“I’m saying,” Rell adds. “We . . . Brooklyn . . . are more than what they say about us on the news. We family, we good people. Plus, Big and Tupac blew up after they died. Why not our boy?”
“You shouldn’t have to be famous first for brothas and sistas to recognize your shine,” Jasmine says softly.
Angie nods. “Wow. That’s really . . . beautiful. So now that everybody knows . . . what’s next?”
“Everybody in New York knows,” Pierce corrects her. “But we want the world to know! We want to send a message that you may kill the man, but you can never kill his dream. So Brooklyn, stand up for your boy! Meet us on Fulton and Utica, in front of the train station! Tomorrow at four p.m.!”
And then it happened. Bed-Stuy turned into Weeksville again.
On Fulton and Utica, in front of the supermarket, we set up our own table, with over a thousand copies of Steph’s demos. Rell played salesman as Fletch and I assisted. DJ Cash brought his turntables and speakers, blasting Steph’s music. Everyone from the hood came and then some. It was like a huge summer block party in the winter.
Pierce hired a street team of fine-looking ladies to pass out posters of Steph with the name of his new company. Rell’s pops sold T-shirts while his moms sold beef patties and coco bread. My mom helped the guys from the corner store hand out free cups of hot chocolate and cookies. The HOT 97 street team rolled up in their truck and handed out swag. Reporters from every network and newspaper came with their cameras, talking to anyone who ever knew Steph, which seemed like everyone.
“It’s time we stop the street violence, once and for all,” the Brooklyn Borough President Howard Golden says to News Channel 4. “This young man had a bright future ahead of him. One of many who have died tragically. But it’s amazing to see his family and friends turn this tragedy into hope for the community.”
Busta Rhymes, Lil’ Cease, AZ, Foxy Brown, the Lox . . . all friends of Pierce, came through. They signed autographs, took pictures with fans, and helped pass out swag. We sold out within an hour.
“Steph was just like us,” some girl says to a reporter. “You know, he was talking about life here in the Stuy. Stuff people don’t understand but need to.”
“He was B-Voort. We gotta show him some love!” another duke says.
Ronnie and her girls start dancing, hyping up the crowd to join them. Ms. Davis and Jasmine walk around hugging and thanking everyone for coming. The party spills out into the street. People dancing on top of cars, shouting his lyrics, bringing traffic to a halt.
Ms. Davis is stunned. You could see it in her eyes as she cried on every shoulder. She never expected to see so many people show love for her baby. But that’s what we do. We spread love.
It’s the Brooklyn way.
52
Jarrell
E. Rocque’s basement is rocking so hard the walls are sweating. DJ Cash ain’t playing nothing but Steph’s music. Everybody’s holding posters, pictures, wearing RIP T-shirts, screaming the lyrics loud enough for Steph to hear in heaven.
And he ain’t just at E. Rocque’s either. He’s up in the Tunnel, Club Lima, Speed, on HOT 97, from Brooklyn to Compton, from hood spots to cookouts—Steph is everywhere. It’s the type of homegoing service he would’ve wanted.
Okay so boom, I got a story to tell . . . of how it all went down:
• Dante told Mack that Rashad was selling weight on Mack’s turf.
• Bumpy worked for Mack and took out Rashad.
• Steph overheard Bumpy bragging, went to the Feds, and blew up his spot on the track.
• Fast Pace was friends with Bumpy and word got back to him.
• Mack didn’t want the heat, so Mack had Bumpy take out Steph.
Crazy how they say no snitching but cats getting murked ’cause of a bunch of lip smacking anyways.
The air is nice and crisp outside. I pour a little liquor out for my homie. Steph risked his life for everybody, but he died for me, and that’s something I have to live with. That’s why I can’t let a day go by wasting it on just being a regular everyday duke in these streets. Nah, I gotta make him proud and do all the things he wanted me to.
I pour a little liquor out for Mack. He ain’t dead, but he’s dead to me.
All that time he was pretending like he cared, when really he was just distracting me from his dirt. Feeding everybody ice cream so no one would notice the permanent stains he made around the whole hood. He stays teaching me something about life, even when he’s dead wrong.
Inside, DJ Cash switches it up and plays Big’s “Hypnotize.” It’s crazy that it’s been over a year and they still don’t know who killed him. They don’t even know who killed Tupac yet! Wonder how long it’ll take for someone to step up and say something.
One thing’s for sure, losing them changed the hip-hop game forever.
Losing Steph . . . changed us forever.
Death got a way of moving you. Whether you ready or not. Y’knowwhatumsayin?
53
Jasmine
In a makeshift conference room up in Harlem, Carl and I stand on either side of Mom, sitting at the head of large table. A temp sign—“Home Court Records”—is taped on the bare walls behind us.
With her hair and makeup done up nice, she grips the ink pen and signs the contract laid before her. My heart is beating a million miles an hour. I glance up at Quadir and Jarrell next to me, holding their breath. Quadir’s eyes flicker over to me. When she’s done, Mom sets down the pen and exhales.
The room full of people burst into cheers as cameras flash.
We did it, Steph. We did it for you.
“With this,” Pierce says, addressing the room. “Steph Davis, aka the Architect, is the first of many artists who will be signed to Home Court!”
Mom hugs and kisses Carl and me. The color has returned to her face. She’s our mom again. And with the money we’ve made, we won’t have to move and she won’t have to work so hard. She can rest. She can mourn. She can heal.
Fletch pops some champagne for the adults and sparkling apple cider for us.
“Yo, Jazzy Jazz,” Jarrell says, squeezing me in a bear hug. “We did it!”
“Rell, I can’t breathe!”
“You don’t need to breathe, girl, quit playing.”
“Yo, man,” Quadir says, pushing him off, wrapping an arm around my back. “You crushing my girl.”
No matter how many times he says it, I still feel a tingle when he calls me his girl.
“Wait, hold up, hold up! Almost forgot,” Pierce says. “We have one more thing to sign.”
Fletch pulls a contract out of his bag and slides it across the table. Pierce shifts it in front of me, offering me a pen.
“Can’t be a label without a first lady.”
54
Quadir
Headline: Three Kids from Brooklyn Pull Off the Biggest Heist in Hip-Hop History
Chilling on the corner, I keep thinking about how one crazy idea turned our lives upside down. I mean, maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all. Maybe just thinking outside the box is how you get further than you ever could dream of.
A car drives by, blasting Steph’s music. You can hear him echo through the streets of Brooklyn.
On my right is Jasmine, her Afro puffs shimmering in the sun. I grip her hand and she smiles up at me. Like she’s proud of me. I’m mad proud of her too.
On my left is Jarrell, beatboxing, flossing in one of those crazy-color Iceberg sweaters Big used to wear. He lost his best friend and his Old G, but still managed to find himself and not kill his little brothers in the process.
Up ahead is Brevoort. Up ahead is my future. Up ahead will always be home no matter how far I go.
55
June 22, 1998
On the corner, Steph faced the sun with his eyes closed, letting it bake his skin. A car drove by blasting Big’s “You’re Nobody (Til Somebody Kills You).” School was out and the sky was the limit.
“Aye yo, son. What you doing?
Trying to go blind?”
Quadir palmed his basketball, spinning it on one finger. Jarrell snatched the ball and dribbled it through his legs.
“Yeah, come on, son! Let me hear a rhyme or something.”
Steph smirked at his two friends then laughed.
“Bet. Check it . . .”
They keep sayin’
Let me hear a rhyme, let me hear a rhyme
I’m ’bout to start chargin’ pennies, dimes, nickels, maybe fives
Haha!
I stay sonnin’, kids
That means ain’t no daughters
Like Jamaican spots at eight o’clock
I take no orders
My style is like curry,
First name kinda the same but got more handle than Marbury!
But I’m from Brevoort
Breathe or die
Send you to Bed with a sty
Before I,
Finish this,
Remember me for my penmanship, I’m all work, no play
My new name is business trip!! (**oohs and aahs**)
In other words, I’m no joke!
But it ain’t no sequel when I make you Scream 2
And go ghost! (**oohs and aahs**)
That means I’ll disappear into thin air
Maybe then I’ll be a legend
When you hear me everywhere!
Glossary of ’90s New York Terms
BRICK: Extremely cold
BROLIC: Chiseled, buff, muscular, built man or woman
DEADASS: To be dead serious about a matter; telling the truth
DEUCE DEUCE: A .22 caliber handgun
FUGAZI: Artificial, fake; something that has no substance
GULLY: Rough, raw, street, real
JACKS: Vials of crack cocaine
JAKES: Cops, feds, FBI, or anyone who can arrest
MURK: To kill or severely beat up someone
WORD IS BOND: Truth be told, or the truth is spoken
WORD TO/ON MY MOMS: Swearing to your mother that you didn’t do what you’re accused of
Acknowledgments
I was fifteen years old when Notorious B.I.G. was murdered.
On March 9, 1997, I woke up to a screaming call from a friend and turned the radio to HOT 97, where the host sniffled as she broke the news. Callers were hysterical—the entire city of New York was in mourning. Only then did I start to cry. I didn’t know B.I.G. personally, but as with many music icons, you felt like they knew you. Biggie was a beacon of hope for the people of Brooklyn. He was one of us, a black kid from the hood who “made it” and represented our borough with so much loving pride. Thus, the raw emotions were akin to those you’d feel losing a family member.
What started as a script in graduate school became the novel Let Me Hear a Rhyme. It’s a love letter to hip-hop, to Brooklyn, to my childhood, and to everyone we lost before they had their time to shine. Writing this wasn’t like writing my previous novels. It involved going back to 1998, arguably one of the greatest years in hip-hop history, reliving those moments, and creating one of my most personal works to date, so you saw a lot of “young Tiffany” within the pages. . . .
The scene involving an ice-cream truck . . .
I’m Tamika.
The scene at the Tunnel nightclub . . .
I’m the girl on the dance floor. (Yes, Mom, I snuck out with a fake ID!)
The scene at Biggie’s funeral . . .
I’m one of the girls confused that the police won’t just let us have this moment.
Readers, THANK YOU! For trusting me with your time, your minds, and your emotions. The love I’ve received for Allegedly and Monday’s Not Coming has been overwhelming. I know this particular book is different, but it’s also so much of who I am and where I came from. Thank you for allowing me to share that with you.
I could not have written this without my best friend, Malik-16. Malik, you loved this idea from the very beginning and stepped up to the challenge when I couldn’t. It was so much fun going down memory lane and arguing over ’90s lingo. Thank you for always being my person and seeing my greatness when I refuse to.
To Benjamin Rosenthal, thanks for being so passionate about this project. All those years of loving hip-hop made you the perfect editor to bring this to life! To Samona and Erin, thank you for the dopest cover EVER!! To Natalie Lakosil, as always, thank you for your fierce positivity and planning for a future that is beyond my expectations. To Sam Bernard, thank you for continuing to fight for my dreams.
To Akil Kamau, Shanelle Gabriel, Lamar Giles, and Starr Rocque (and E. Rocque!): thank you for reading the early versions of this book as honorary hip-hop fact-checkers.
Big ups to Brooklyn, my family, my friends, and my writer community. Ya’ll made me and keep me humble. Thanks for helping me find my way back after losing my beloved pup, Oscar De La Jackson.
And, God, thank you for raining down blessings and continuing to work on me.
FROM MALIK-16
To my parents, for never throwing away my millions of spiral notebooks full of lyrics.
To Sha-Sha, for waiting for this book.
To every single Brownsville summer spent in the Seth-Low projects at my Aunt Rosey’s with my cousins Omar, Rainy, and Leemi introducing me to hip-hop and comic books amid a backdrop of crack-era insanity.
About the Author
Photo by Andrew Fennell
TIFFANY D. JACKSON is the author of Allegedly and Monday’s Not Coming. A TV professional by day, novelist by night, she received her bachelor of arts in film from Howard University and her master of arts in media studies from the New School. A Brooklyn native, she is a lover of naps, cookie dough, and beaches, currently residing in the borough she loves, most likely multitasking. You can visit her online at www.writeinbk.com.
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Books by Tiffany D. Jackson
Allegedly
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Let Me Hear a Rhyme
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Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
LET ME HEAR A RHYME. Copyright © 2019 by Tiffany D. Jackson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art © 2019 by Samona / Scared of Monsters / Scaredofmonsters.com
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018968472
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-284034-9
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-284032-5
* * *
19 20 21 22 23 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
1. Quadir
2. Jasmine
3. Jarrell
4. March 18, 1997
5. Quadir
6. Jasmine
7. Jarrell
8. Quadir
9. Jasmine
10. October 3, 1997
11. Jarrell
12. Quadir
13. Jarrell
14. Jasmine
15. Quadir
16. Jasmine
17. Quadir
Let Me Hear a Rhyme Page 26
