GHETTO SUPERSTAR (11 page)

Fabiola had just stepped off the hospital elevator when she heard the commotion.
Code blue?
In the movies someone was always about to die when they called that out. “Oh my God! Casino?” she whispered. She convinced herself that there was no need to panic, because although Casino seemed to be paralyzed, just yesterday he was alive and he seemed to be progressing. Then she saw three nurses make their way into Casino's room. Fabiola's heart dropped to
the soles of her Gucci sneakers. When she tried to enter the room, she was stopped at the door.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but no one is allowed inside right now,” a nurse told her.

Casino's hospital room was a madhouse. The first nurse had sounded off the code blue less than sixty seconds earlier, and now the room was filled with medical attention. Three doctors and seven nurses; it was incredible how so many people could manage to be so efficient to save a person's life without getting in one another's way. The electronic line on the EKG machine barely showed a blip. “Why are his vitals so weak?” a young doctor asked while the primary doctor ripped off the patient's gown, preparing to give him the defibrillator.

“Three, two, one,” he counted down before applying the steel disc to the patient's chest. “Clear.” The force of the current caused the body to lift several inches off the bed. The doctor who administered the procedure looked at the EKG. No change. “Again.” The doctor tried to jump-start the dying man's heart once again. “Nothing.” The young doctor gave him a shot from a long syringe.

“We're losing him,” one of the nurses said.

The head doctor in charge was annoyed by the nurse's observation. “Please don't waste what little time we have with the obvious, Nurse Parker.”

“Y'all let the motherfucker die, huh?” Spade called out. He and Roxy had been in the room the whole time, unbeknownst to the medical staff.

“Excuse me,” Nurse Parker said, “but the two of you are going to have to wait outside.”

Fabiola was waiting by the door when Spade and Roxy stepped out. “Is he okay?” Fabiola asked.

“Muthafucka dead as a doorknob,” Spade said. Fabiola felt a huge lump rise in her throat.

“How could you be so crude about Casino dying?”

“Who said anything about Casino? I was talking about the Indian dude … his roommate.”

Relief flooded Fabiola's body. She had been taken on an emotional 180 in the course of a few minutes. “By the way, didn't I see you up here the other day?” Spade asked.

“You may have.”

There was no
may have
about it; he wouldn't have forgotten someone as beautiful as the woman standing before him if he'd been beaten across the head with a bat and given amnesia.

“Well, my name is Spade.” He smiled and offered his hand. “I'm Casino's son. What's ya name?”

“Fabiola.”

“Fabiola? That's a beautiful name. Did your mother name you that or did you pick it yourself?”

“My mother gave it to me. She said that God told her to give me that name because I was going to be the fabulous one, and her name is Viola, so she combined her name with Fabulous.”

“Indeed you are ‘fabulous.’” Spade looked her over and licked his lips.

“So, how long you been fucking Casino, or do you just suck his dick?” Roxy never was one for a whole lot of small talk when she wanted to know something.

“Excuse me?” Fabiola turned to the lady that she remembered thinking was Casino's wife the first day she saw her at the hospital.

“I said,” Roxy repeated, moving her neck a little bit, “how long you been fucking Casino?”

“I'm not sure what your relationship is to Casino, but I am sure that
my
sex life is none of your business.” Fabiola didn't
back down one inch. Spade was impressed by the way Fabiola handled herself. He knew firsthand that Roxy could be intimidating sometimes.

“Everything about you is my business when it comes to Casino, little Fab-be-ola.” She let her name roll off her tongue.

“Then you are talking to the wrong person; it sounds to me like you need to be addressing your concerns to Casino—not me.”

“Put your fangs away, Aunt Roxy, and be nice to our guest,” Spade finally intervened. Turning his attention to Fabiola, he said, “Ms. Fabiola, please excuse my Aunt Roxy. We are all going through a real trying time right now, so tempers may tend to flare a little more than usual, although Roxy can be a bitch at any time.”

“Watch who you call a bitch, young man,” Roxy cut in. Fabiola took it all in, and although she was a bit intimidated, she smiled on the outside, as if Roxy hadn't offended her one bit.

“Now,” Spade continued his conversation with Fabiola, “what did you say your relationship to Pops was?”

“You all can come back in now,” the nurse said, wearing a haggard smile. The patient had pulled through and it was on to the next crisis. That was the way MCV operated. A lot of years during the late eighties and early nineties Richmond was labeled the “murder capital,” and if it wasn't for MCV's top-notch trauma unit the murder rate would have probably been at least double what it was.

“I didn't,” Fabiola answered Spade's last question as she headed into the room to see Casino.

“Well, if it ain't Whitney Houston.” Casino smiled when Fabiola walked through the door.

“My voice ain't quite as good as Whitney's in her prime, but I'm not on crack either, so maybe one day it will be.”

“Well, too bad for Whitney, and good for you. Crack is whack.”

Spade wasn't sure about Fabiola and Casino's relationship, but after hearing the quick banter, and seeing the smile on Casino's face he knew she would be good for his spirits. And he had no intentions of letting Roxy sit there and run interference. “Come on, Aunt Roxy. Let's go down to the cafeteria.” Spade read her eyes. Roxy didn't want to leave the young threat alone with Casino. “Come on”—Spade grabbed her hand—“she's out of Dad's age bracket anyway. She's more my taste.” Spade winked at Fabiola as he and Roxy left the room holding hands.

Casino already looked better than he did the day before. He was wearing a pair of new plaid Polo pajamas and his hair had been freshly cut. His side of the room was filled with flowers, cards, and fruit baskets. He and Fabiola were alone for the first time, and Casino tried to break the awkwardness. “Are you going to sing for me?”

“I can. What would you like me to sing?” Fabiola took off her sweat-suit jacket, making herself comfortable.

“I didn't mean to put you on the spot. You can sing whatever you like, anytime you like.”

“No problem. I'm taking requests, so you let me know what you want to hear.”

“You know any Roberta Flack?”

“Yup,” and she begin to sing “The Closer I Get to You.” Her voiced carried outside Casino's room and a couple of people came into the room to hear her. After she was done with the song, people clapped, and so did Casino.

“Bravo! Bravo!” He smiled. “Your mother wasn't lying at all. I had no idea you were so talented.”

“Thank you,” Fabiola said, blushing. Although Fabiola got
compliments on her voice all the time, getting one from Casino surprised and delighted her.

“How did your photo shoot go yesterday?”

“It went wonderful. We picked up the photos today.” Fabiola was surprised that he remembered.

“Did you bring any?”

“I didn't think you would want to see them, but I can bring them when I come tomorrow. My mother sent some of them to Johnny Wiz of The Wizard Entertainment Group. He heard me sing and now he wanted to see how well I come off on camera. You know … what type of look I give off, and if I'm marketable or not.”

“Your look is one in a billion,” Casino commented.

“Although you said it with the emotion of a cadaver, I'll take it as a compliment.” She blushed.

“It really wasn't intended as one—just telling the truth.”

Just then the StarQuest show came on on the television. “Can we turn the channel please?” Fabiola asked.

“Sure. We can watch whatever you want to watch, but the sick and shut-in usually gets the remote.”

“If we were watching anything else I would never ask, but I refuse to help this show's ratings.”

“Why? I like me some Melon Low.” Casino smiled as he looked at the television. Melon Low was a big star in the eighties who had a big voice like Chaka Khan, the timeless beauty of Janet Jackson, and a banging body like J. Lo in her prime. Casino's response was no surprise to Fabiola, because every man—young and old—seemed to love Melon Low.

“About a year ago, I was on that show and Melon Low had no love for me, even though the crowd went B-A-N-A-N-A-S for me.”

On-screen, Melon Low talked about the vision of the show and her passion to help up-and-coming singers.

“What she's talking is bullshit.” Fabiola sung the word
bullshit
in the key of A minor.

“Why? What happened exactly?” Casino asked, unable to take his eyes off Melon Low.

“The crowd and both of the men judges loved me and the applause meter was off the charts, but she really ripped into me and said I didn't have what it takes to go to the next level, and that my look wasn't marketable.”

Casino looked Fabiola over and said, “Well, we know that ain't true.”

“Good thing I didn't have low self-esteem, because I would have never sung another note, not even in the shower.”

“That's because she hasn't had a hit in—what? Ten or fifteen years?” Casino turned the channel to CNN.

“I know. I guess my first mistake was singing one of her old songs better than she ever sung it.” Casino and Fabiola both laughed. “One of the judges came backstage and told me that Melon must have saw so much of herself in me and that it was scary for her to see a new and improved model right in front of her face. I reminded her of who she used to be. Thank goodness the other judge talked to me, because between him and my mother's encouragement I was able to get past the incident.”

“Well, I'm boycotting the show and her jealous-hearted ass, too.” Fabiola smiled at her new friend.

The two talked for a long time. Well, Fabiola did most of the talking and Casino listened intently. Fabiola had him laughing at her stories about the drama she experienced while doing gigs.

“I had no idea that your work was that hard,” Casino confessed. He thought it was all fun. Singing and dancing.

“It goes beyond the stage, you know.”

“How so?”

“The delivery is a large part of it, but having the drive to get there is the harder work, keeping not only my voice in tip-top shape but my body as well, staying fit, not eating chocolate or things that could break me out. These are things that I have to stay consistent with long after the curtain drops or the band stops playing.”

“Well, I commend you for that.”

They continued joking and enjoying each other's company, when Roxy and Spade returned as Fabiola and Casino shared a laugh. “Well, anything that can make two people laugh that hard in this gloomy muthafucka is worth listening to,” Spade said.

They looked up after hearing Spade's voice. “Our secrets, son,” Casino said.

“I thought we were a sharing family,” Spade attempted.

“And you know I carry secrets to my grave.”

Fabiola started to pack up. “I'm going to get out of here. I'll see you tomorrow.” Fabiola touched Casino's hand, but due to his injury he couldn't really feel her touch. His eyes gave her the embrace back, however. “See you later, and be good, ya hear?”

“Don't worry, I will.”

She grabbed her jacket and purse, then left.

On her way out the door, Fabiola heard Roxy ask, “What was that all about, Casino?”

Fabiola stopped in her tracks and waited outside the door for Casino's response. “Damn, Roxy, when did I start answering to you?” Casino said. “I might as well have a woman if I have to answer to one.”

That's all Fabiola needed to hear—that Roxy wasn't his woman. Fabiola smiled as she walked away.

* * *

“How're you feeling, old man?” Tonk asked. He sat in the corner of the hospital room watching over his boss. Although there had been no other attempts on Casino's life, no one was taking any chances.

“The doctors say if things keep improving the way they are I may be out of here in a few weeks. Afterward, he says I'm going to need about six months of therapy and maybe I'll walk again without a limp.” Casino's voice was a lot stronger than it had been.

“With all due respect, Casino, I don't give a flying fuck about what no quack that barely speaks English has to say. I'm asking you.”

“I'll be out of this place in less than two weeks one way or another,” Casino declared. “A month of therapy and I'll be walking. Two months and I may be dancing.”

Tonk was happy to hear his boss sounding optimistic. “Those are pretty lofty goals for a nigga that never could dance before.” Tonk stopped talking when he heard someone turning the doorknob. The doctor had already made his daily visit and the nurse wasn't due to make another round for at least an hour. Instinctively, Tonk's right hand slid under his jacket and gripped the handle of the .357 he kept holstered there.

“Whoa, big fella,” Spade announced with his hands in the air, “it's just me.”

“We weren't expecting anyone. You're an hour early.” Tonk removed his hand from the weapon but the tension was still evident in his eyes.

“Yeah, I was in the area and thought you might be able to use the extra rest. Did I interrupt anything?” Spade removed the leather coat he was wearing, threw it on the end of the bed, and took a seat. “Besides, I need to talk to the both of you.”

“You can start by getting your shit off the bed,” Casino said, staring at Spade's multicolored, butter-soft leather jacket.

Spade moved the coat to the back of the chair. “My bad,” he apologized, taking off the matching leather baseball cap.

“You look a little ragged, and I'm the one lying up in the hospital shot up. What's wrong?” Casino said to Spade.

“Every hour that I'm not up here I've been manning the streets trying to find out who shot you, and I've come up with nothing.” Casino saw the frustration on his son's face.

“Don't let it get you all worked up, son.” Spade liked when Casino called him that. Spade was actually the son of Casino's best friend, who had been killed. After his death, Casino raised Spade as his own. “We're going to figure this out together, the three of us.”