He nods at Fletch, who passes him a contract out his briefcase.
Kaven scans over the contract, nodding, then lightly tosses it on the floor.
“You think I’m stupid? You expect me to fall for this?”
Pierce shrugs. “That’s on you. I got no problem letting this play out in court.”
Kaven’s jaw tightens.
“But hey! I’m sure you could afford a lawyer. Sitting here in your state-of-the-art studio in the middle of the hood. How long this place been open again? Could be used for collateral, considering all the expected profit losses I plan to sue you for.”
Kaven tenses, his shoulders sitting up by his ears. They hold a stare-off. He still don’t believe him.
“Or we can just do this old-school style,” Pierce says, hands clapping as he talks. “You wake up one day, and your baby here will be mad empty. I’ll make sure they don’t even leave a light-switch cover up in this bitch.”
Damn. That’s cold-blooded.
“Or we could get REAL personal, Kaven Stewart Brown. Surprised you still working in this business, Old G. Didn’t you used to be at Flavor Studios in South Jamaica, Queens? But you dipped, or they ran you out. Something about missing money. And you already haven’t paid taxes in a few years, so I can make a few calls and—”
“Aight, aight,” Kaven barks, sucking his teeth. “What y’all want?”
Pierce smirks and looks to us. “It’s on y’all.”
Quady doesn’t hesitate. “Tell us what happened to Steph. From the top.”
Kaven rubs his temples and sighs.
“The young brotha came through last summer. Think he got my number from Dante, this runner from around the way. The kid was . . . dope. Knew it from the very first time he stepped in the booth. He had this pure, raw talent I haven’t seen in years. Word is bond, he gave me chills. I sent one of the singles we worked on over to Fast Pace, hoping he could help put him on. Pace used to record here back in the day, and he owed me a few favors. Put in front of the right people, the kid could’ve been signed on the spot. But when Pace called, he was heated. Told me to delete the single, that the young man is calling out one of his peoples on the track. I thought, maybe if we just lose that last verse it could still be, you know, usable. So I gave Steph an edited cut.
“When Steph came for his next session, he stepped to me about his song being different. I warned him that if he keeps playing with fire, he’s gonna end up burned. He insisted it was the right thing to do. ‘Silence keeps folks ignorant of the truth.’ We argued for a grip before he left. He was scheduled for a session the following week but never showed. I figured it was a wrap. That is, until you two came in and brought his tapes. I recognized his voice instantly. I reached out to Fast Pace again, hoping he could stop by. But Pace told me he heard the kid was ‘handled.’ That’s all somebody gotta say to know what’s up.”
I’m real blown right now. Kaven was digging Steph from the start.
“You think Pace got anything to do with what happened to Steph?” Quady asks. “Had him killed ’cause he was jealous?”
“I’ve known Pace for a while. He’s a gossiper, but he ain’t no killer. He was just trying to protect his man.”
“Must be Bumpy,” I mumble.
Quady shook his head. “Why . . . didn’t you say nothing?”
Kaven folds his hands. “After you’ve seen it all, and done it all, you learn to stop asking questions and mind your business so you don’t get caught up. I knew what y’all two were doing and kept working with y’all ’cause I fucks with what that young brotha had to say. But I wasn’t trying to be involved any further.”
“You gotta talk to the cops,” Quady says. “Tell them what you told us.”
Kaven stares at the floor, shaking his head, and I can’t even believe the words coming out my mouth.
“Come on, it ain’t snitching, man. It’s doing the right thing so no one else gets hurt.”
“Or . . . maybe you don’t have to say nothing,” Pierce offers, a small smile growing.
“What d’you mean?”
“Give us the song and your security cam footage. We won’t say how we got it. You play dumb if anyone asks. Give us what we need, and no one will know.”
“What? So we gotta bargain with this chump now?” I turn to Kaven. “You really gonna be a punk ass for the rest of your life? My boy walked out here and wasn’t seen alive since, and you still won’t help us?”
“Relax,” Pierce warns. “And respect your elders. There ain’t nothing wrong with a man wanting to protect himself.”
He shrugs. “Some codes you don’t break.”
“You a grown-ass man,” Quady says, his voice cracking. “Steph . . . he was just sixteen.”
Kaven eyes soften, his hands opening up. “I . . . I can give you the rest of Steph’s music. So y’all can keep doing what y’all doing.”
The record scratches, and the whole room freezes.
“What’d you mean ‘the rest?’” Quady asks, wincing like he’s trying to compute.
“Steph recorded a bunch of tracks. Not just one. Never seen a kid work like him. Reminded me of Tupac, walking into a studio, recording ten songs in a few short hours. One-and-done type of takes.”
Pierce is on his feet. “What?”
I grab my chin up off the floor. “Hold up. You saying . . . Steph had more music?”
A soft, satisfied look crosses Kaven’s face.
“Brotha, he got a whole album you haven’t even heard yet.”
After Jasmine handed Kaven’s security footage to the police, we bring her with us back to the studio to pick up Steph’s final album. I mean, we started this together, so we should end it together too, y’knowwhatumsayin?
Pierce worked with Kaven two days straight, putting finishing touches on the tracks. Strange, but they kinda make a good team, Pierce’s passion mixed with Kaven’s ear. Old-school-meets-new-school tends to clash, but them two have one thing in common—love of good music.
Pierce comes out the studio, his clothes wrinkled, eyes bloodshot, flickering the CD between his fingers.
“Here it is,” he says with a smirk. “Steph’s official EP.”
The three of us stand there, trapped by some invisible wall. Out of nowhere, sadness kicks in. Jasmine’s eyes water up and Quady wraps an arm around her, taking a deep breath.
“What? What’s up?” Pierce asks anxiously.
Pierce is holding Steph’s very last breaths. The last time we’ll hear him crack a joke, spit a bar, or sing a song. Music was life to Steph and ain’t nothing sadder than the sound of someone’s last heartbeat.
“Um, nothing,” I mutter and clear my throat. “Yo, thanks, man . . . for everything. You didn’t have to come through for us like you did.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We ain’t done.”
“We ain’t?”
“Nah,” he laughs. “We just getting started.”
50
Jasmine
Detective, I mean Sergeant, Vasquez has a smooth caramel complexion, salt-and-pepper hair, and cool demeanor. Not what I’d expect from a cop. Still, it makes me uneasy . . . him being in our home, sitting on our orange sofa, drinking Kool-Aid out of our purple cup. But I’m giving him a chance and not rushing to judgment.
Because he wants to find out what happened to Steph just as much as we do.
Jarrell leans on the wall by the kitchen while Mom and I sit in chairs facing him. Quadir stands behind me, a hand on my shoulder, rubbing circles in my back with his thumb, telling me I’m safe.
“After Jasmine and I spoke, I did some digging. Wanted to get all of our facts straight, so we could get to the bottom of what happened to Steph.”
“I still don’t quite understand,” Mom says. “Where did he get your number from?”
“This card,” Vasquez says, pulling out the business card. “I gave it to your late husband years ago. He was an informant for our department and had given grand jury testimony for two of our
biggest cases. He truly wanted the best for his community. Even if that meant doing things . . . some people may not agree with.”
“Like snitching,” Jarrell says, hard.
He shrugs. “You can say that. Although we prefer to call it being a responsible citizen.”
Jarrell rolls his eyes. “Yeah, aight.”
“Son, really?” Quadir groans.
Mom waves them off. “Shhh . . . go on.”
“First time I met Steph was on the Promenade. He told me he was with some friends at a nearby basketball park on Bedford when he overheard a light-skinned male with braids and bad acne talking about killing Rashad Johnson.”
“Yoooo,” Jarrell says. “I remember that day! Quady, you were the one who wanted to go to that park, remember?”
Quadir tenses behind me, and I touch his hand. “Um, yeah. I remember.”
That must have been the same guy we saw on Coney Island.
Vasquez notes the interaction but presses on. “I gave Steph a pager and paid him to be an informant while we worked the case. Such a strong lead, I didn’t want him to get lost in the shuffle.”
“So, that’s where he was getting his money for the studio,” I say, looking at Mom. “Not at the shipping company.”
“Over the weeks, he was very helpful in closing the loop on a few outstanding cases. Then, early August, he called, wanting to meet up. Asked if I knew anything about something called the Guerrillas, and I honestly didn’t know much.”
Quadir gives me a small squeeze as my heart sinks.
“Then Steph told me he saw the man who shot Rashad over by a park near the studio he recorded at. Went by the nickname Bumpy. I told him next time he sees him to give us a call immediately, then gave him a ride back, dropping him off a few blocks from here. And that was the last time I heard from him.”
“That’s probably when Dante saw him,” Jarrell exclaims. “Punk ass.”
“Chill, b,” Quadir warns.
“Few months later, we arrested Fernando Ramirez, aka Bumpy, in connection to several incidents and needed Steph to come in to make a positive identification. So you could understand our . . . desperation to find him.”
“You mean, why you hemmed us up on the corner that day?” Rell sucks his teeth. “Should I send my dry-cleaning bill to you or the city?”
“Anyways, without that ID, we had to let him go. Bumpy is nothing but a henchman, meaning he answers to somebody.” He grabs a VHS tape out of his bag, pointing at the VCR. “And there may be a clue on this security footage. You mind?”
Jarrell grabs the tape, rewiring the VCR to the TV. He slips it in and presses play. As soon as the screen pops up, Mom gasps, her hands clutching her face.
There’s Steph. Walking up to Kaven’s door. It’s only been a few months, but seeing him moving around and not just a picture in a frame . . . my whole body goes numb, lips trembling.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. Quadir presses both his hands on my shoulders, leaning into the chair.
The screens cuts to footage of Steph in the booth.
“Yo, there he is!” Jarrell says, sliding on the floor in front of us. “Ha! My man!”
“Is there any sound?” Quadir begs.
“Unfortunately, no.”
Steph is pressed up on the mic, his hands doing that thing he always did when he rhymed, a smile on his face. He’s having the time of his life, doing what he loves.
“Look how happy he is,” Mom whispers, holding both my hands, tears in her eyes. “Oh, my baby.”
The screen goes black, cutting to the outside footage.
“Now, this is the second time he goes to the studio,” Vasquez says. “I want you all to pay close attention to him leaving.”
We all lean in, eyes glued. Steph is in the studio, back in the booth for hours. He draws his symbol on the wall. He comes out the booth and is talking to Kaven. They’re arguing. Steph looks upset as he leaves. Outside, the camera is cut off slightly by a large bush in the front, but you can see Steph standing on the sidewalk, right by the gate. There’s a black car parked out front. A door opens, someone gets out. He’s talking to someone we can’t see. The bush is blocking our view.
“Now, does anyone recognize that car?” Vasquez asks, hitting pause. “We were only able to zoom in on a partial on the plate . . . but does it look familiar to anyone?”
Jarrell is up on his feet, tears in his eyes. He stands in front of the TV, shoulders sagging.
“That’s not a car,” he sighs. “That’s a black Range Rover.”
51
Quadir
Rell wipes sweat off his brow for the third time in five minutes and stuffs one of the cinnamon rolls he picked up from the corner store in his mouth. I want to crack on him for being so shook, but deadass, my right leg won’t stop shaking. Not when there’s a huge HOT 97 logo staring back at me.
“Would y’all relax?” Pierce grumbles at us in the waiting area. “Y’all making me look stupid out here.”
“Son, I can’t believe we up in here,” Rell whispers to me.
Jasmine gently places a hand on my bouncing knee.
“You ain’t nervous?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m cool,” she says, her voice calm and sweet.
That’s hard to believe, but she’s at ease, taking in all the people walking in and out, as if we’re chilling on a bench in B-Voort. Like we ain’t sitting in the most famous hip-hop radio station in the world.
“You bugging,” Rell mumbles, finishing off his last roll.
A young white lady with long brown hair walks in with a clipboard.
“Hi, Mr. Williams,” she says, all cheery. “We’re ready for you now!”
Pierce nods at us, and we follow. The radio is playing on some type of surround sound through the hallways. Everyone looks real official in their office but dressed mad regular in jeans and kicks, not all uptight in suits and hard-bottoms. Working up here must be sick. You get to listen to tight music, meet all the fly celebrities, and attend the illest album release parties.
The lady opens the door to a low-lit studio, and the Puerto Rican woman behind the mic stands, her gold hair in a high bun, smile blinding.
“P-Money! What’s up, baby,” she says.
I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining who I’m seeing but her voice is unmistakable.
“Angie! What’s up, girl? Thanks for having us.”
Pierce gives her a hug like they’re old friends.
“Nah, thanks for coming!” She turns to us and smiles. “Hey, what’s up, everybody? I’m Angie.”
The three of us look stuck on stupid.
“Angie . . .” Rell gasps.
“Oh my God,” Jasmine mumbles.
“Mar . . . tin . . . ez.”
“Oh my God,” Jasmine says again, her mouth hanging open.
Angie Martinez. She’s no regular disc jockey. She’s the official voice of New York, always with the exclusive hits and interviews. She’s friends with some of the biggest names in hip-hop—Jay-Z, Mary J. Blige, Lil’ Kim, Puff Daddy. The whole city tunes in from three to seven to hear her show.
“Aight, y’all,” Pierce says, “have a seat.”
The producer and board operator give us headphones and set us up in front of mics, across the table from Angie.
“Yo, I’m mad excited about this,” Angie says to Pierce. “You gave me a little bit of background, but I’m ready to really get into this story.”
Pierce chuckles. “Yeah . . . and I got a few more surprises up my sleeve.”
The board operator gives her the signal, and Angie leans into the mic.
“HOT 97! Representing hip-hop and R&B Flavor, yuh heard! What up, everybody, it’s your girl Angie Martinez up in the place and I got a few special guests today. First . . . Pierce Williams is in the building!”
Pierce leans up on the mic. “What up, what up!”
“Good to have you here, baby,” she says. “And you brought some young friends along. Say what up, gu
ys!”
Rell jumps at the chance. “Yo yo yo! It’s your boy Rell, representing the Stuy! B-Voort, getting this money! Big ups to Brooklyn!”
“Son, really?” I shout under my breath.
Angie laughs. “You got some characters up in here today, Pierce.”
Pierce narrows his eyes at Rell. “Yeah, regular piece of work. That’s Jarrell. And this is Quadir and Jasmine.”
“Aight, now let’s get into the fun stuff. You mentioned that you’re signing this up-and-coming artist, the Architect, to your new label.”
Rell whips his head around, mouthing the words, “New label?”
“Yup,” Pierce says with a smirk. “The Architect will be the first artist signed to Home Court Records.”
“Aight, so I’ve heard some of his stuff, and I’m impressed! Repping BK to the fullest.”
Wow, even Angie’s feeling Steph’s music! My chest swells with pride as Jasmine grins.
Headline: NY’s Angie Martinez Cosigns New Brooklyn Artist
“BUT,” Pierce says. “There’s a catch.”
“A catch? Uh-oh,” Angie chuckles.
“The Architect . . . is deceased.”
Angie frowns, glancing at her producer. “Uhhh . . . what?”
“You heard it here first. The rapper the Architect is Brooklyn’s own Michael “Steph” Davis. Born, March 18, 1982. Murdered, August 23, 1998.”
Angie, the voice of New York, is speechless. “So . . . the mixes everyone’s been listening to . . . ?”
“All previously recorded tracks. Produced by these knucklehead kids. They’ve been pretending he’s still alive, hustling like his street team.”
“Wowww!” She turns to us. “Now how the hell y’all pull this off?”
Pierce laughs. “How they pulled it off isn’t as important as why they pulled it off.”
“Aight, I feel you. So tell us . . . why!”
Rell and Jasmine turn to me, waiting.
I clear my throat. “Well, um, I guess we just wanted our boy . . . to be somebody. There’s mad kids from the hood who could’ve been famous rappers, singers, poets, basketball stars . . . but their life got cut short. We just . . . we just wanted our boy to have a life after death. Steph shouldn’t be just another name on a list.”
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 25
