
I ain’t gonna front, he got my mind spinning with all this rich vs. wealthy talk. So does that mean cats on the block hustling major weight . . . they just rich? That sounds mad corny now. I wonder what category Mack falls under.
Jazz and Quady are still chilling in the middle of the dance floor, the crowd crazy thick. I ain’t never seen so many people trying to fit in one spot before. Quady is standing mad tense and Jazz is waving her hands in the air like she don’t care. I’m up in here sweating bullets, and they living it up.
Pierce and his goons are arguing over something, so I help myself to some more of his Cristal, and the room goes silent for a split second when I hear his voice.
“Yo, you look mad familiar, b.”
Fast Pace ain’t as tall as I remember. Duke about my height, wearing Timbs, a long white tee, and dark denim, surrounded by a crew of cats either fresh off the block or out the pen. Same homies that rolled with him to Ronnie’s birthday party.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” he asks.
“Who, me?” I say, playing stupid. “Nah, son, you got the wrong brotha.”
He squints at me, mouth opening before Pierce rolls up on us.
“What up, playboy! Glad you made it!”
“Well, you said I gotta meet this Architect cat that’s coming for my neck or whatever. So where he at?”
There ain’t no humor in his voice. His face is stone cold.
“Chill, son,” Pierce laughs, clapping his shoulder. “Ain’t nobody coming for your spot. I was just saying, some friendly competition never hurts. Beef sell records!”
Fast Pace grills me again, like he’s still debating where he knows me from, and I slide behind a shorty in a blue velvet dress, dancing like I ain’t got my ear cocked up, listening.
“Been asking around,” he barks. “Ain’t nobody in Brooklyn ever heard of homeboy. No one’s even seen him. He either a ghost or a fucking fraud.”
“And I told you,” Pierce says, hard. “He keeps a low profile and stays in the studio. That’s why I asked you to roll through. So you can meet him!”
I shift away, creeping toward the stairs. We gotta bounce. No way Fast Pace came up in here with all these brothas just to talk.
Just as I scan the crowd for Quady, someone screams, and everybody scatters in a thousand directions. A group of bouncers descends down onto a mosh pit in the middle of the floor like an army. People bum-rush the stairs as a shorty yells.
“Yo, they fighting! Run!”
32
Jasmine
It’s like a scene straight out of a music video on BET. All these black and brown bodies dancing under red lights. Skins glistening, white teeth shining, laughing, drinking . . . this is what our people were always supposed to look like. Filled with joy, love, and happiness.
While I sit in my room, listening to Lauryn, sneaking into underground spots, watching brothas spit poetry about the movement . . . this is how the other side has been living. Rocking the latest hairstyles and designer clothes. Sexy open-back tops, skirts with slits, heels, expensive bags. In here, I’m just a regular girl (well, boy). Not some girl being teased about my natural hair, my headwraps, baggy clothes, or my African medallion. In here, I’m one of them.
Is this what I’ve been missing out on all this time? Maybe it’s the drinks pumping through my system that has me seeing the room so different. They make it look so easy.
Or maybe it’s because I’m here with Quadir.
“Jazz, you okay?” he whispers in my ear, his chest pressed against my back as he tries moving me through the crowd but can’t push more than an inch. Folks going crazy over Jay-Z and Jermaine Dupri’s “Money Ain’t a Thang” blasting through the speakers.
I turn to face him, but he holds my shoulders, his fingers grazing my neck.
“Nah, he may be looking.”
He maneuvers in front of me, holding both my elbows. Why does it feels like his hands have been all over me all night? It’s the drinks. It has to be.
“What d’we do now?” I ask.
Quadir searches for the fastest way to the exit. But Funk Flex is on the turntables, and the whole club is waiting for him to drop the latest banger. Nobody’s trying to leave. It would be like pushing against a tidal wave to reach the front door. More people push up toward the stage, squeezing us closer together, until he’s almost kissing my forehead.
He shakes his head. “This was dumb. I should’ve never brought you up in here.”
“Brought me here? You act like I didn’t have a say in it. I knew what was up.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Nah, I don’t. You act like I don’t have my own mind and can’t make my own decisions. I told you, I could handle this.”
“Handle this? You almost choked to death on a damn drink! You too young to be—”
“Yo, stop trying to treat me like some kid . . .”
“I’m not! But this ain’t no game, though, Jazz. This shit is dangerous.”
Dag, why is he ruining this night for me? For a change, I can see the allure of this lifestyle and just want to let down my armor. Why won’t he let me enjoy myself? Why can’t I be like everyone else who pretends not to see all the problems in the world, not see how our community is hurting, and just . . . BE?
“You know what? I think you too damn serious.”
“What?”
I laugh. “I mean, you heard the man, right? He’s drawing up paperwork. That means we did it! We got Steph a deal! And now, we up in the Tunnel! People would kill to be in our kicks.”
Quadir’s face loosens out of its tight scowl, and without us realizing it, we’re swaying with the crowd. Flex is in a whole Jay-
Z set. He scratches out to “Money, Cash, Hoes” featuring DMX and there’s a “Ohhhhhh” from the crowd. The strobe lights flicker with the drums. A few fellas beside us scoop up some ladies, dancing on their backs.
“So?”
“So, let’s just enjoy it!” I laugh. “Please?”
Everybody got their hands up, singing along at the top of their lungs. A girl next to me is sweating like crazy, hair matted to her face, dancing with her eyes closed. Quadir glances back at the VIP area, a black hole near the stage.
“Aight. We can chill for a second. It’s dark enough. But once I see a break in the crowd, we out.”
Flex runs the song back again. And again. And again.
Quadir still standing all stiff, and I ignore him to vibe with my peoples. You can’t help but rock to it, the bass is bananas. My hands are up, the beat pumping through my system. I close my eyes and let it take over. I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but that magnetic pulse pulls me closer to Quadir. I mean, we were already close, but now I’m melting into his chest.
His eyes flare. “Jasmine . . . I can’t,” he says gently. “We can’t.”
I should listen to him, that’s what my mind says, but the liquor is making me brave. I turn my back to him, pushing my butt against him. This time, he doesn’t push me away, his hands are gripping my hips, arms wrapping around my waist, lips on my hoodie.
“Jazz . . .” he breathes in my ear, clenching me tighter, desperately. “We . . . can’t.”
Feels like he’s talking more to himself than me, so I don’t let go. Not of him or the moment. We ease into a slow whine to our own rhythm as the club parties around us.
I peep a couple of brothas staring at us. I would have paid them no mind, except I notice one guy with a white durag and a black bubble coat staring mad hard. My trance is broken as I watch him make his way toward us.
“Quady,” I whimper, too quiet for him to hear just as Black Bubble reaches us.
“AYE! GET OFF MY GIRL!”
A fist swings in our direction.
“Shit!” Quadir shouts, and pushes us forward. The fist connects with the brotha dancing behind Sweaty Girl. The entire crowd leans away as the two brothas start fighting. More jump in. Black Leather loses his balance and falls to the floor.
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 17
