“Always playing ‘Captain Save-a-Hoe,’ as Rell would say,” Quadir chuckles, swinging his knees left to right. “Can I be honest with you about something?”
“Sure.”
He sighs and rubs his head. “I got that weight from Mack.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Mom lost her job, Ronnie was breathing down my neck, and well . . . I guess I thought it was the only way.”
“But you know what that stuff does to our communities!”
“Yeah, I know. But if I had to pick between helping to feed my family or nah . . . I can’t say I wouldn’t make the same choice again. It’s real out here, Jazz.”
I think about the lyrics in so many hip-hop songs and understand why Steph made me listen to them. Life has never been easy for black folks, and survival means doing things you wouldn’t normally. Can I really judge someone trying to live?
“Does Rell know?”
“Nah. Only Steph,” he sighs. “He tried to talk me out of it, and I guess he took matters into his own hands. But I swear, Jazz, I swear on everything, I squared up my debt . . . with Ronnie’s help. She’s the one who gave me the bread. No one knew Steph took that weight from me, so it couldn’t have been no retaliation. Deadass, I thought Steph flushed that shit down the toilet. That’s why I was so shocked when we found it under his bed. I started thinking, maybe he stole it to start selling it himself. But nah, Steph ain’t like that.” He shakes his head. “Still, I would never be able to live with myself . . . if he got hurt because of me.”
The tears come up so fast I can’t stop them and I sob into my coat sleeve.
“Jazz, what’s wrong?”
“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”
Quadir hops off the back of the bench to sit beside me, rubbing my arm. “Hey, stop crying. It’s aight!”
“Steph found out I was trying to join the Guerrillas. He said it was too dangerous and that Daddy would never approve of me being in a gang. I told him they wouldn’t let me go so easily, and Steph said he would handle it. Now . . . he’s dead and I’m afraid I had something to do with it.”
“Nah, Jazz. The Guerrillas ain’t about killing black people. Even I know that.”
“But what if he went to talk to them and things went bad?” I whimper, my body feeling heavy. “I’m sorry, Quady. I’m sorry I got my brother and your best friend killed. My mom is a mess . . . everything’s all fucked up, and I don’t know what to do.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I sob into his chest.
“Shhhh . . . it’s not your fault, Jazz. For real, it ain’t. None of it. Who knows how it all really went down?”
I’m shaking, and he wraps another arm around me, pulling me closer.
“It’s gonna be alright, Jazz. I’m gonna get us out of this shit with Pierce . . . so we can just get our lives back to normal. Then, we’re gonna find out who killed Steph. I promise.”
I look up at his bright brown eyes, staring down at me, flickering over my face, and a calm melts over me, remembering how safe I feel in his arms.
“Okay.”
He leans his forehead against mine and exhales through his nose as if he had been holding his breath for years. His hands are fire through my coat, palming my back as my legs slide over his thighs. When our lips touch, I grasp his neck to pull him closer. I didn’t want some gentle peck. I want to re-create the pulse that scorched all my nerves back at the Tunnel. Hot, ragged breath, sweet tongues, and sweat.
He pulls away slowly, mouthing “wow,” and I’m dizzy. We look around, relieved we’re still alone.
“Can I be honest with you about something else?”
“Sure.”
He squeezes me a little harder. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for mad long!”
I laugh. “Dag, someone’s on an honesty kick tonight.”
He blushes. “Nah, you just gotta keep it real with the real ones.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
We stare at each other, everything feeling different and the same.
“Yo, is your mom home?” he asks.
“No.”
“Can we . . . go up to your place?”
My stomach sinks and I wiggle in his arms. “Um . . . Quady . . . I’m not ready for . . . all that.”
He jumps, eyes going wide. “Oh, nah! Nah, only when you’re ready. I mean, you know, that’s if we . . . I mean . . . it’s just . . . it’s brick out here, and I kinda wanna listen to some Lauryn.”
40
Jarrell
That Monday after Thanksgiving break is when everybody comes to school in the new outfits they copped during those crazy Black Friday sales. Fresh Timbs, bubblegoose, ski goggles, Pelle Pelle, and FUBU sweatshirts.
But all this fighting with Quady has my stomach leaning. I ain’t even want to shop. Picture that? Me? Not hitting them stores with the crazy half-off stickers. I couldn’t even roll out of bed that morning.
It’s been six days, the longest we’ve gone without speaking.
I sit in the back of the library ’cause I don’t want them teachers beating me in the head about eating around the books, but snacks are the only things keeping me calm. Quady and I usually spend fourth period study hall chilling in the hallways, but I heard he’s been meeting with guidance counselors, trying to get his transcripts and stuff ready for his transfer. Duke is really about to up and leave me with no warning.
Like Steph.
Steph is different, though. Steph was taken from us on some thief-in-the-night-type ish. Quady still among the living. He’s still my boy, no matter how stupid he’s acting right now.
“But did you listen to track number seven? Son is ill with it!”
My ears perk up at two kids talking at the table in front of me. I recognize one from my English class. His name is Jabari. I’ve seen him carry around Nas tapes, so I trust his taste.
“Which track seven? On volume one or two?” the other kids asks. He’s holding Steph’s demo, popping the CD into his Discman.
“Two. One got them bangers, but two . . . he puts in that work.”
He stares at the CD cover. “Son is like a lyrical genius, b.”
“Word.”
Wow, they calling Steph a genius? Giving him five mics in The Source magazine and he don’t even have a real album out yet?
“I mean, I ain’t never heard anything like him,” Jabari says, with that type of smile that makes it hard to stay angry. “No disrespect to Biggie, but this kid is really from the projects like me, he understands. I can’t wait to seem him live. I’mma break the bank!”
“Even got my pops listening to him,” the other kid says. “My pops mad old school but says he sounds like a young Melle Mel, from Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, the way he be talking about the hood and stuff.”
I slowly put away my second Twinkie. Besides me, Jazz, and Quady, I’ve never really heard anyone talk about Steph’s music like this before. Yeah, Pierce be talking, but he be gassing us up, just so he can make a dollar. This talk is different. This is what the streets are saying about him. It’s like, they really feeling him. The same way we always have.
“And that line about snitching . . . I can’t even front, son has a point. ‘If you keep being quiet, you only a chain on the neck of violence with your silence.’ Yo, he talking about being an accessory to murder, son.”
“Son is the truth.”
“You think he’s gonna get signed soon?”
“No doubt. He could be on any label he wants right now. Bad Boy, Def Jam, Interscope, even Red Starr.”
“Anyone know who he is yet?”
“Nope, definitely from Brooklyn, though. He talks about Brevoort all over the tracks. But no one knows who he is.”
He chuckles. “He’s on his Clark Kent, Superman ish.”
Jabari laughs. “Or Spider-Man.”
“Nah, Batman,” I say.
They both turn to me, shocked by my eavesd
ropping.
“Huh?” Jabari says while the other kid grills me.
“See, Superman, he’s an alien,” I explain while packing up my bag. “And Spider-Man got them silly strings. Plus, Spider-Man’s from Queens—don’t disrespect homie like that. But Batman, he’s just a regular-shmegular everyday brotha doing extraordinary things for Gotham. He proves that you don’t need no special powers to save the city. You just gotta have heart. Y’knowwhatumsayin?”
Jabari and the kid glance at each other as if I’m speaking Spanish.
“Uhhh . . . yeah. Aight.”
They turn back like I said nothing, never knowing they just changed the game for the kid.
Quady shoots from the free-throw line. His bubble coat is so bulky he can barely lift his arms.
“Yo son, you look like the black marshmallow man out here,” I call from the gate.
He gives me a cold stare. “That’s not what your momma called me last night.”
“Damn, son,” I laugh. “We going for ‘yo momma jokes’ now? What are we, nine?”
He shrugs, holding back a laugh. “Sometimes you gotta keep it old school.”
We meet in the middle, standing like two dukes who don’t know each other. Noses dripping, hands ashy, ice blowing down our necks.
“Winter didn’t waste no time.”
“Nah, not at all,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming. So . . . yo, my bad about . . . everything.”
“Nah,” I say. “My bad, son. I was letting the bread get to my head.”
“No, it was on me. I wasn’t being real with you. About a lot of things. We better than that.”
I pause. “So we just gonna keep apologizing to each other all night or what?”
Quady cracks a smile and daps me up. “Man, shut up.”
We stroll over to a bench with the best view of B-Voort. Folks already started stringing Christmas lights in their windows. The projects can dress up nice when it wants to.
“I ain’t gonna front: I never thought we’d make it this far,” Quady says. “I mean, I thought we’d sell a few CDs, make a few dollars . . . but this? Steph in Vibe, on the radio, people at Red Starr trying to sign him . . . this shit is wild, b. I never imagined dreams really coming true for kids like us. Made me start looking at things different, you know. Like actually going to college, becoming a writer, moving out of B-Voort.”
“Oh, word? That’s what you want to be? A writer?”
He nods, like he just came to grips with it. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“That’s what’s up, man.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I’m actually thinking about getting into the music business. Not on the mic, though. Nah, I want to be one of the big wigs calling the shots in the boardrooms.”
“That’s what’s up, Rell! I think you’d be good with that.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You called it. You the one who kept the whole operation together. We wouldn’t be here without you.”
“The appreciation is appreciated,” I say with a head nod. “So what we do now?”
Quady sighs. “I meant what I said, though. We ain’t gonna be able to keep this up for much longer. I think we should come clean.”
“Yeah. And if they don’t like us . . . well, fuck it. We’ll keep it going. Not for the bread, but for Steph. The world needs our man’s music.”
Quady smiles so bright it looks like another light in the hood. “Word.”
“You hungry? Mummy made some curry goat. You probably know already since you were with her last night.”
41
Quadir
In the morning, Jarrell drops off the twins and cops us two bacon-egg-and-cheeses on a roll from the bodega as we head to the subway, hopping on an express train to Manhattan.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, holding on to the pole as the train sways.
Rell squirts some ketchup on his sandwich and stuffs his face. “Ain’t no plan. Just gonna tell him the truth. Straight up.”
“You a brave man.”
“Nah, I’m shooker than a mutherfucker.”
We rush out the subway, through Times Square, and enter the lobby of Red Starr Entertainment.
Rell presses the elevator as I mentally ready myself. This is it. We’re finally gonna tell him the truth. Maybe it won’t be too bad. I can live without my legs. I think.
Fletch leads us into Pierce’s office, where it’s a full house, and my feet turn into bricks as soon as I see who’s sitting on the sofa.
“Um, Mr. Williams . . .”
Pierce glance up at us from behind his desk.
“Ah! Right on time, just how I like it. Y’all didn’t get a chance to meet at the party the other night. Fast Pace, meet Beavis, Butthead, and . . .” He searches behind us. “Aye. Where’s Architect?”
Fast Pace smirks at us, turning to the two brothas on his right. Something’s real unsettling about the way they measuring us up.
“Um, that’s what we’re here about,” Rell stutters. “We got something to tell you . . . in private.”
Pierce closes his eyes, pointing at the ceiling. “Yo, don’t even try to tell me you comin’ up in here without my artist. Fletch, call 911. Somebody’s gotta die!”
Rell starts to panic. “Yo hold up, if you—”
“Relax, boss. Ain’t nothing,” Fast Pace says, his voice real smooth, like he just finished smoking some lah. “I’m good. I ain’t gonna do the song with homeboy anyways.”
“What?” Pierce snaps, pissed as hell. “Why the hell not?”
He stands up and stretches as if he’s rolling out of bed. “I got a reputation to keep, and word on the street is . . . this nigga Architect is a snitch.”
Rell shakes the water out his ears. “Aye, what’d you just say?”
Fast Pace grins, only facing Pierce, his hands behind his back.
“Yo, the brotha’s been on the Feds’ payroll for a grip. A lot of cats in jail because of this mutherfucker. I ain’t trying to be next.”
Rell charges, and I have to push my full body weight against his chest to stop him.
“Wah di rass!” Rell screams. “Yo, bredren. Meh nah no infahmah!”
Everyone stares blankly.
“Wh . . . what did he just say?” Pierce asks the room.
“I believe he said he’s not an informant, meaning not a snitch,” Fletch says proudly. “It’s Jamaican Patois.”
“Good looking out, b,” Rell says, slapping Fletch on the back. “My bad, got a little carried away.”
“Not for nothing,” Fast Pace says to Pierce. “If I was you, I wouldn’t sign homeboy. Not on no hip-hop label. He’d probably have your whole roster in the pen.”
What’s his problem? Where’s all this coming from?
“Mr. Pierce,” I say, jumping in. “I don’t know where duke is getting his information from, but he’s wrong. Step . . . I mean, Arch . . . he wouldn’t do nothing like that. There’s some codes you just don’t break.”
“Snitches get stitches where we from. Everybody knows that,” Rell spits, turning to Fast Pace. “And we don’t snitch for nobody, word up!”
Fast Pace chuckles, amused by something unknown.
Pierce bounces from me to Fast Pace then Rell and Fletch before sucking his teeth.
“Well, where this mutherfucker at to defend himself? All this talk and he ain’t even here!”
Fast Pace glances at us, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Aye yo, I’mma take it a step further,” he says. “I’m not sure if I wanna be down with a label that rocks with snitches!”
Fletch mouths an “oh shit” as Pierce grabs his chest. Either he’s having a heart attack or trying to keep the Hulk from busting out.
“Son, you gonna do me like that? You gonna do RED STARR. . . like that?”
Fast Pace laughs. “Nah, it’s all good, boss man. Word on the block is the kid is good as dead . . .” He gives us a hard look. “If he ain’t dead already. Bu
t if he ain’t . . . there may be some things I have to reconsider. That’s all.”
The room turns cold, and I’m having a hard time keeping my mouth closed. I turn to Rell, looking just as stunned.
He knows? But how?
“Shit,” Pierce mumbles, pacing around his office. Fast Pace and his boys don’t take their eyes off us, and I’m wondering how we’re going to make it back to Brooklyn without getting killed.
“Um, sir,” Fletch starts off timid. “I’m sorry, but you have a meeting in the next five minutes.”
Pierce ignores him, fixated on his television, still set to MTV, playing DMX’s “Get at Me Dog” video, shot in the Tunnel. It was the first time people really saw how popping the spot could be. Everyone was trying to go after that.
Pierce nods, a thought coming to him as he rubs his chin. “Yeah . . . that can work. Word.”
He turns to the room, smiling. “We gonna have a battle!”
“A what?”
“A Brooklyn emcee battle. Fast Pace vs. the Architect. At the Tunnel, TONIGHT!”
Fletch drops his clipboard. “Um, sir. Opening the club up on a weekday, paying the DJs, the bouncers, the promoters . . . that’s . . . that’s going to cost a lot of money.”
“Put it on Red Starr’s tab. I ain’t worried, what we’ll make at the door, the night will pay for itself.”
Fletch nibbles on the top of his pen.
Fast Pace sucks his teeth. “Man, I ain’t gonna do a song and dance to prove myself.”
“Pace, you haven’t done the Tunnel yet, right?” he says, reasoning with him. “Well, neither has Arch. We’ll put you both on, boxing-match style. Whoever wins, wins it all.”
“What you mean?”
“If you win, I won’t sign him. If Arch win, I keep you both on . . . and there won’t be no problems. Right?”
Fast Pace cocks his head to the side to look at us and laughs. “Yeah, aight.”
“Cool. Now, I’mma get to this meeting. Fletch, get Funk Flex on the phone, tell him the plan. Then call all the promoters around the city. This shit is going to be popping! Y’all can see y’all way out.”
“Wait, but—”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 21
