“Mom,” I whisper, pushing her back down the hall. “Go in Carl’s room and hide!”
She reties her blue house robe. “What? Why?”
“Mom, please just listen to me. You have to hide.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Jasmine, what is going on?”
“Nothing, just please, Mom—”
“Aye. Open up this door,” a familiar voice yell. “Y’all act like I can’t hear you up in there.”
“Pierce?” I mumble.
“Who the hell is Pierce?” Mom snaps and charges toward the door.
“No, Mom, don’t!”
She swings it open, gazing up. “Can I help y—HEY!”
Pierce bulldozes in with his two goons and I backpedal into the living room with a yelp.
“Where is he?” Pierce shouts, stumbling in.
“Hey! You can’t just come in my home!” Mom screams.
“Yo, shut the hell up,” Pierce slurs and points his finger at me. “You! You must be his little ‘assistant’ right?”
“How . . . how’d you know where we lived?” I choke, the only thing I could think of to ask.
He sways and hiccups. “Oh please. I got connects all over this city. It wasn’t hard tracking you down. Now where is this little mutherfucker? Gonna stand me up? Me! Fucking no-show to a club I rented out for him! I swear once I get my hands on this little—”
As soon as he turns, Mom lands a slap across his cheek that could be heard in Kenya. I gasp, covering my mouth. The goons only flinch, glancing at each other.
“How dare you come up in my house, cursing up a storm, and talk to my daughter crazy like that? Who the hell you think you are?”
Pierce blinks twice, shaking his head, almost losing his balance.
Mom eyes the goons. “You two! Close my door. You letting out all the heat and got the whole building up in our business.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison, and do what they’re told.
Pierce grabs his chin and plops down on the sofa, staring at the floor.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says in a quiet voice. “I meant no disrespect.”
The goons and I share a baffled look. I didn’t even think he could talk at this level.
Mom folds her arms and turns to the goons. “You two, go in the kitchen and help yourself to some water.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison, and hustle to the kitchen. I forgot how Mom could control a room with a snap of her fingers. It’s good to have her back!
“Jasmine, who is this fool, and why is he up in my house?”
“I’m Pierce Williams,” he says. “I’m looking for the Architect. Is he here?”
“The who?”
“Architect. I am . . . was . . . going to sign him to my label, Red Starr Entertainment.”
He pauses for recognition and Mom only shrugs at him.
“What happened?” I ask.
Pierce lets out a long sigh. “Homie didn’t come through to the show today. It was a massive L. Cost the company almost a million dollars . . . and I was made a fool of in front the entire music industry. The whole city was tuned in. My boss already gave me the heads-up to expect termination papers on Monday.”
“They’re firing you? For what?”
He shrugs. “Said I was ‘too much of a liability.’ With my temper, ego, blah blah blah. I ain’t tripping off that. I already saw the writing on the wall.” He shakes his head. “But . . . damn. I don’t know, I saw potential in the kid. That raw hunger I had when I was first starting out. Something I haven’t seen in years from anyone. I mean, he could’ve been something big.”
Suddenly, my heart breaks for Pierce. We dragged him into this mess, and he really believed in Steph after all.
“Who is this Architect you looking for?” Mom says, more confused than ever.
Pierce wipes his eyes. “Isn’t there a Michael Stephon Davis here? That’s the only person it could be.”
A deep V forms down the middle of Mom’s face until she hisses and glares at me.
“Jasmine! Is this about those damn CDs?”
Dag, busted.
My head drops to the floor. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Unbelievable,” she fusses. “Listen . . . Pierce. Steph? Steph is . . . gone.”
“Gone?”
“He died a few months ago.”
Pierce almost smirks as he gently corrects her. “No, ma’am, I think you talking about someone else.”
“No, you not listening. My son is dead,” she says, hard. “He was killed back in August. Them CDs you’ve been listening to, that’s his old music. Stuff he did before he passed.”
Pierce blinks slow, holding his hands out as if to block the truth.
“Wait, wait . . . are you saying he’s . . .” He slowly rises to his feet, taking a step in my direction. His eyes narrow then widen in shock as he recognizes me.
“Oh shit,” he mumbles, falling back into the sofa, holding his face. “Shit. How the hell . . . ?”
Mom shakes her head at me. “Yeah. His so-called friends roped my daughter into this mess, trying to make a dollar off my dead son’s music.”
“That ain’t it,” I say, my voice sharp. “Quadir and Jarrell, all they wanted was for the world to hear what Steph could do! Mom, Steph was . . . really good, he could’ve really been somebody. They wanted everybody to know Steph wasn’t just another kid gunned down in the hood. He was special. You saw it too, right, Pierce? You ever lose somebody and wonder what they could’ve been?”
Mom tears up, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Quadir and Jarrell, they haven’t even touched the money we made. And they didn’t rope me into nothing. If anything, I tricked them. I only agreed to give them his music if they’d help me find out who killed Steph. And they out there RIGHT NOW doing just that!”
Pierce, still in shock, listens close, rubbing his chin. He nods, as if deciding something.
Softly, he says, “Where them boys at now?”
47
August 23, 1998
Summer decided to cough out one more heat wave before August ended. Brooklyn sweltered, the humidity a thick layer of paint coating skins and suffocating mouths. Most folks retreated indoors to park themselves in front of fans and air conditioners, leaving the block a ghost town.
Quadir and Jarrell took their positions on the corner, Steph noticeably missing. It had been almost twenty-four hours since the boys had seen him. “This ain’t like him,” Quadir mused.
“Yo, where the hell is dude at?”
Quadir shrugged, itching to pace.
Jarrell downed his third quarter water, wiping his face with a rag he kept in his back pocket.
“Mummy says when it’s hot like this, a storm’s coming.”
“Oh, word?”
“Yeah. All this pressure gotta let out somewhere, y’knowwhatumsayin?”
Quadir’s shoulders tensed, looking back at B-Voort as dark clouds crept closer. Maybe they should stop by his crib, call, or something.
A police car rolled up on Patchen Ave, lights flashing but no siren. Probably just patrolling, Quadir figured, but behind it, an unmarked car parked up front. Two white guys in suits stepped out, disappearing into B-Voort.
Dante ran around the corner, biting his fist. He spotted the boys and his eyes widened.
“YO! I came as soon as I heard.”
Jarrell frowned. “Heard what?”
“About Steph!”
Both boys pushed off the wall. “What about Steph?”
“Yo, son got murked last night!”
Jarrell lets out a nervous chuckle. “Shit, you had me worried there for a second. I thought you were talking about OUR Steph.”
“I am, though!”
“Nah, son, you got the wrong duke.”
“Yo, word on my momma, it’s Steph!”
Quadir studied Dante, the frantic way he shook his hands and couldn’t keep still.
The air changed around them, his belly shriek
ing at him. Without realizing, he headed for Steph’s building, but froze in the crosswalk as a gut-wrenching scream poured out of an open window.
Jarrell backed away, shaking his head, his eyes watering. “Nah. Nahhhh. It ain’t him! It ain’t fucking him!”
Quadir squeezed his ears, falling to his knees in the middle of Patchen Ave.
In the distance, thunder cracked and the sky opened.
48
Quadir
The bodega is mad convenient.
Besides having the best bacon-egg-and-cheese in Bed-Stuy, they also sell ice packs, aspirin, and dishcloths. Exactly what we need after our ass-whooping.
I lean against the wall next to Jarrell, spitting blood onto the concrete. My mouth is busted up, left eye swelling. My right arm is turning purple, and my shoulder needs to be popped back in. One thing for sure, I’ll be out for the rest of the season.
Goodbye, Bishop.
Jarrell has a devil’s horn growing out of his forehead and right cheekbone. Holding an ice pack against the back of his head, he winces every time he raises an arm, and hops on one foot.
“Yo,” he moans. “I haven’t had my ass beat this bad since . . . never.”
“You think we should go to the hospital?”
“Son, Tweety Bird’s flying around my head. Of course we need to take our asses to the hospital. Which means I’mma have to wake up Mummy and get my ass beat twice tonight.”
The first laugh comes up like a cough. Then a hiccup, until I’m giggling like some little baby.
“What? What you laughing for? This shit ain’t funny.”
“Yo, remember that episode of Martin when he got his ass whooped by Tommy Hearns?”
Rell chuckles. “Ha! Son came out his room lumped up! Big old bobblehead looked like an anthill. A burnt pizza. Planet Pluto.”
We fall over each other, howling.
“Yo, chill,” I cackle, tears in my eyes. “I think they cracked my ribs. I can’t be laughing like this.”
Rell shakes his head, thinking back. “That was one of Steph’s favorite episodes.”
The mention of Steph brings the mood right back down as we glance at his spot just as Dante rounds the corner, a blunt lit in his hand.
“Aye yo, what . . . DAMN! What in the hell happened to y’all!”
Rell sucks his teeth. “Nothing, man.”
“For real, you—”
“Drop it, Dante,” I snap. I ain’t in the mood to entertain his questions.
Smoke swirls around his head as he throws his hands up.
“Yo, my bad, son,” he says, and leans against the wall next to Rell. He takes a hit, passing the dutch across. I ain’t smoke in a grip, but tonight, I need . . . something.
“Damn, y’all look fucked up.”
“We know, son,” Rell snaps, taking a hit. “We ain’t blind.”
“Was it them cops again? They did this to you? You know how they be messing with black folks.”
“Just got jumped by some kids, ain’t nothing. Misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“Psshh! You lucky you still breathing.”
“We know,” I say, and spit more blood on the ground.
“These streets be crazy,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Y’all gotta be careful. Can’t be caught slipping.” He takes another hit from the L, blowing smoke out slow. “Maybe if Steph wasn’t caught slipping with them Feds, he’d still be breathing.”
I don’t know if it was the weed, or being knocked upside the head, but everything in that moment seem to happen in slow motion . . .
Dante passes the dutch to Rell.
Rell holds it to his lips and freezes, standing like some type of statue. His eyes narrow as he snarls, turning to him.
“Yo . . . what did you just say?”
The words come out so low and cold. I immediately sober up.
Dante pauses, eyes growing twice their size. In an instant, he knows he messed up.
“I—I . . . um . . .” he stutters then takes off running, hat flying off his head. He doesn’t even bother to grab it. Only one reason a person runs like that: they did something foul.
Rell hobbles to the middle of the sidewalk, watching him ghost. He flicks the blunt in the street, spitting where Dante once stood. For a long while, he’s quiet, fist balled up, huffing through his nose.
I’m sick to my stomach. “What d’we do now?”
“Quady!”
Jasmine is running out her building, frantic, voice echoing through the empty streets. Behind her, Pierce and his two henchmen slowly follow.
“Oh shit,” I gasp.
“Damn, I take that back,” Jarrell grumbles. “We don’t need a hospital. We might as well just go straight to the funeral home.”
“Oh my God,” Jasmine screams, running across the street, right to me. “What happened?”
“I’m aight.”
She cradles my face, inspecting my injuries in the light of the bodega sign. I ain’t gonna front: her soft hands feel mad good on me right now, so I’m definitely not pushing her away. She’s that slice of comfort I’m always craving.
“Yo, Jazz,” Rell mumbles, slipping off his coat, wincing with every move, watching Pierce cross the street. “Make sure they play ‘Juicy’ at my homegoing service. And make sure I look fly, aight? Don’t let Mummy put me in the ground in some busted corduroy pants or them itchy Cosby sweaters she loves so much.”
“Son, what you doing?”
“I ain’t going down without a fight,” he huffs, raises his fists to his face. “They can snack on you, but I’mma make these two woolly mammoths work for their dinner.”
“Rell,” Jasmine says, like some mom scolding a child. “They ain’t here to fight.”
He purses his lips. “They sell you the Manhattan Bridge along with Prospect Park, too?”
“I’m serious! They . . .”
“WELL! If it isn’t my two favorite ‘managers,’” Pierce says with a slow clap. “Bravo, you two deserve an Oscar. Oh, my bad . . . rough night?”
He throws his head back and busts out laughing. I mean, he can’t even stand up straight, he’s cracking up so hard.
“Yo, I don’t see anything funny here,” I bark. “Do you, Rell?”
Jasmine slips under my shoulder, holding me back.
“Nope,” he says, fists up, flexing. “So let’s go!”
Pierce waves us off, still snickering. “Man, put your Mickey Mouse guns away. Far as I’m concerned, you deserve it, after all the shit you put me through.”
“Yeah? Well, we done with all that now.”
“What?” Jasmine says.
“Jazz, I can’t do this no more. I’m sick of all this lying. It’s over anyways.”
“Over?” Pierce asks, his eyebrow raising.
“Yeah,” Rell says, hopping closer to him. “This duke Kaven won’t give us Steph’s original music track. Fast Pace about to blow up our spot and now you up in our hood, ready to feed us to your two overgrown rottweilers.”
Pierce smirks, pointing a thumb behind him. “Who, these two? They teddy bears!”
“Now who’s lying?”
“So what, that’s it? You just gonna quit?”
Rell sucks his teeth. “Man, what do you care? Worried we won’t be around to pick up your laundry?”
“Nah, y’all, listen,” Jasmine urges. “Pierce got fired tonight because of us.”
My neck snaps. “For real?”
Pierce nods, his lips in a straight line.
“Oh, word?” Rell says. “Damn, my bad, son. We weren’t trying to make you lose your J-O-B. Bet you had those good benefits, too.”
He shrugs. “Ain’t nothing. About time I did my own thing. What’d you say the other day? Can’t grow under a rock, right? But what about you two? I thought y’all were doing this for your boy.”
“Well, yeah, but . . .”
“If I let every little hiccup stop me from chasing my dream, my ass would still be slicing honey-roast turkey in my
pops’s store. Your girl said something . . . that really hit me. So I’mma help y’all finish what you started.”
I can’t believe it. Even after learning about Steph, we got the hottest producer on our team. I don’t know whether to thank him or Jasmine, smiling up at me.
“But Kaven . . .”
“Yo, this Kaven cat ain’t nothing but a roadblock.” He smirks. “And sometimes . . . you gotta get creative to work your way around them.”
49
Jarrell
It’s six against one this time: Pierce, the goons, Fletch, Quady, and me. I’m surprised Kaven even let us in. Shoo, I wouldn’t.
“Do you know who I am?”
Kaven slouches in his chair, glaring at me, a toothpick hanging out the side of his mouth, his hat pulled down low.
“I said, do you know who I am?” Pierce asks again, hard.
“I do,” he says like he’s amused.
Pierce is flossing in a white turtleneck sweater and slacks, with a black leather trench coat. He raises an eyebrow.
“Then you know what I’m capable of.”
“Or what you used to be capable of,” Kaven says with a smirk. “Last I heard, you no longer with Red Starr.”
Pierce chuckles as Fletch pulls up a stool for him while Quady and I stay close to the goons.
“Oh, so I see someone got the juice. Well, you right. I’m not with Red Starr Entertainment anymore. But I said, do you know who I AM? Not who I be with. So allow me to reintroduce myself . . . and my associates. I’m Pierce Williams, a free agent. This is my lawyer, Fletcher.”
Fletch eyes bulge before he puts on a fake smile, clutching some old brown leather briefcase.
Kaven eyes him, sitting up a little straighter. “Lawyer?”
Fletch clears his throat. “Um, yup, Gordon Fletcher, Esquire.”
Kaven rolls his eyes, growing impatient. “What y’all want?”
“Come on, Kaven. You know what’s up and why we here.”
He juts his lips out at Fletch. “And the lawyer?”
“I’ll save you the legalese but he’s here to represent the young man’s estate. He was smart enough to draft himself up a will before his untimely passing.”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 24
