IT TOOK SOME DOING, BUT WITHIN A FEW HOURS
the crew had the St. Nicholas projects looking like a BET soundstage. There were lights, trucks, high-tech equipment, and of course women. From far and wide they came. Black girls, White girls, Asians, you name it, they were out there. All came in search of their fifteen minutes of fame. As soon as the red Escalade bent the corner of 131st Street, blasting Don B's latest single off his sophomore album, all attention was turned to it. The Don was in the building.
Big Devil stepped from the driver's side, causing the car to rock. He was dressed in a black T-shirt with THE TRUTH etched across the front of it. Black sunglasses covered his eyes and looked like they were too tight around his massive head. Next out of the ride was his partner Remo. In contrast to Devil's dark skin, Remo was high yellow. Standing side by side they looked like human twin towers. The men were seasoned street vets and hired killers in the service of the Don.
Don B climbed from the rear of the car with a blunt pinched between his lips. In addition to his rottweiler medallion, he was sporting a colorful diamond chain that looked like someone had sprinkled Fruity Pebbles on it.
True was next, wearing a red bandana tied around his neck like a cowboy. A California Angels cap sat cocked on his head, looking like it would come off at the first strong wind that came through. Like Remo, he wore a black T-shirt with the title of his album scrawled across the front of it. With the twin towers at their heel, the two stars made their way across the street towards the projects.
Halfway across the street, Devil noticed a short light-skinned kid coming in their direction. He had a shifty glare about him and his hands were tucked a little too deep inside the pockets of his Yankee jacket. Before he could get close enough to do any real damage, Devil stepped in front of him.
“Sup, shorty?” Devil said to the kid.
“Chillin, my nigga,” the kid said, trying to sidestep Devil.
“You know somebody over here or something?” Devil asked, blocking his path again.
“Fam,” the kid said, as if Devil was becoming an annoyance. “Why is you acting like I'm a deranged fan or something when I'm just trying to go holla at my man?”
“Cause I don't know ya face, fam,” Devil said in an icy tone.
“My dude.” The kid went to take his hand out of his pocket and Devil went into action. He grabbed the kid by the arm and bent it behind his back. Though Devil had yet to apply any pressure, the kid yelled out, drawing True's attention.
“Yo, what you doing Devil?” True threw his hands in the air.
“My job, lil muthafucka!” Devil shot back.
“True, you know this nigga?” Don B asked in an unconcerned tone.
True looked at Don B as if he should know the man, too. “D, you mean to tell me you don't remember Wood?”
“Who?”
True shook his head. “Wood, nigga, little Hollywood. The fake John Singleton.”
“Oh, fam wit the movies and shit?” Don B recalled. “True, I ain't really trying to fuck wit that nigga right now, we got business with Stacks.”
“Come on, dawg, we can't just let Devil toss him up like that,” True said.
Don B sighed heavily. “True, make this shit quick. Yo, Devil!” Don B called to the bodyguard. When he had Devil's attention he motioned for him to let Hollywood go.
“Told you, nigga,” Hollywood said, before popping his collar and strutting over to where Don B and True were standing. “What it is, my niggaz?” Hollywood gave True a pound then jerked him in for a hug. He went to repeat it with Don B, but the scowl on the man's face changed his mind. “Right, right. So what's good fellas.”
“Ain't nothing. Bout to roll over here to Stacks Green's video shoot,” True told him.
“Oh word, that's what it is. I wasn't doing nothing anyway.” When Hollywood tried to fall in step with them Don B stopped him.
“It's a closed set, homey. You're welcomed to stay around, though.” Don B stepped off the curb, leaving True to deal with Hollywood.
“Yo, what's up wit ya man?” Hollywood asked True, once Don B was out of earshot. “Duke be acting like I did something to him, what's good with that?”
“Ain't about nothing,” True lied. The truth of the matter was that Hollywood was a bullshit artist. He was one of those cats that had big dreams and no initiative. Every time you saw him he was popping shit about what he was into and how he had another surefire plan, but nothing ever panned out for Hollywood, because he gave a half-ass effort.
“Funny, cause it always seem like something,” Hollywood said. “But fuck that shit, I hear you doing ya thing wit the music, True?”
“I ain't did nothing yet,” True said modestly. “I killed a few mix tapes, but my album doesn't come out for another couple of weeks. That'll be the real test of fire.”
“I hear that. Yo, y'all shot a video yet?”
“Not since the Bad Blood joint. I've just been writing and trying to jump on every mix tape out there.”
“Nigga, that's what it is. But you know to come holla at me the next time you ready to shoot something, right?” Hollywood asked.
“I don't know, Wood. The record company usually chooses which directors we go with.”
“Stop acting like that, True. You the biggest act on Don B's label, you know he'll listen to you. Check it: I got the high-eight joint at the crib right now. We can take that, shoot the video for the low. After we do that we can present it to Don B, to show him we know how to move.” Hollywood was trying to sell game, but True wasn't buying.
“Wood, I can't speak for Don B, but I'll put it in the air,” True said. He really just wanted Hollywood to go on about his business so he could go about his.
“That's what it is then. Yo, True, holla at ya man, we need to do something.”
“A'ight,” True said, moving to catch up with Don B.
“Big Dawg, kid!” Hollywood shouted at True's back.
“YO, WHY YOU WASTE YA
time wit that kid?” Don B asked True while fishing around in his pocket for a light.
“You know Hollywood is from the block,” True said.
“He could be from Mars, for all I give a fuck; the kid is a bullshit artist. Every time you turn around he's talking some upwardly mobile shit, but when its time for the follow-through he flakes. The nigga been like that for years.”
“He a'ight. I mean, I know he's full of shit, but I don't dislike the cat.”
“Then you ain't as smart as I thought you were. True, let me break something down to you about the nature of people. If a muthafucka ain't about what you about, then y'all ain't got nothing in common. If you come across a cat that ain't got no direction of his own but is all too willing to throw in his lot with your movement, then you don't need him.”
“I don't agree with that, D. Some niggaz just feel ya movement so heavy that they can understand what you're trying to do, and they add to it,” True tried to reason.
“Young'n, you're missing what I'm trying to tell you. Ain't nothing
wrong with a nigga trying to strengthen your movement, but there should be and is always something gained from it. Every nigga should have a dream beyond riding the next muthafucka's coattail. If you ain't got no dreams, you ain't got no soulâand I don't want that kinda karma around me, dig?”
“Yeah, I dig,” True said, trying to figure why Don B was so fucking paranoid about everybody. But paranoid as he was, Don B had always given True sound advice.
“Man,” Don B continued, “with age comes wisdom, my nigga. You can't learn everything in a day or even a season for that matter, but pace ya self and listen to ya old head and you'll be alright. Now lets greet our adoring public.”
THE INTERIOR OF THE CAR
was filled with a combination of weed and cigarette smoke. So foggy in fact, that even through the tints, all you saw of the occupants were silhouettes. A young girl sat behind the wheel of the Honda nervously smoking a cigarette. Sha Boogie sat in the passenger seat wearing his trademark mean mug. A gnarled toothpick bobbed between his thick lips, while his eyes were glued on the cluster of people gathering across the street.
“Look at them muthafuckas, fronting like they some bosses or something,” Charlie said, voicing what Sha was thinking.
“Them boys is shining something nice, fam. I say we ease up on these niggaz and pop off now,” Spider said in his whispery voice. He was a wild young bandit who had gotten his name when he climbed four stories down the side of a project building to avoid being captured by the police.
“Man, you know this is Sha Boogie's call.” Charlie gave him a stern look. Sha Boogie and True's beef went further back than Spider understood, and Sha hadn't made it a point to share that information with many. Besides his mother, only those closest to him understood why he hated True so much.
Sha Boogie glared and said nothing. He watched True scornfully. His shine, the quirky smile, everything about True made him furious.
True was living the life that every ghetto kid dreamt of, while Sha had to get by on his wits. Sha Boogie was living lick to lick, dealing with a mother who couldn't stand him, a dickhead parole officer, and a team that couldn't get right, while this little bastard was riding through Harlem like a boss pimp. It made Sha sick to his stomach, but he took some solace knowing the debt would be settled.
“Nah,” Sha said in an easy tone. “Let him enjoy his fifteen minutes. We gonna lay up and wait for him to slip.” With that, Sha relaxed in his seat but still kept his eyes locked on True.
IT ONLY TOOK A SECOND
for one of the young ladies to recognize Don B and True and send the crowd into frenzy. In a matter of seconds they found themselves rushed by women and men in search of autographs, or trying to hand them demos. The towers went into action, forcing the crowd back, but Don B told them it was cool as long as they kept it orderly. True, who was trying to break the lock a young girl had on his arm, looked at Don B quizzically.
“Don't trip dawg, this is all a part of the life,” Don B whispered into his ear. “Keep your distance from haters, but never make the fans feel like you're inaccessible. The more real you seem, the more the people will love you.” He winked and continued the impromptu autograph signing.
“Y'all Harlem boys love to stunt,” said a thin man wearing a platinum chain that looked like it weighed more than he did. The only thing keeping the crowd from mobbing him were the four serious looking cats surrounding him. They weren't as big as the towers, but their faces clearly said trouble.
“Soda, what it is?” Don B breached his protective circle and gave him a hug.
Soda was to Stacks Green what True was to Don B, a young cat with star potential. Back in the day, Soda's mother used to let Stacks stash guns and drugs in her house, as long as she was taken care of. One fateful night some cats robbed her house and shot her, making Soda an orphan. Though Soda's mother was a street chick and it was
only karma coming back to her, Stacks felt responsible for her death, prompting him to take Soda in. Soda learned the game quickly and proved to be not only a top-notch earner, but a fierce MC. When Stacks started popping in the music industry he made sure that he kept Soda close to him, teaching the youngster yet another hustle.
Soda flashed his platinum grills. “Ain't nothing, brah, just trying to live. Who ya got wit ya?”
“This my nigga, True.” Don B. pulled True into the circle. “True, this here is Soda. If things go right, y'all gonna be spending quite a bit of time together. I got both of y'all doing some shit on the boy Scatter Brain's next mix tape, so you might wanna get familiar with each other's styles.”
“That's what's up,” True said, not sure how he felt about teaming with a cat he didn't know.
“Yo, where that nigga Stacks at?” Don asked.
“Shit, he in the trailer burning that sticky,” Soda told him.
“Y'all brought that country-ass shit up with you? You must be crazy, risking a charge for that fucking dirt,” Don B teased him.
“Man, the Lone Star got some of the best green in the fucking country,” Soda said, defending his state's weed game.
“Yeah, if you into crabgrass, nigga! You ain't ready for that Five-Six, son.” Don B shot back.
“Well, don't talk about it nigga, light it up. Let's migrate to the trailer.”
“After you, kid.” Don B gave him a mock bow. The three young stars headed deeper into the projects with the six security guards trailing them.
“MAN, FUCKING WIT YOU, WE GONNA MISS ALL
the hos,” Nate said to Spooky, while steering the minivan up Flushing Avenue.
“Come on, Nate, that shit wasn't my fault. Shannon is the one that had to change his clothes,” Spooky protested.
“Because you splattered blood all over them!” Shannon interjected.
Spooky shrugged, “You shouldn't have been standing so close to the nigga when I shot him.”
“That's my point. You didn't have to shoot him,” Nate said. “Spook, you stay dancing with the devil and one day you're gonna get burnt.”
Spooky looked at his older brother as if he had just called him a cock-sucking faggot. “Muthafucka, is you serious? What you think you do every time you hit the block with a package? Big bro, this is the jungle we live in, survival is the law of the land round here. Damnit, if the devil is gonna take me outta this hell, not only will I dance with him, but he can have my black-ass soul at half price!”
“Why don't you two niggaz stop beefing. We licked two drug dealers for their shine and they cake, where the fuck is the wrong in that?”
Nate cut his eyes at Shannon. “You just as twisted as this fool,” he thumbed at Spooky.
“Birds of a feather eat together,” Spooky shot back. Before he really got a chance to go in on his brother, his cell vibrated in his pocket. “Yeah?”
“Damn, I've been trying to call you for a minute,” Jah said on the other end.
“My fault, my nigga, I was on one. What's good wit you though?”
“I'm on my way over to St. Nick to see Yoshi, she working on that nigga Stacks's video.”
“Great minds think alike, cause we on our way over there, too,” Spooky told him.
“You fucking wit them Brooklyn niggaz hard body, huh?”
“Hey man, some of us is still out here in the thick. How's that security thing coming along?”
“You got jokes, huh? I can't complain though. Ain't nothing like the hunt, but it makes my lady happy, ya know?”
“I can dig it, J. What's up wit Yoshi, anyhow?”
“Stressing, as usual.”
“Fuck you do now?”
“Long story, but we'll jaw about it at the shoot,” Jah told him.
“Fo sho. But yo, you got that sticky on you, cause we probably ain't gonna get a chance to stop?”
“You know that. Hurry the fuck up so we can get blazed!” Jah said, excited to see his friend.
“That's a bet, see you in a minute.” Spooky ended the call.
“Who was that?” Shannon asked.
Spooky looked at him and said, “Another dedicated soldier.”
STACKS GREEN WAS A MAN
who bore a striking resemblance to a black-ass Buddha. His bulky frame rested in a burgundy barber chair that swiveled on a post that was bolted to the floor of the camper. A long diamond chain hung from his neck, while the pendant rested on his large gut. It was a beautiful, three-dimensional piece that was
slightly larger than a bread saucer and shaped like the state of Texas. A diamond-studded S sat in the middle of the piece, and surrounding it were waves of bright green diamonds. Accented by a flooded watch and two gumdrop-size diamond earrings, Stacks Green was the poster boy for niggaz who had made it.
“You gonna pass that or what?” Cooter asked, nodding at the blunt between Stacks's chubby knuckles. At six-two, with coal black skin, and a missing tooth in the front, Cooter wasn't the prettiest thing to come out of the Lone Star State, but he was good to have with you in a fight.
“Man, we got like two ounces of smoke in this bitch, so why the fuck you clocking my choke? Man, you better twist you something and back the fuck up off this here,” Stacks said in a lazy drawl.
“Nigga, I rolled the bitch and I can't hit it? Brah, that syrup got you tripping,” Cooter laughed, plucking a cigar from the box on the counter.
Stacks jiggled the white foam cup he was holding before taking a sip. “Boy, I was raised on Texas tea. I used to mix that Dimetap wit my Kool-Aid, and Mama ain't Hip to it for a hot one. When she did she busted my ass wider than all outside!” Stacks laughed.
“Let me try some,” a Puerto Rican girl, wearing a sequence halter, spoke up. She was supposed to be an extra in the video, but at that point and time she was providing entertainment for Stacks and his crew. She reached for Cooter's cup, only for him to snatch it away.
“Easy, baby, you ain't ready to get ya lean on,” Cooter told her.
“I don't see what the big deal is; it's just cough medicine and a little Hennessy,” she said, clearly not understanding what she was dealing with.
Cooter shot her a comical look. “Cough medicine? Stacks,” he tapped his partner's leg, “you hear this square bitch? Shorty, this ain't just cough medicine. This is doctor prescribed, top of the line; kick a cold in its monkey-ass cough medicine!”
“Preach nigga!” Stacks called from the sideline.
“Pretty lady, this here is the drink of champions where I come from, and trust me when I say that the Hennessey in this cup is the least of your worries.”
It seemed like everyone in the camper was laughing at her. Even the two other girls she had rolled in with were snickering. Normally, the Puerto Rican girl would've spazzed out for a nigga trying to play her in public, but Stacks and his crew were an exception to the rule. They could laugh all they wanted to now, but when it was all said and done, she'd see to it that they came up outta their pockets.
“What's the joke, I wanna laugh?” Don B said, following Soda into the camper.
“Don, what it is?” Stacks raised his bulk off the chair just enough to give Don B a pound. “You niggaz ready to lose ya money, or what?”
“I hear that hot shit.” Don B invited himself to a seat, to the right of the Puerto Rican girl. She batted her eyes at him but he seemed not to notice. “I got some of the best players in the city riding for me, daddy. Y'all niggaz is gonna get scraped.”
Stacks gave a friendly chuckle. “I hear you talking, cat, but them street niggaz you got on ya squad ain't got nothing for us. With my man Cooter running the point, y'all is sunk!”
“I see y'all bringing ringers into it?” True said, looking at Cooter. “Texas Tech, right?”
“I see you do your homework,” Cooter smiled. Only a few people knew that Cooter had been a basketball phenomenon back in his day. He was an all-American point guard for Texas Tech university, but his hoop dreams were derailed when he went to jail on a gun charge. Since then he had given his heart and dreams over to the streets.
“All day,” True replied.
“Dawg, I wouldn't give a fuck if you played for the Globetrotters, you gonna get ya ass cut,” Don B insisted.
“We'll see,” Cooter said, lighting the blunt he had rolled.
“So what the business is, D, I know you gonna show us some of that East Coast hospitality?” Stacks asked.
“You know that. We gonna drink good, smoke good, and taste some of the sweetest tenders New York has to offer. As a matter of fact, my man is having a locked door joint, and we're good for the VIP treatment.”
“That's what I'm talking about,” Cooter exhaled the smoke he had
been holding in his lungs. “I just hope they some bad bitches, cause the last time we hit a strip club up here them hos was looking way rough.”
“Nah, that ain't how the Ice Man rolls. He only deals in the best quality of bitches,” Don B assured him.
“Ice? You talking about a kid named Black Ice?” Soda asked, reminding everyone that he was in the room.
“Yeah, you know him?” Don B asked.
“Nah, but I've seen him before. He came through All-Star weekend when they hosted it in H-town. The boy had them bitches in thongs riding up and down the strip on choppers. Stacks, you remember that nigga?”
“Yeah, yeah, the dark-skinned cat with the big chain!” Cooter cut in. “Stacks, remember Buck and them niggaz tried to roll him for his chain, God bless.”
“Yeah, that light-skinned bitch he had with him put something hot in old Buck's ass,” Stacks recalled.
“That sounds like Black Ice.” Don B smiled. “Ya boy must've had it coming, cause Ice ain't the violent type. He deals in pussy.”
“As long as them bitches don't start dumbing out,” Soda said.
“Nah, we good money. Ice is a stand-up nigga, and his bitches is kept in check,” Don B said.
There was a knock on the camper door and a man wearing a headset came into the trailer. The small blond almost coughed up a lung from all the smoke in the enclosed area. “Stacks,” he coughed, “they're ready for you.”
“Showtime,” Stacks addressed the room as he hauled himself out of the chair.