TWENTY-FIVE
Eric drove slowly and joined the traffic entering the city. His cellular phone rang.
“Whassup?” It was Busta. I hope he doesn’t want to hang out, Eric thought. I’ve got to pick up my girl.
“Yeah, so how’re you doing, B.?”
“E., we gotta talk.”
“Ahight. Yeah, let’s. When? If it’s about Da Crew, I’ve got ‘em booked for two weeks in the studio.”
“Nah, nah. That’s another story, E. I’ve gotta talk to you now.”
“Right now? Busta, I’m on my way to get my girl. We have a date. I’ve got to check back with you on that tip...”
“E., hear me out. Hear me out. We hit da wrong fucking nigga, homey.”
“Whoa. What?” Eric stuttered.
He swerved to a stop, almost side-swiping a car.
“Hey, asshole, get da fuck off the phone before it gets your ass killed,” the other driver yelled.
Eric pulled over to the curb and stopped.
“Meet me uptown at Mr. Gee’s, Eric.” The click followed.
Eric floored the gas, rejoining the traffic. What had gone wrong? he wondered to himself. Deedee said it was Deja. He quickly dialed home. No answer. He checked his watch. It was seven-fifteen. He dialed Sophia’s number.
“Hi, Baby...”
“Where are you?” Sophia asked.
“Baby, what time does this thing start?”
“My partnership banquet, which I deserve, starts at eight-thirty, sharp. We should be there by nine, sugar plum. And your niece says ‘hi.’ And no meetings, sugar. Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’ve gotta meet with Busta.”
“Oh, no. No more auditions.” This came out scathingly. Sophia was not holding back. “When you guys get together, it’s like you get lost in some type of childhood business and I get left out. No!”
“Listen babe, I’ll meet you there by nine-thirty at the latest.”
“You’re only saying that. Eric, your niece would like to speak to you.”
“Put her on, babe.” Eric said. A second later Deedee’s voice was heard on the receiver: “Uncle E.,”
“What’s the deal Dee?”
“Don’t be trying to play out my good buddy for nobody else, Uncle E. Tonight is her night. Do you follow that, Uncle?”
“Yeah, I do, but where do you get off talking that kinda talk to your uncle? You’re supposed to be looking out,” Eric said.
“Well, I’m looking out for the best for both of you,” Deedee said.
“Appreciate it. Now put your buddy back on. Talk to ya later, Deedee.”
“Listen, Mr. E., be there, okay? I mean it,” Sophia said.
“Honey, I’ll call if…”
“Don’t call. Just be there, Eric… Are you there? Damn, I think I lost him. Well, he knows the place, time, where, how and why.” Sophia pressed the end button.
Eric gazed at the flashing low-battery signal. “Shit!” He yelled and then concentrated on the traffic. Within minutes he was at Gee’s club. He went through the heavy red wooden door, passed the beefy security. Inside, Busta beckoned to him. Eric felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. He smiled uneasily and made his way to Busta.
“Hey E., what’s up?” Busta gave him a hearty hug and a closed-fist shake.
“What’s popping, Busta? You better cut down on your visits to the kitchen.”
“No, see, when I get nervous I eat a whole lot more fried foods. Chicken? Send us a bucket over to the booth, honey.” Busta gave the order to a passing waitress.
“A bucket?” Eric echoed.
“Yeah, yeah, man. A mo’fucking bucket. They have some good stuff up in here. Why, you have a problem?” Busta sounded husky, threatening. He continued to sip from a glass of beer. He held his tongue. Eric had to do the talking.
“Okay, okay Busta.”
“We buried the wrong man. You know wha’ I’m saying?” Busta said.
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying. So please tell me what da fuck you’re talking about, Busta.”
“I’m talking ‘bout that hit, E. We…that guy, Deja. He was-n’t da one who raped your niece. He was just a well-connected, small-time drug dealer,” Busta said, his voice lowered to a raspy whisper.
The mellow sound of a clarinet, in the form of a jazz riff, came through the speakers. It collided head-on with Busta’s heart-stopping message. Eric sat back and glanced around at the other patrons, as if waiting for someone to read him his rights. Had he done something wrong? He tugged at his nose, where sweat had suddenly formed. Busta noticed, as did the waitress who brought Busta’s chicken.
“May I get you anything else, gentlemen?”
“E., don’t sweat that shit. Yeah, couple o’ beers and extra napkins. Shit happens daily, man. I mean...”
“Busta, Deedee was calling this guy’s name in her sleep,” Eric said. He raised his brows. “She was saying, ‘get off me... get off me... stay away from me, Deja.’ She told me he was trying to rape her again. I’m sure it was this fucking drug-dealing Deja. It had to be him or his peoples. Either way, somebody had to pay.”
“E., let me tell you, man. I got da word. I mean…”
“What word, B.?”
“E., I got da fucking word,” Busta repeated.
Eric Ascot’s attention drifted back to the music piped into the night club. He wanted silence. For once, the music haunted him. It sent chills down his back and he broke out in a sweat. Patrons laughed and drank. He thought of his brother. The police had done nothing.
“So what?” Eric asked.
“So what?” Busta asked. He was attacking a piece of chicken.
“Well, we got to do da right mo’fucking thing. Know wha’ I mean, E.?” asked Busta, still grubbing as if his life depended on every bite.
“What are we gonna do?”
“Well, we gotta break da right mo’fuckas off a piece.” Busta waved the chicken leg. “I mean, niggas can’t be running free, raping, unsafe sex, spreading all kinda shit. They’re out there, E. and your niece might not be their only vick. We got to make those mo’fuckers pay.” Busta burped. The music from the club masked the guttural interruption. “Listen E.,” he continued. “I’m a show you somebody with the knowledge on all that shit, like, why your niece was raped and all that. He might even tell you who did your brother. Believe it, E., I’m telling you, right now, I could bring him to see ya.”
“Are you serious, Busta?”
“Eric, when do you know me to be joking?”
Before Eric could answer, Busta was on his cellular, chicken-stained fingers pressing buttons. Then he yelled into the phone, “Pick up that kid Shorty-Wop. Yeah, yeah, Rightchus, or whatever da fuck he wants to call himself. And bring him downtown to Mr. Gee’s, ahight.” He clicked off. Busta gave Eric a long look, and ripped into a piece of chicken breast. Eric stared back, lit a cigarette and sipped a beer. He took a deep drag and exhaled to the accompaniment of a jazz riff. Busta finished all the chicken.
“Let’s go,” Busta finally said as he placed a large bill on the table and rose. Eric rose as if he was about to greet a bad verdict. A decision made by him was set to imprison his mind. His steps came tentatively. Eric felt like he did not want to move, but did anyway. Like a prison guard leading the walk to the chair, Busta led Eric to a parked van. There were two men inside, and the pair joined them.
“Give us a minute,” Busta said to the driver.
“Shorty-Wop, this is…” Busta said. The door slammed behind the driver.
“I know who this is, man. You don’t have to tell Shorty nada, know wha’ I’m saying? This da hottest brother out there mixing down R&B tracks, kicking Hip-Hop shit all over da place, just blowing shit up, know wha’ I’m saying? Shorty-Wop be keeping up. Nah mean?”
“Yeah, yeah, no doubt about that. But Shorty, I want you to tell him sump’n. Shed some light on da scenario you kicked to me earlier.”
“Eric Ascot! You all this an’ you all that. Da beats, da drums, da music. That shit is on. And if you need a new emcee, up and coming, like myself included shit, I’ll be your man. Not even who… Silky Black...can do it like I can. What! I’m saying I’ll rock the mike at the drop of a dime. And R&B? Yo, yo, yo, that’s me, that’s me. Sang all the way through high school. Now I’m old school. Shit, but let me do my thing, even R. Kelly be listening. You wanna hear me bust a few rhymes or break it down? R&B style, even Reggae.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Busta said, calming the hyper Shorty-Wop. “But we wanna hear ‘bout that rape thing, ya know wha’ I mean?” Busta showed annoyance now.
“Shorty-Wop ain’t gonna front. Eric, as God is my witness, da wrong man went down, see? It was these knuckleheads that should be dead and stinking.”
Eric lit another cigarette. He offered one to Shorty-Wop.
“Them niggas kill you at the drop of your jaw. You mouth off to any of them niggas an’ that’s it. Kapow.” Shorty-Wop pointed two fingers. “I can’t afford that, Mr. Ascot, you know wha’ I’m saying? I got a family. Seeds, ya know. So I’m a tell y’all this. Hit me wid some dough, record contract, whatever. Put me on, cuz I’m an aspiring rap star. I know it. I can feel all that.”
“Shorty...” said Busta, running out of patience, “just tell us what da fuck you know an’ get hit wid some dough, alright?”
“Eric, your niece was gang-banged by two knuckleheads, Lil’ Long and Vulcha. Them’s da mo’fuckers. Two, not one,” Shorty-Wop, a.k.a. Rightchus said.
Eric cringed. His lips uncurled as he snuffed out the cigarette. He stared at the street character, almost hating him.
“I don’t mean to be so blunt, but that’s wha’ happened. Deja was trying to fuck wid her in da club, but when she and Coco—”
“Coco?” Eric asked.
“Yeah, Coco, da dancer. Now she got a lil’ sump’n going on, I’m sorta like her advisor. I be showing her moves that helps her when she be performing, know wha’ I’m saying. So your niece rolls up wid Coco and her girls in this bad-ass car…a Mercedes, a black one. And when they went outside, boom! Them niggas gun-butt Coco, knocked her out. Da bitch lay on da street, nose bleeding, swollen up like Santa’s reindeer. They took your niece and da ride. Them mo’fuckers dead wrong.”
“And they’s da ones who hit your brother, know wha’ I’m saying? He was paying off someone. He was fucking ‘round wid Xtriggaphan. Fake-ass gangsta rappers, wannabes. Them niggas had beef wid everybody. They owed Lil’ Long dough, see. When Lil’ Long went to get his dough…boom…he sees your brother wid them niggas. He and Vulcha start beating down the Xtriggaphan niggas. Your brother, may he rest in peace, your brother steps up to them, an’, it’s like, don’t fuck wid Lil’ Long ‘n’ Vulcha. Your brother did, an’ just like that, he was killed. Just like fucking that.”
“What about the musicians? Xtriggaphan? The drugs? All that shit the police ignored. Why didn’t you say anything before?” Eric asked.
“Nah, nah, he was fucking some girl on da low. Bebop. Some girl who was killed wit Deja. I could a fucked wit her, but every man she fucked get killed. No disrespect, know wha’ I’m saying? Them niggas, Xtriggaphan, they s’pose to be out in Cali or Cleveland. Lil’ Long hit ‘em wid some dough and I heard they paid da bitch, Bebop. Your brother was strapped and they killed him, right? Nobody cross Lil’ Long or Vulcha. They not having it. But see, they did my boo Deja, see, an’ that was dead wrong. All he was doing was just grindin’ trying to get his. But them niggas, they ain’t no joke. Da police don’t even fuck wid them.”
“Ahight, ahight Shorty-Wop. Hold this.” Busta slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Shorty-Wop’s huge hand.
Eric stumbled out of the van. He searched his pocket. He found a cigarette and quickly lit it. He needed satisfaction, but nicotine was not the cure.
“Shit! Fuck it!” He threw the smoke away.
“Remember, if anything comes up…” yelled Shorty-Wop from the car as it sped away. Eric waved and dismissed any thoughts of Shorty-Wop, except for his message. He now knew the men who had murdered his brother and raped his niece; father and daughter, victims of the same people. Yet, they still walked around free as the wind.
Anger boiled in Eric Ascot. The sound of retching distracted him as he raised his chin and prepared for some sort of action. He noticed Busta leaning over the curb, vomiting. He rushed over to him.
“You ahight?”
“Yeah, I’m good. Fucking chicken bones.” Busta’s eyes were teary as he coughed.
“We got to get rid of them mo’fuckers, Busta.”
“That’s how I feel, too, buddy. I’m wid you on that.”
“How much?”
“I can’t say right now, but I know their fucking days are numbered.”
“Fuck it. Let’s end their shit now,” Eric gritted.
“Ease up E. Chill, chill. Grab a hold of yourself. Cool out.” Busta gingerly removed his neck from Eric’s grip. He coughed and spit out a chicken bone.
“Fucking chicken bones. Word is…ugh, ugh,” Busta said, holding himself steady, careful not to lean on a still angry Eric Ascot. “Word is Lil’ Long and Vulcha or Vulture, or whatever da fuck his name is—them mo’fuckers down wid da law; some sorta informant-type shit, know wha’ I’m saying, E.? Them mo’fuckers you got to be careful wid. It’s gonna take a lotta dough. But they can be reached. They ain’t da fucking untouchables, hiding behind them fucking police.”
“Let’s do it, Busta. Just set that shit up. Set it up right now,” Eric said. He swung his arms, swiping at the air, slapped Busta’s chest, and then his own. Busta nodded solemnly. Their right hands slammed together. The deal was sealed.
“Where you parked?” Busta asked as they crossed the street to the oversized brown doors of Mr. Gee’s, where notoriety was the valid I.D. card. “I’m gonna go back inside for a minute. Chit-chat you know. How’s Sophia?”
“Sophia…Oh, shit, I have to do something with her tonight. She’s ahight, Busta. Go ahead, B. I’ve got this thing, some kinda dress-up party to attend. I really just wanna fucking get drunk, just tore up, assed-out, like ol’ times and shit.”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, E. But you got things to deal wid. I got some business to take care of, myself. We’ll do this some other time, know wha’ I’m saying?”
“Cool. Call me, B. Set it, then call.”
“Ahight, I’ll do that, E. I’ll see ya, man.”
Eric ran to his car. Busta disappeared through the oversized red doors of the club. He headed straight to the bar. There he ordered a drink and stared ahead as he sipped. He winked at three women close by. Energy seeped into his groin area and alerted his scrotum.
“Ah-h-h,” he said. “I’d love to be hitting those panties tonight.”
Eric raced home and dialed quickly. Sophia’s soft voice answered, “Go ahead and speak.”
“Babe, how much time do I have?”
“You’re out of time, Mister. If you are not by my side looking sharp in thirty seconds…”
“Seconds? Seconds, babe?”
“Yeah, cause that’s all the patience I have with your cloak and dagger business. Eric, just be here. Bye-bye.”
Eric searched for shoes to match his black, double-breasted tuxedo, and the black bow tie with the stiff white shirt. Well, he thought, if you’re gonna be late, you might as well look good.
Deedee appraised him. “You’re looking really good, but you’re late. Sophia’s gonna be mad. You’d better get stepping.” She walked him to the door.
“Dee,” Eric said. He wanted to ask her about the rape, who had done it. “Dee.”
“Uncle E., is there something wrong? You wanna ask me something? You smell real good.”
“Dee, how many guys? One or two?”
“One or two what?”
Deedee was surprised by his nervousness, his awkwardness. Then she realized the importance of the question. She blinked, and felt the need to run and hide. Here was Uncle E., dressed his best and asking about the worst night of her life. She raised her head and looked him in the eye.
“If you mean the night I was raped, yeah, it was two. Those bastards will pay.” Tears welled in Deedee’s eyes. She could say no more. Eric held her close.
The comfort that Deedee found in her uncle’s gentle hug was short-lived. The doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” Deedee said.
“Yeah, who is it?” Eric asked.
“It’s probably Coco and some other friends. I thought we’d sit around and watch videos. We… Uncle E., tomorrow is the Wake for Danielle, okay? Please don’t forget. Pick me up at the church at fifty-sixth and Park.”
“Remind me again.”
“I will, I will. Trust me.”
Eric met Coco at the door.
“Coco, how are you?”
“I’m cool, Mr. Ascot. Ah, you’re looking kinda flava. Hot date?”
“Very hot.”
“And very late,” Deedee reminded him.
“Coco, Coco. You can come in this way.” Deedee shouted at a surprised Coco. She had a look on because she thought she had been ringing the wrong door bell. “It’s okay Coco, you can enter from either. Uncle E., just believes it’s cool to keep different numbers on the door. The apartments 3A through 3D is occupied by the same fam.” Deedee said with a smile.
Coco walked down the hall totally enthralled by what Deedee had just revealed. They own the whole floor. Coco with a smile as a well decked out Eric Ascot passed by her.
“Hi…ah Coco, right? Are you ready to do some real work. Don’t think it’s gonna be easy street because you’re talented and won some talent shows. It’s gonna take a lot of hard work. I’ll be seeing you again.” Ascot’s mouthful took Coco whose head was-n’t right into another direction. She waved at him still baffled as she finally reached one of the many entrances. What could be in such a huge apartment, Coco wondered as she hugged Deedee.
“What up Dee? Y’all own this entire floor, yo?”
“Damn near. How ya feeling Coco?”
“I’m holding it down. What’s up with your uncle?”
“Oh he’s dressed up and he’s late.”
“Nah, I’m saying he was bugging da fuck out telling me about having talent and wasting it. I had no idea what the hell he was sayin, yo.”
“He was in a rush. I know he gets excited when he’s trying to motivate his artists in the studio. Come on inside Coco, get comfortable and let me show you around.”
“He came straight out of left field. But he got a point.” Coco said and walked inside a spacious apartment. “Damn! This is a kinda large place, girl.” Coco stared around nodding her head in approval. She was definitely impressed. “No wonder you need different entrances, yo.”
“Uncle E., gets a kick out of people being confused by the entrances. I suppose so don’t expect to see a single entrance anytime soon.” Deedee said and the girls laughed.
