“STOP! STOP!” Sweaty Girl screams, trying to pull them off. An elbow connects with her nose, and she tumbles back, blood spitting out on my hoodie.
“GUN!” Someone screams.
Like a rock thrown in a lake, the fight ripples outward, everyone running. Quady and I slam into the brick wall behind us. He stands in front of me before more people stampede into him.
“Quady,” I cough out as we’re squeezed into the wall. He tries to push back, but his arms are pinned. I gasp for air, trying to fight with him.
“Yo, hold up! Let us up!” Quadir begs. “She can’t breathe! Wait!”
“Aye yo, calm down,” I hear Flex say on the mic.
More frantic screams and cries. My head is crunched between the wall and Quadir. The room starts spinning. My muscles slip down to the floor and I bury my face into his back.
Don’t faint. Don’t faint. Don’t . . .
Flashlights shine in our faces and a defense line of burly football players appear, arms linked, and like a long broom, they sweep the floor clean of anyone fighting.
Including us.
In a merciless wave of people, lights, and screams, we’re caught in the riptide and wash up outside.
I land on my knees, hands in a nasty puddle. Quadir stumbles on his back.
“Now get the fuck outta here!” one of the bouncers screams over us. “Before we stomp y’all little asses out!”
Quadir scrambles to help me to my feet. “Come on, Jazz! Come on!”
He grabs my hand and we take off running, passing the endless line of people still trying to get inside.
Quadir and I pooled our money together for a cab ride home. After what we survived, a late-night train ride wasn’t an option. I take down my hoodie and durag, brushing down my edges with my hand. Now alone, I could at least try to look cute . . . for him.
“What about Rell,” I ask as we speed over the Brooklyn Bridge, the city skyline twinkling behind us.
“Me, Rell, and Steph got one rule—whenever something pops off, we meet up at the spot.” Quadir winces and stares out the window. “I mean . . . I guess . . . well, me and Rell.”
My stomach clenches, and I’m instantly carsick as we approach downtown, the Big Ben clock reading three forty-five a.m.
“That was . . . fun,” I say, trying to change the air.
Quadir head snaps. “Fun? You trippin’. We almost got trampled to death!”
My shoulder blades are sore, and there’s a cut on my knee, but overall, I’m okay. More than okay.
“Yeah, but before all that . . . the music, the people, the dancing . . .”
I reach across the seat, slipping my fingers between his. Maybe we needed to touch again, so he could remember the moment. Deep down, I know he felt something the same way I did.
He glances down and snatches his hand away before peering back out the window.
“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles.
There ain’t words to describe what it’s like to lose your brother or words to describe what it’s like to lose your best friend. But if I had to compare it to anything, it would be the heart-crushing disappointment of having the boy you’re feeling, the boy who’s helped plug up the holes in your heart, snatch his hand away from you and then you realize you never had and never will have a chance with him. I can almost feel my muscles hardening and the memory of our moment passing with a blink.
We ride in silence up Fulton Street, reminding me of all the blocks we marched up, hustling Steph’s CD on every corner. And all for what? To get him a deal? Is that really as important as getting him justice? I’ve been playing games, wasting time . . . while his killer still walks around breathing and free.
The cab pulls up to the corner, and I hop out while Quadir pays the driver. I wrap my arms around my sweatshirt, the late night air almost freezing. Glancing around at the empty corner, I wish more than ever that Steph was here to welcome us home.
“You thirsty?” Quadir asks as the cab pulls off.
I ignore him. Only reason I’m even standing here and not heading home is to make sure Rell makes it back safe. I couldn’t face his moms if he didn’t.
“Jazz? You okay?”
He touches my shoulder, and I swat him away with a glare. He backs off, crushed.
“Jazz, I’m sorry,” he says, flustering. “I ain’t mean to confuse you. I just . . . we can’t do . . . this. You Steph’s sister. It ain’t right. And it’s not that . . . I just . . . we can’t.”
I notice he doesn’t bring up Ronnie, only Steph stopping him. But I refuse to let his pleading eyes soften me.
“Are you going to help me find out what happened to my brother or what?”
Quadir blinks. “Jasmine . . . I told you . . . it’s too dangerous.”
A yellow cab pulls up to the corner and Rell hops out, a huge grin on his face.
“Yooooo! Boy, am I glad to see y’all!” He holds his belly with an exhale and daps up Quadir. “I ain’t even gonna front, y’all had me mad worried when I couldn’t find you outside. I thought it was Reynolds for you kid.”
“Reynolds?”
“Yeah, Reynolds Wrap. Like, it’s a wrap. Get it?”
Quady shakes his head. “Did you just make that up?”
“Nah, but it’s the truth, right?”
Rell heads toward me, arms spread open wide for a hug.
“Don’t touch me.”
Rell’s smile drops and he glances at Quadir. “Yo, what’s up with her?”
Quadir stuffs his hands in his pockets.
I don’t know where all the rage came from, maybe I’ve been holding it in since Steph died, but it erupts right on time.
“I want the money you made off my brother,” I snap. “All of it.”
Their mouths hang open, looking at each other as if wondering if they heard the same thing.
“What?” Rell asks, scratching his head. “All of it?”
“You heard me. We had a deal. And y’all ain’t keeping up with your end of the bargain.”
Quadir begins with a heavy sigh. “Jazz—”
“You said you would help me find out who killed my brother! But all y’all done is make money off him and party up in the club.”
“Party?” Rell says as if the words stank. “Yo, we ain’t partying. This all been about business! You even saw—”
“If it’s all about business, then you understand the concept of a deal being a deal, right?”
Rell looks plain stuck, and Quadir can’t even look me in the eye.
“So looks like you have three options,” I say, crossing my arms. “One, you give me my brother’s money. Two, you help find his killer. Three, I tell Pierce AND my mom everything, including how y’all swindled a grieving young sister into this bullshit plan of yours.”
“Yo, how could you even say that?” Quadir gasps. “Don’t front like you don’t want this for Steph just as bad as we do. Come on, Jazz, this ain’t you.”
I don’t even feel the cold anymore as I narrow my eyes at him. “You don’t even know me.”
Rell glances between us and rolls his eyes. “Damn,” he mumbles, shaking his head.
Quadir is staring, and it’s like looking back at a stranger. Almost as if he’s hurt.
Hurt? He has some damn nerve.
He sighs. “Aight. I’ll help you.”
Rell’s mouth drops. “Yo, son, I don’t think you . . .”
“A deal’s a deal, Rell,” he says to him, his voice cold. “You handle the business, and I’ll take care of this. Keeping our word to Jazz is keeping our word to Steph.” He pointedly looks at me, making it known this is more about my brother than about me. He sure knows how to keep his knives sharp.
Rell rubs his face. “Aight. Just . . . I don’t know. Be careful!”
Quadir nods at him and looks at me again.
“Aight, Jazz. Where you wanna start?”
Less than three hours later, I’m dressing for school half sleep when Mom busts in my room.
/> “Jasmine,” she says, standing in her robe, ready for bed after her overnight shift. “Your bag.”
Bag inspection. Ever since she found them CDs she’s been checking my book bag like she works for airport security. I sigh, careful not to roll my eyes, and hand it to her.
As she digs through, she says, “This week, I want you to start collecting empty boxes.”
“Why?”
“’Cause we need to start packing. We’re moving.”
“Moving? Moving where?”
“To Mt. Vernon, up in Westchester. We’re going to stay with Cousin Karen while I look for a place of our own. She says they’ll be an opening at her hospital around Christmas, so we’ll move then.”
“What? That’s only a month away. “I can’t leave yet!”
“Why not?”
I think of Steph but hold my tongue.
“Um, school,” I hesitate. “Mt. Vernon’s like two hours away. How am I supposed to—”
“You’ll start school there after the holiday break. Karen’s already registered you.”
She hands me my bag with a stoic expression. I know what she’s doing. This isn’t about our safety or starting fresh. This is about Steph and those CDs.
I slip on my bag, holding in my rage, and rush out the door, a timer ticking in my head.
If I don’t find out what happened to Steph before we move, will anyone else seek justice or will he just be forgotten?
33
Jarrell
Yo, word to my mummy, I’mma kill Quady if he gets himself murked chasing after ghosts. Ain’t no way of knowing what the hell happened to Steph! Not saying I don’t want his killer lit up, but . . . damn, son . . . it’s risky as fuck.
Jazz is hurting. People don’t think straight when they hurting. And when you ain’t thinking straight, you bound to make mistakes, y’knowwhatumsayin?
But just in case Jazz try to pull the ole’ okeydoke on us, I’m counting all the bread we got so far against our sales numbers. I’ve been keeping a ledger in the back of one of Steph’s notebooks. Yes, a ledger, son! This is a legit business. We making that good money so we gotta keep our shit tight. I keep all the money in Timb boxes under my bed. My system is mad sophisticated. Check it:
Dollars go in the black Timbs box.
Fives and tens go in the wheat Timbs box.
Twenties go in the brown leather Timbs box.
Hundreds go in the army green Timbs box.
See? Who needs a bank?
“Jarrell! You’re going to be late!”
“Yes, Mummy!”
I yawn, rubbing the sleep out my eye. I’m tired as hell from last night’s party. I don’t know how people do it. Party on a Sunday night and go to work the next day. I’m nodding off already, and I’m not even at school.
As I slip the box under my bed, taking one last flip through one of Steph’s notebooks. Every time I open one up, I read through some of his old rhymes.
Stupid on a track/but still a
Tutor to y’all cats/ I
Exude the gravitas to snatch fools from offa that/
Pedestal, now you should nap/
High schooler, true I act/
Old school like movin’ back, to the future ‘cause the fact/ I’m
Not new, I’m two years past,
Use an almanac/
What’s my name?
I just spelled it out for you, now do the math!
Damn, I miss him. I know he’s up in heaven looking down at us. Wonder if we’re doing things the way he wants or is he wild disappointed? Some days, I question if we should be doing this at all. But then I open up his book, and it reminds me how dope he was. Makes no sense for the world not to experience him like we do.
A business card slips out from between the pages of his notebook and falls on the floor near my kicks. I can’t bring myself to pick it up, like my brain forgot how to tell the rest of my body to move. All I could do is stare at the NYPD logo in the corner.
“Jarrell! The boys are ready to go to school!”
“Um . . . ye-yes, Mummy. Soon come.”
I can’t leave it on the floor. If Mummy or the boys find it, they’ll have all kinds of questions. Even having it in my house has me shook. Any association with police . . . ain’t a good look. But I stick it under my heavy computer monitor, where no one will find it.
“Rell, you ready?” The boys come in, coats, hats, and book bags on. They pile on to me, latching themselves to my legs.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Come on, we out.”
The boys bust through the front door of the building, racing up the pathway to the first corner, where they’ll wait for me to help them cross the street to school. I always drop them off first before heading to the bus. Even if I wasn’t running on two hours of sleep, I’m still gonna have a hard time concentrating on anything else but that card.
Detective Paul Vasquez. Of the 79th Precinct.
The card looked worn, faded yellow, like he’d had it for some time. But why? Why would Steph have some cop’s business card? What was he doing talking to 5-0? He knew better than to trust cops about anything. What if someone found out he had been talking to one? Maybe that’s why he . . .
“Aye yo, J-Money!”
I look up at Mack, pulling up in a sleek black Range Rover.
“Where your head at, playboy? I called your name like ten times!”
“Oh. I, uh, just got a lot on my mind. That’s all. What’s up?”
“You taking the boys to school?”
“Yeah.”
“Hop in, I’ll give y’all a ride.”
I look at the boys on the corner playing tag with each other and gulp.
“Uh . . . nah, you ain’t got to do that.”
“No problem. I gotta talk to you anyways. Get in.”
I’ve known Mack my whole life. I trust him. But I ain’t stupid. I know what he do to make his bread. And I don’t want my little brothers anywhere near that. Not even his car.
“Mack, let me drop my brothers off first,” I say, hard so he know I mean business. “It ain’t nothing but a block and a half up. And then I’ll go with you wherever.”
His face changes, like a shadow crosses it, as he nods. Quickly, I hustle over to the boys.
“Come on, y’all. Let’s roll!”
I grab both their hands and rush them across Patchen Ave, up to the elementary school, then run back, halfway expecting Mack to be gone. But he’s there, sitting where I left him.
“Thanks, man,” I say as I hop into the passenger seat.
He gives me a long look then starts the engine. We ride in silence up Fulton, blasting Big’s “Ten Crack Commandments.” One of my favorite tracks on Life After Death. ’Cause it spells out the rules of law for the streets so perfect . . .
Number 9 shoulda been Number 1 to me,
If you ain’t gettin’ bagged stay the fuck from police
Steph knew these rules as much as I did. So why did he have that card?
“Surprise you got time to grace me with your presence and shit. Heard you been busy in these streets and hanging out in nightclubs.”
I swallow my shock and play it cool with a laugh. “Nah, nothing like that.”
He glares at me. “Then what is it, then?”
“Just . . . chilling. Making some moves.”
He grabs a dutch from the center console, lights up, and offers me a smoke.
“Nah, I’m good,” I say. “Can’t be walking into school flying high. I can barely concentrate as it is.”
Detective Paul Vasquez. Of the 79th Precinct.
“So, looks like you ain’t thinking about what we talked about before.”
I crack the window and gulp. “I have. Been on my mind heavy, for real.”
“How, if you out here hustling?”
“Yo, I ain’t moving no weight!”
“You don’t think I know that?” he barks. “You think you still be walking if you was? I’d break both of your fucking legs. What I t
ell you? I know everything, kid!”
The words come out the side of my neck before I could stop them. “If you know everything, then do you know who shot Steph?”
The question pops him upside the head and he blinks twice.
“Man, I told you before, I don’t know what happened to duke. Wasn’t anybody in B-Voort. And I told you, when I find out, I’ll handle that shit myself, word to my mother.”
Word to my mother . . . that used to mean something. Mack used to say never say that unless you dead serious. But nowadays, I can’t tell. If he knows everything, then why hasn’t he called me out about selling Steph’s music? If he knows everything, does he know Steph been talking to the 5-0? Who else knows?
“Well, if it’s been on your mind heavy,” he says, changing topics. “Then what you thinking?”
He pulls up Jay Street, parking a block from school.
I shrug. “I don’t know. College . . . just ain’t my thang. I don’t even like school now. You want me to go do more school? It’s just a piece of paper.”
He puts the car in park. “Son, I ain’t trying to tell you what to do. You a man, you make your own decisions. All I’m saying is . . . you got potential, always have. Don’t waste it on stupid shit. That piece of paper gonna get you in the right rooms. And if you need the bread, I got you.”
I hesitate at the offer. Nothing comes for free. Everything has a price. I’ve learned this from Mack.
“How you expect me to pay you back? You know that college shit is wild expensive and ain’t like I’mma make the bread back quick.”
“Nah, man, it ain’t nothing. When you get your business degree, I’mma have you working for me. Legit, though.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugs. “Accountant. Lawyer. Maybe run one of my businesses. Who knows? Whatever it is, you got the brains for it. Saw that shit from day one. You the closest thing I got to a brother, and I don’t want you letting all that potential go to waste.”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 18
