Backstage: Street Chronicles (27 page)

He smiled and playfully hit her on her butt.

“Smart ass, daddy always good. In fact …,” he turned to Sheena and said, “Get ‘em dressed, we goin’ to Chuck E. Cheese.”

The kids hoorayed and danced in circles, but Sheena asked, “How? By the time we get there the buses will have stop running.”

“Can’t you get yo sister car?”

Sheena rolled her eyes and smacked her teeth. “Please, and hear her mouth? I don’t think so.”

But Crook was persistent. “I’m sayin’, it’s a special occasion. Never mind, we’ll just take a cab.”

“All the way to Union? It must really be a special occasion. You musta hit the number or something,” Sheena joked.

Crook kissed her, then replied, “Close, yo. I’m ‘bout to get on.”

“On? You mean music on?” she asked.

“No doubt, ma. Saturday I’ma be at Ike’s party and he ‘posed to hook me up wit some people. Ain’t no way a cat hear this and say no, yo,” he explained, hardly controlling his excitement.

Sheena turned to the kids and told them, “Go get ya’ll shoes on.”

They ran off without hesitation. Sheena turned back to Crook. “Vic, have I ever fronted on you with this music thing?”

“Naw,” he responded, like, of course not.

“Every time you come home and somebody said they were gonna do this, that or the third, I was always … hopeful for you, right?”

Crook looked at her, wondering where this was going. “No doubt, why?”

“Because, baby, you got that look in your eyes again, and I don’t
wanna see you get disappointed, because you always go out and end up doin’ somethin’ crazy.”

“So what you sayin’, Sheena?” Crook asked defensively, thinking his woman was doubting his shot. She framed his face with her hands, caressing his cheek.

“Baby, I don’t ever want you to give up on your dream—ever—but you can’t keep chasin’ them and runnin’ away from your responsibilities.” Sheena spoke softly, and when Crook began to speak she cut him off and added, “Just this time”—she paused—”if … and I’m stressing the word
if
… if whoever don’t come through, will you at least try and get a job? I know you be bringin’ in money, but the way you do it, sooner or later—” She sighed, closing her eyes against horrible thoughts.

The night’s activities flashed through Crook’s mind as well. He took her hands from his face, kissed the inside of her fingers, and said, “Ma, for real, I know mad cats be sellin’ dreams, but I ain’t never had a shot like this. I know we won’t look back, but if it is bullshit … yeah, ma, I’ll get a job.”

Sheena smiled and kissed his nose.

“Thank you!”

He squeezed her ass with a smirk.

“Call a cab, let’s go breathe a little.”

They took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese’s, eating and playing video games until the spot closed. It had been awhile since they had gone out together and Sheena really needed to get out, especially with Crook. Seeing him with the kids made her feel good, hoping moments like this convinced him that this is where he needed to be.

“Put your hands in the muthafuckin air!”

The whole arena erupted with delirious cheers.

“Introducing … Croook!” the announcer bellowed, and the crowd went crazy. As Crook ran onstage, mic in hand and Larceny by his side, the music was pumping all through him. He was
charged and ready. He gripped the mic and started to spit but … nothing came out.

He tried again, tried to clear his throat, but still, nothing. The crowd sensed something was wrong and Larceny looked at him like, what? But he couldn’t speak. All of a sudden Slim, the cat he had pistol-whipped, rose up in the middle of the crowd and laughed. “What’s wrong? Forgot your point, huh?”

Crook looked out into the faces of cats he had stuck up, shot, or killed and they all had guns aimed at him. Infrared beams covered his black fatigue suit. Millions and millions of guns it seemed were all pointed at him. He looked around for Larceny but he had disappeared.

Crook heard the collective cocking of a million shells, locked and loaded, and then one tremendous
boom!
A rain of bullets screamed his name, cutting through the air and filling his flesh simultaneously. Crook’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself in the bed with Sheena wrapped around him. The whole thing was a dream. He hadn’t woke up scared or sweating, but he was still relieved it had been a dream. The last word he said before he fell asleep again was, “Saturday.”

“What up, dog, you ready?” Larceny wanted to know, looking at him. Crook stared at Club Mirage across the street from where they stood on the other side of Broad Street. They had just gotten off the bus. The front of the club was lined up with sick whips on even sicker chrome, parked and double-parked. The line for Ike’s party was around the corner and everyone gawked in awe as limo after limo pulled up, and countless celebrities emerged to the flash of the paparazzi. The shit seemed like a dream to Crook, but he definitely didn’t want to wake up.

“Always, yo. Let’s go do this,” he replied, with the same intensity he had when they were moving on a lick.

Neither was dressed for the occasion. They looked more like they were going to war instead of an A-list party. Both were
dressed in fatigues. Crook in regular green and black while Larceny repped in red and black. As usual, they were skeed up on coke, but they kept their word and neither one was strapped. They approached the velvet rope as Larceny proudly announced to the bouncers, “Crook and Larceny, we on the list.”

The bouncer looked them up and down, like yeah right, and said, “The list? Whose list?”

“Ike, muthafucka,” Larceny replied without malice, but his tone was still harsh.

“Man, get the fuck outta here,” the bouncer waved them off, but Larceny wasn’t going anywhere.

“On the real, duke, you need to check that shit, ‘cause if Ike finds out you kept his family waitin’ like peasants, you gonna need all that muscle to keep the shells out yo ass.”

The bouncer gritted his teeth as he eyed what looked to be a ninety pound crackhead. But he checked the list anyway, so if he had to, he could show them they weren’t on it, then smack Larceny for wasting his time. To his dismay, both of them were on the list. He called on his two-way radio to double-check, but once verified, he had no choice but to let them in. Once inside, the place looked like BET’s
Access Granted
. Everywhere they looked, they saw a familiar face. Neither were starstruck, but it felt good to be in the same room with known muthafuckas. They wandered through the crowd until they found Ike holding court with a black politician from Harlem and the politician’s wife. Crook and Larceny stood off at a respectful distance until Ike noticed them, came over, and shook their hands.

“I see ya’ll made it,” Ike commented.

“Wasn’t no way one was gonna miss it. Happy Birthday, dog,” Larceny told him.

“Yeah, yo, Happy Birthday,” Crook echoed.

Ike nodded his appreciation then said, “You remember the rules? No harassin’ my guests. Get you a drink, fall back, and speak when spoken to, ya’ll hear me?” Ike questioned, looking
from Larceny to Crook, getting acknowledgments from both of them. “Okay, enjoy yourselves.”

Ike walked off, leaving Larceny and Crook gazing at the crowd, separately thinking the same thought. All the shine up in here, they could stick the spot and retire for life!

Larceny laughed first. “But we ain’t here for that,” he said, reading Crook’s thoughts because mind detects mind. Crook chuckled.

“Maybe next time.”

“Shit, next time it’s gonna be us up in this piece, flossed the fuck out, ya heard?” Larceny predicted with zeal.

The next few hours, they stayed low-key in a corner booth, while the party moved around them. Larceny was caught up in the industry chicks and the gold diggers sashaying around, but Crook just eyed the rappers who were in attendance. He knew in his heart he was better than most platinum artists that relied on hype or image to sell records. The only hype he had was the head rush he got from the coke in his system. He was a hungry wolf in the midst of an unsuspecting flock of sheep. The only question was, when would the feast begin?

It seemed like it took forever, but a waitress finally approached the table and told them, “Ike would like to see you. Please follow me.” She smiled.

Larceny eyed the delectable young tender up and down as he stood up and remarked, “I’ll follow you anywhere, sexy. Do me a favor, my drink’s dry, why don’t you piss in my glass.” The waitress ignored the crude remark, but Larceny damn sure didn’t ignore her ass as it jiggled like jelly in her napkin of a miniskirt. She led Crook and Larceny over to VIP where Ike was chilling with two Asian chicks and the man he wanted Crook to meet. The super producer Mark Allen was Big Willie Style to Ike’s left, neck and wrist flooded with multicolored diamonds, two humongous bodyguards posted on both sides of the booth. Crook and Larceny approached and Crook could feel the importance of the moment.
Mark Allen had produced several of the singles that had the airwaves on lock. One track from him and it was multiplatinum waiting to happen. Everybody wanted him on their album, which made him expensive and arrogant.

Crook didn’t expect to meet Mark Allen. He expected an A&R or some big entertainment lawyer, maybe even a small label owner, but to meet Mark Allen was the next best thing to meeting Russell Simmons. But there he was, drunk and looking Crook up and down as Ike introduced him.

“Yeah, Mark, this is the kid I was telling you about,” Ike announced. “Crook, I’m sure you know of Mark Allen.”

“No doubt,” Crook half grinned, trying to keep his composure, and extended his hand to Mark. Mark hesitated, then halfheartedly gave him a weak shake.

“Yo, son, your shit be blazin’,” Crook complimented him.

“I know,” was Mark’s smug reply as he sipped his drink.

“So, ah … Crook, right? What up, you rap, sing, what?”

“Naw, I don’t sing. I spit that fire, dog. Nobody in here can see me, for real,” Crook bragged, ready to prove it against the industry’s best, here and now.

“I spit fire, dog!”
Mark mocked Crook, making the chicks giggle. The comment made Crook a little uncomfortable, but he let it go.

“You know how many cats tell me that exact same thing? But yo, if you so hot, how come I ain’t never heard of you on no mix tapes? Who you fuck wit, who’s your manager?” Before Crook could say anything, Larceny cut in.

“I’m his manager.” Mark looked at Larceny like he didn’t know he had been standing there.

“Who the fuck is you? Manager?” Mark laughed, then looked at Ike. “Ike, who is these mu’fuckas?” Ike glanced at Crook and his eyes said, this is your shot. Speak up or lose it. Crook didn’t hesitate. He silenced Larceny then turned to Mark and said, “Yo, dog, I’m Victor Crook. I ain’t got no demo, no manager, or mix tape ‘cause niggas be on some bullshit, so I don’t fuck wit but a few. But
I’m nice, the nicest, and all I need is a chance to prove it. I live and die this shit, and I’m gonna make the nigga who give me a chance a very rich mu’fucka.”

Mark Allen nodded. “Yeah? Well, I’m already a very rich mu’fucka,” he snorted, diamonds sparkling like a light show.

“You can never have enough money,” Crook shot right back.

“Mo’ money, mo’ problems,” Mark countered then said, “Look, Crook, or whatever, I ain’t lookin’ for no acts, yo. So when you get a deal, if you get a deal and a real budget, come see me. Until then, it was nice meetin’ me. We’ll holler.”

Just like that, the door Crook had been waiting to open slammed shut in his face. It seemed like it only opened long enough so the people inside could laugh at him out in the cold, let him feel the warmth, then shut him out, so it felt even colder. He had spoken from the heart, so there was no way he could just walk away.

“I understand that, dog,” Crook began, but I’m sayin’—” Mark cut him off.

“And I’ve said all I’m going say. The fuck outta here, nigga, I’m Mark Allen. Somebody get these clowns the fuck away from my table!”

Larceny moved first out of instinct, but the bodyguard collared him up, so by the time Crook moved on the bodyguard, Ike stood up like, “Okay, ya’ll, let it go. Let it go.”

Ike felt bad about the way Mark spoke to them and he intended on telling Mark when they left. But first he had to deal with Crook and Larceny. “Go get yourself a drink,” he said to the two young gangsters, “and I’ll be over to holler at you later.”

Crook eyed Mark like a cobra with its hood spread. Mark should’ve seen it in his eyes, but his vision was clouded with his own importance. Crook nodded.

“Aiight … aiight, Ike. It’s your party, dog. We cool, come on, Larc, let’s go.” He and Larceny stepped through the crowd and disappeared. Ike didn’t like the vibe they departed with, but
never in a million years did he think they’d take it to the level that they did.

Mark Allen made his way to the door of the club with two blond redbones and his five bodyguards, laughing and staggering his hennied-up ass to the limo. It was close to four A.M. and people were still waiting to get into Ike’s exclusive party. After Mark dotted the door, the scandalous broads that hadn’t made it inside started yelling, “I love you, Mark!” “Let me be your baby mama!” “Let me suck yo dick, Mark!”

After cutting through the crowd, one of Mark’s bodyguards opened the door. No one heard or saw a thing until …

“Gun music, mu’fucka!” was shouted like a calvary announcement. Automatic gunfire exploded from two opposite directions. Crook and Larceny, both dressed in all black, stood on the roof of two parked cars on both sides of the front door and fired down into Mark Allen’s entourage. The big muscle-bound bodyguards, equipped with vests, never had a chance to respond or protect, because they were sending nothing but head shots, watching dome after dome explode like melons.

The bodyguards were the first to drop, then the two chicks. Mark tried to crawl away after being hit in the leg several times. Crook hopped off the car, stood over a crying Mark Allen, and repeated his battle cry.

“Feel this gun music, nigga.” Then he lit Mark up while Larceny murdered the bouncer at the door on G.P. for fronting earlier. The street was in a state of pandemonium, people running everywhere making it easier for the two assassins to make their escape.