Eviction Notice (19 page)

“Yeah, do your thing, girl. I’m straight,” Sahara assured her.

Porsha slid off the stool and disappeared through the crowd. Sahara downed her shot and called for another one as she began to loosen up a bit. She was watching the stage show when she felt someone tap her on the shoulder. “I ain’t working, so get on like you’ve been spit on,” Sahara said without bothering to look over her shoulder to see who it was.

“That’s good, but it still leaves me wondering what the fuck you’re doing here.”

A ball of ice instantly formed in Sahara’s stomach at the sound of the familiar voice. She knew whom she would see even before she turned around but it didn’t make it any easier. Taking a second to finish the shot the bartender had just set in front of her, Sahara turned around and was face-to-face with a very angry King James.

*   *   *

After throwing back
the shot, Porsha was feeling nice. It didn’t take long for the wolves to descend on her, prodding and pulling Porsha this way and that. Part of her was disgusted by the aggressive touching, but her mind was on her money, so she played the game and accepted their offerings.

From the corner of her eye she spotted Brick House near the bar, whispering in the ear of a dude with long dreadlocks. Her eyes landed on Porsha and she watched her intensely as she made her way through the room. Kat had assured her that Brick House wasn’t going to be a problem, but Porsha wasn’t stupid enough to sleep on her. If Brick House tried to stunt on her again, Porsha would make sure that she drew her knife before the girl could get to her razor.

Watching Brick House watching her wasn’t going to get the rent paid, so Porsha focused on working the room and trying to come up. Sitting at a table to her left was a group of Mexicans who were sipping beers and throwing money at anything in a thong that wandered near their table. She could tell by the way they were dressed—in jeans and cowboy boots—that they weren’t hustlers, more than likely just a few friends out for a good time. Connected or not, they had money and Porsha needed it, so she made her way over to their table.

Without being invited, Porsha sat on the lap of one of the men and draped her arms around his neck. She hadn’t been on his lap for ten seconds before she felt his dick stiffen in his jeans, so she knew she had him on the hook. He was so enthralled by Porsha that all he could do was smile and peel off singles as she rocked back and forth on his lap in time with the beat of the song that was playing. One of his friends reached over and tried to touch Porsha, but she slapped his hand away and rubbed her fingers together, letting him know he had to pay to play. By the time Porsha finished her rounds at the table she was two hundred dollars richer.

She was making her way to the other side of the room to see what was popping when she noticed a commotion at the door. From the way some of the girls immediately slipped into chicken-head mode, she knew a heavy hitter had just entered the building. She started to ignore it and keep working the room, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her. She slipped through the crowd and peered over to see what was going on, and when she saw who had just come in her eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.

CHAPTER 27

The candy-red Hummer
sitting on twenty-eight-inch rims drew more than just curious stares when it pulled into the parking lot. Two of the bouncers employed by Brick City guided the Hummer to a soft stop just short of the main entrance. The women stared in anticipation, planning their best courses of action to get next to whichever clique was riding in the Hummer, while the stick-up boys watched and plotted how they could relieve them of their valuables. Everyone took a cautious step back when they saw the man who climbed from the passenger side.

Devil rolled his broad shoulders to give himself some room in the black leather blazer he was wearing. It was a little warm for the jacket that night, but it concealed the two minimachine guns dangling under his arms. Devil was in his forties and though he had lived a very hard life, he still managed to keep himself in better shape than a man ten years his junior. In his line of work, which was busting heads, you had to make sure you were fit for war, especially when you were the guardian angel to one of New York’s most-hated men. After giving a quick look around to make sure they were good, Devil opened the back door to let the passengers out.

Tone was the first to step from the Hummer. He had traded his normally preppy gear for a pair of Nautica sweatpants and a thin hoodie. On paper he was the personal assistant/manager of the CEO and vice president of Big Dawg Entertainment, but in reality Tone was the man who made things happen. Tone had been birthed by the streets of Harlem and schooled in some of the most elite educational institutions in the city. By the time he graduated from St. Francis High School, where he’d broken almost every standing record for their Red Raiders basketball team, he’d found himself in high demand among college-basketball recruits. To everyone’s surprise, Tone had chosen to stay close to home and enrolled at Rutgers, where he’d pursued a career in entertainment law while working part-time for his childhood friend Don B. at his start-up record label. By the time Tone had graduated, Big Dawg was on the radar of everybody in the music industry and he was Don B.’s right-hand man.

A few minutes later, Tone was greeted by a cat named Gotti from Irvington. Gotti was a large man who stood about six-foot-three with broad shoulders and a massive head, which he kept shaved. His eyes were hidden by dark sunglasses, but you could see the scar that started at the top of his forehead and disappeared into his thick beard. His huge medallion swayed like a pendulum as he approached the Hummer and shook Tone’s hand.

“Gotti, what up, my nigga?” Tone embraced him.

“All is well, beloved. Thanks for coming out,” Gotti replied.

“It’s all good, my G. You know, the way you were going on about your boy, I had to come see what all the hype was about.”

“Ain’t no hype about it, Lord Scientific is the real deal,” Gotti assured him. “So what’s up wit ya man, he couldn’t make it out?”

“Nah, he’s right behind me. Yo, Don,” Tone called over to the Hummer.

Don B. oozed out of the SUV, placing his crisp white Nike Airs soundlessly on the pavement. He took a second to shake the loose ashes from the blunt pinched between his lips, and adjusted the jeweled rottweiler head hanging from the end of his thick gold chain. When the people outside the club recognized him they immediately swarmed in for autographs and tried to hand him demo CDs. It took the combined efforts of the Big Dawg security team and the club bouncers to keep the mob in check. Don B. looked out at the dozens of adoring faces and sighed. Normally the self-proclaimed Don of Harlem would’ve welcomed the attention and made a good showing of it, but he wasn’t feeling it that night. So much had transpired over the last few years and some of the wounds were still very fresh.

“Don, this is Gotti, the cat I was telling you about.” Tone nudged Don B. out of his daze and drew his attention to Gotti’s extended hand.

“My fault, what’s good?” Don B. gave him dap.

“
You,
brother. It means a lot that you came all the way out here to check my li’l funk,” Gotti said sincerely.

“Sooo woooo!” someone shouted from the crowd, which drew a ripple of calls from all the Bloods assembled, and there were quite a few of them out that night for Lord Scientific. Not wanting to be shown up in front of the NY rappers, the Crips, who occupied the other side of the parking lot, responded with a chorus of whistles. Don B.’s face hardened visibly as the tension between the two sides thickened.

“Don’t worry, fam, ain’t none of these li’l niggaz stupid enough to start tripping. B-Gang at least fifty strong in here tonight and most my li’l niggaz strapped, so murder is the order of business if it goes down,” Gotti said loud enough for the Crips to hear. “Let’s roll up in here and cop some bottles.” Gotti started toward the entrance.

Tone eased up beside Don B. and whispered in his ear, “Stop whispering to them ghosts in your head and focus on the business at hand. Let’s go greet your public.”

Don B. nodded. There were a million and one things on his mind, but he was still the Don. Pushing away the shadows of the dead, Don B. slipped back into G-mode and made his way toward the entrance, with Devil on his heels.

The interior of Brick City was very tastefully decorated with its ice sculptures and marble-topped bars. Ladies of all shapes, sizes, and colors strutted around the joint in clear heels, thongs, and transparent sarongs that showcased what they had for rent. When the overhead lights caught Don B.’s jewels, it seemed to send out a beacon to the money-getting chicks in the spot and drew them to him like moths to a flame. The men were kept at arm’s length but Tone gave security instructions to let the ladies through so they could pay homage to the Don. Most of the chicks recognized Don B. from his music videos or repeat appearances on the evening news, and the ones who didn’t know him saw how he rolled and knew he had to be someone important. Whatever their respective reasons, they all flocked to him with dollar signs in their eyes and hope in their hearts.

The smell of whore stink and weed raised the hairs on the back of Don B.’s neck and stirred something low in his jeans as stripper after stripper closed in on him, tugging at his cock and playing with his jewels. A thick chick, wearing a pink wig and a costume that looked like something out of
Gladiator,
managed to break through the dozen other strippers who were trying to get Don B.’s attention. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered something to Don B. before letting her incredibly long tongue graze his ear and switching away. Don B. kept his eyes locked on her curvaceous body until she disappeared into a smoke-filled corner to make her pitch to the next mark.

“They love you, Don,” Devil screamed over the music.

“They don’t love me, they love my Big Dawg style,” Don B. chuckled, giving Tone and Devil dap.

“Yo, it’s gonna be a few minutes before the acts go on so let’s hit the VIP and wet our beaks a li’l bit,” Gotti screamed in Tone’s ear over the music. Tone relayed the message to Don B. and the rest of their entourage and they made moves toward the VIP.

On their way to the back of the club, Tone spotted someone he recognized and stopped to chop it up with him for a few seconds. The dude he was talking to wore a pleasant expression on his face, but the cats he was with looked like some serious goons, which put Devil on point. After a quick exchange of numbers and the promise to get a drink later, Tone caught up with Don B. and Devil, both of whom were staring at him curiously.

“Who the fuck was them niggaz?” Don B. asked.

“That was my nigga Zo and his peeps. You remember Zo-Pound from back in the days, right?” Tone jogged Don B.’s memory.

“You mean that crazy li’l muthafucka who used to run around robbing everything moving? What the fuck is he doing in here, trying to stick the place up?” Don B. asked sarcastically.

“Nah, Zo ain’t on it like that no more. After his last bid he squared up and got a job. He’s legit now,” Tone informed him.

“He can’t be too legit hanging with King James,” Devil said.

Don B. wasn’t familiar with the name. “Who the fuck is King James?”

“A young boy from the Grant projects. I don’t know him personally, but me and him were on the Island together years ago. He couldn’t have been no more than eighteen at the time, but even the old heads ain’t want no parts of his wild ass. Every time I turned around he was into some shit, cutting, fighting, arson—you name it and he’s tried it. King James was a goon before these rappers made the term popular,” Devil informed them.

“Shit, if he’s on it like that, maybe we need to put him on payroll,” Don B. joked.

“Good luck. The last nigga who tried to
offer
him a job ended up in the emergency room getting his jaw wired. Stay away from that kid, Don, because I’d hate to have to kill him. Violence is the only language an ignorant nigga like him understands,” Devil said seriously.

“Well, I can’t speak for that King James cat, but Zo is my li’l nigga and I invited him to the VIP to have a drink with us, so be easy, Devil,” Tone told him.

“Your invitation, your problem, Tone, just remember what I told you about them dudes.” Devil stalked off.

“That nigga is way too paranoid.” Tone shook his head.

“Well, his paranoia has kept me in one piece all this time so I trust his judgment. Now let’s go sip something.” Don B. threw his arm around his friend and caught up with the group.

*   *   *

“The more I
see you work, the more I like you, kid,” Kat said to Porsha. She had shed her street clothes and was now wearing a see-through one-piece that was decorated with black paw prints.

“What’re you talking about?” Porsha gave her a devilish grin.

“Don’t play stupid with me, I saw you all up on Don B. Good choice.” Kat nodded in approval.

“I don’t chose, I get chosen,” Porsha capped.

“Whatever, bitch. I just know when you make your way up to the VIP to cut into that nigga you better take me with you. I heard all them cats from Big Dawg are handling major paper.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Porsha gave her a high five.

“Say, what happened to your little friend?” Kat asked. “I haven’t seen her since we got here.”

“She’s over there by the bar.” Porsha nodded to where she had left her at the bar. Sahara was still sitting there, but there was a dude in her face, grabbing her by the arm and barking on her. Sahara looked scared shitless. “Oh hell to the nah,” Porsha began, taking her earrings off.

“Calm down, P, and let’s go get security to handle this,” Kat urged her.

“You can go find security, I’m about to go see about my homegirl.” Porsha stormed off toward the bar. Kat sighed and fell in step behind her.

*   *   *

“King, it ain’t
what it looks like,” Sahara tried to explain.

“Do I look stupid to you, Sahara?” King James questioned. “I spend my bread to spring you and ya homegirl from jail and catch you shaking your ass at a strip club a few hours later, what the fuck do you think it looks like?”

“King, you’re bugging. I keep trying to tell you that I ain’t in here stripping, I just came with my homegirl to keep her company.”

“Sahara, I ain’t just start playing this game. Nine times outta ten, if a bitch is in a strip club, she stripping!”

“Well, I’m not, and while you’re busy pointing fingers, what the fuck are you doing here? You told me you couldn’t chill with me because you had business to handle, but your ass is in here tricking,” Sahara shot back.

“First of all, this ain’t about me, and second of all, you of all people know I ain’t no trick, so knock it the fuck off. I am handling business; I got a meeting with some niggaz in here and once that’s done, I’m out.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll just chill until you’re done with your business and then we can leave together,” Sahara suggested.

“Nah, that ain’t gonna work,” King told her.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so! As a matter of fact, why the fuck am I even standing here going back and forth with you? Take your ass home and I’ll come by later.”

“I caught a ride here with somebody, and besides that I can’t just leave my homegirl like that,” Sahara told him.

King James wanted to spaz on Sahara, but he knew that if he did he’d end up spending half the night arguing with her, so he ran game. “Listen, this ain’t a good place for you to be tonight. Some shit may go down and I don’t want you getting caught up in it, baby girl.” He stroked her cheek affectionately. “Check it”—he pulled out his bankroll and peeled off two hundred dollars—“this should cover your taxi back to the city and be enough for you to pick up some piff on the way. Go home and I promise I’m gonna come spend the night with you, so we can bring in my birthday together.”

This brought a smile to Sahara’s face. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do, ma.” King had almost sealed the deal when Porsha and Kat rolled up on him like the vice squad.

“Everything good over here, Sahara?” Porsha was speaking to her friend but glaring at King James.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” King looked at her comically.

“You don’t know me now, but if you keep trying to manhandle my friend you’re gonna get to know me,” Porsha shot back.

“Damn, baby, you’re a feisty one, ain’t you? Sahara, if you really wanna get me something nice for my birthday, then bring this li’l muthafucka home with you,” King joked.

“Why don’t you stop being such a dick.” Sahara rolled her eyes. “Everything is good, Porsha. This is King,” Sahara said, making the introduction.

“So this is the infamous King James, huh?” Porsha looked him up and down and her face said that she wasn’t impressed.

“Yes, this is him. Listen, Porsha, I hate to flat leave you like this but I gotta go back to the city,” Sahara told her.

“Why, is everything okay?” Porsha asked.

“Yeah, everything is cool, she’s just gotta get my birthday present ready,” King James answered for her. “Ain’t that right, boo?” He slapped her on the ass.

“I’m sorry, P,” Sahara said. She was clearly embarrassed by the whole situation and the way King James was openly eyeballing Porsha and Kat.