GHETTO SUPERSTAR (5 page)

Before Fabiola could respond, Greg stood up, and then Mr. Purple Suit walked up with a girl on one arm and the other empty.

“Baby, I was looking for you,” he said to the gold-teeth-having, Vaseline-smeared woman.

Her tone changed and she looked as if she had been busted. “I'm right here, honey. I was just trying to get this photo autographed for you, that's all—since I know you liked the singer girl so much.”

Mr. Purple winked at Fabiola and walked off with both of his arm pieces.

“I thought we were going to have to beat up a bitch.” Greg always tried to make Fabiola smile.

“I wasn't afraid of horse teeth. I could've taken her if it came down to it,” she said and smiled. “I'm not just another pretty face, ya know?”

“Oh, I know 'bout all that. Shorty looked like she might've grew up sparring with pit bulls, but you sho wasn't backing down from her.”

“She was tripping from the get-go. I wasn't looking at no man wearing no bright-ass cheap purple suit.” They both laughed.

The band was still working the remainder of the line when Ricky came up from behind and handed Fabiola two envelopes.
One contained her pay for the night, and the other held her cut of the tip money.

“Count that shit, Fab, 'cause you know that motherfucker always got some shit wit 'em,” Keys instigated.

“You know I'm on it, Keys.” She smiled, then took a deep breath. This was the part of the show that she hated most: dealing with Ricky about the pay. She damn near had to go toe-to-toe with the man to get what was rightfully hers. She wished that Viola were there. Her manager would definitely have taken care of this for her.

After getting to her dressing room so she could count her money, she thought,
this shit never ends
. Pissed off, she rushed back to the band's dressing room and charged in.

“Ricky, what the hell is this?” She held up the envelope. “You shorted me a hundred and sixty dollars.”

“I didn't short you anything,” he said. “I took out for the gas and your fine.”

“Gas is usually twenty-five dollars and I don't owe any goddamn fines, Ricky,” she said, up in his face and not giving a damn about the rest of the band that was either undressed or undressing.

“That's right. It's
usually
twenty-five dollars, but since we had to come all this long way I deducted sixty from everyone instead of the usual amount.”

“Who the hell told you to book us all the way out here if you were going to act petty about the gas?”

“I'm trying to broaden our horizons,” he said, doing everything in his power not to look Fabiola in the eyes. He was dead-ass wrong and he knew it.

“‘Broaden my horizons,’ my ass. This is some bullshit, Ricky, and you know it.” She pointed to his face. “You can't even look
me in my eye. Let me do the math on this here shit. Sixty dollars times six … or am I the only one getting taxed like this since I am the only female?”

“Nah, he taxed us, too, believe that,” Tommy, the bass player said.

“Tommy, stay out of this, all right? You are always trying to keep the peace.” She was tired of Tommy's shit, too. Tommy was so far up Ricky's ass, she was sure that he could smell Ricky's shit. It drove her crazy.

“Look, gas ain't cheap, plus oil changes and the general wear and tear on my van all cost money,” Ricky tried to defend himself.

“Well, why not charge these motherfuckers who booked us a traveling fee, instead of charging us?” she said. “Whatever, Ricky, I am going to let you have that little bullshit sixty dollars for the gas. But tell me why in the hell my tip cut is not what it's supposed to be?”

“It was divided up among us all,” Ricky insisted.

“I have no problem with the band getting their tips, but I do have an issue with you getting a part of
my
tip money. Shit, we bailed
yo
ass out. I heard the
boos
out there and I came running to your rescue like Flash Gordon and shit.”

The rest of the band was in the corner laughing, or trying not to laugh, at the gospel Fabiola was preaching.

“I am a part of this band, therefore I deserve a cut of the tips,” Ricky demanded.

“Do you?” Keys asked.

“You want to charge us a twenty percent booking fee plus gas, plus you get some of the tips when all you contribute is your one old-ass song. Everything after that puts the crowd in a sour mood, making us have to work a hundred times harder. This is some bull-fucking-shit, and everyone here knows it.” Fabiola continued to try to get her point across.

No one said anything except Boonie, who let out a loud fart that didn't break up the tension in the room. Everyone watched the two in action.

“Y'all know she's right. Dead-ass right,” Keys continued to add his two cents.

“And you know what? I am so sick of all you niggas talking the same shit and never standing up for yourself.” She looked each of her colleagues in the eye.

“Without me, there is no you. You may have came out and sung but they wouldn't have booked you,” Ricky said to Fabiola, “or any of you. Not without me or my name or my connections.”

“Whatever.” Fabiola shrugged him off. “Back to my mother-fucking money.” She rolled her neck around and said, “Run me the rest of my paper.”

She held out her hand.

Ricky gave her dap and started to laugh. “I don't owe you shit. You got fined one hundred dollars!”

“For what?”

“The colors were red and white, not all red. You can't wear anything you want in
my
band, Ms. Fabiola. This ain't Ms. Fabiola Mays's show. For the last time, this is Ricky Chunnaly's and The Band. That's what the contract says, what I say goes, and I said red-and-motherfucking-white. You decided to wear all red,” he said while shaking the ashes off his cigar.

Smoke was coming from Fabiola's head and then Ricky went in for the kill.

“You could have worn white shoes or anything,” he giggled. “But you didn't … and you got fined for it. And no exceptions when it comes to my fines.”

“It's past Labor Day. What would I look like wearing white shoes?”

“You a star, you can do what you want! You set trends! Guys, ain't that what she tells us? She's a star.” He looked at the rest of the band for a cosigner. No one said anything but Tommy, who grunted in agreement. Everyone else continued packing up their stuff so they could get out of there.

“You could have put on white bracelets or a red-and-white scarf,” Ricky went on.

Bunnnppp
. Boonie let out another one.

She was shaking her head at the petty S-curl-wearing joker. She smiled at Ricky, which he interpreted as her acknowledging that he had won the argument.

“I don't know why you smiling. No white, then you fined a hunn'ed bucks.”

“You know what,” she said, “I got yo red-and-motherfucking-white, Mr. Rick the total dick.” Fabiola turned around and bent over at the waist and lifted up her dress quickly, flashing her candy-cane red-and-white thongs. “Now, run me my shit,” she said while holding out her hand.

The band was in tears of laughter as Ricky paid her the rest of her money.

he night had been too long: the drive, playing in the Chicken Shack, Ricky's bullshit, and then the drama with Mr. Purple's girl. Fabiola was exhausted. And then there was Boonie. He had eaten so much of the greasy chicken that his stomach was bubbling the whole ride home. Ricky stopped the van three times so Boonie wouldn't shit on himself and probably would have given him his sixty dollars back if he could've held that gas he was cutting loose all the way down the highway. By the time she reached home, all she wanted to do was take a long bath, get in bed, and go to sleep.

Fabiola turned on the television. She wanted to catch the news to see what was going on in the capital city. She
turned up the volume so she could hear it over the running water of the bath while she got undressed. She tested the water with her hand
—perfect
, she thought, and then the rest of her body followed. After ten minutes of enjoying the soothing water, the news music sounded, so she strained her ears to hear.

I wonder what crazy shit has happened now. Did they find Osama?

“Richmond city detectives are currently on the scene of a shooting that took place during a Halloween Party on the city's North Side. We now go live to the scene, where Taylor Thomas has the very latest. Taylor, what can you tell us?”

A young woman stood outside in front of yellow crime scene tape.

“Yes, Jessica. Only a few hours after the initial 9-1-1 call, I can tell you this is still a very active crime scene. Officers are still questioning some sixty people who were at the party at the time of the shooting. Authorities have cordoned off a section of the street, and while investigators have not officially identified the victim, they did release some preliminary information about him. We're told that the unidentified man is in his fifties and a respected real-estate investor who may have had a checkered past. He has a criminal history and may have served time in prison. He was shot in the torso, neck, and shoulder.”

While the reporter talked, the camera panned in back of her, where there were people standing around and police cars with their strobe lights still flashing. The camera focused on the reporter again.

“The victim is in critical condition at Medical College Virginia, where a spokesperson has told us they cannot release any additional information about his condition. That's it from here. Back to you in the studio, Jessica.”

The screen split to show the anchor and the reporter.

“Thanks for that report, Taylor, but before you go, two questions:
Do police have any suspects in this shooting? And when will they release the name of the victim?”

“Jessica, although the police are not officially releasing a name, some of the people who were at the party are saying that he goes by the name Casino.”

That name hit Fabiola harder than any of the hot water ever could. She got up and raced for the television remote, almost losing her balance as she slid across the hardwood floor.

“And as far as suspects, all they're saying at this point is that they are looking for two people of interest. We will, of course, continue to follow this story and bring you the very latest when it becomes available. Reporting live from the city's North Side, I'm Taylor Thomas.”

Casino?

Fabiola turned the television to another station to see if she could learn more about what happened, but caught only the tail end of the story, which offered no new information.

Although she hadn't seen Casino since the night he helped her family, she often thought about him. By now, her family had lived rent free in one of his houses for three years. He never even came around for a thank-you. In fact, they didn't even know how to contact the man if they wanted to pay him anything. But now she knew he was at MCV.

Fabiola sat naked on the edge of the bed, totally distraught. She had thought of Casino as her Superman, swooping in to save the day when her world had seemed to be falling apart. She wanted to find out if he was all right or if he needed her to help in any way, as he had done for her family when they were in a crisis. She owed him that much. One favor deserved another. Her heart was racing like Dale Earnhardt in the Indy 500.

“MCV, up, up, and away,” she said as she dried off and quickly got dressed.

After parking her car, Fabiola rushed into the hospital's waiting room. She couldn't believe her eyes. MCV had one of the best trauma units in the country, and they took anyone, regardless of insurance, so they were always overcrowded. But that morning it seemed as if there were wall-to-wall people. There were mothers with their sick children; a guy nursing what looked to be a broken arm; a woman who couldn't stop shaking; and a man with stab wounds who looked like he was going to bleed out at any minute. In addition to the patients, there seemed to be a ton of people standing around.

Fabiola walked over to one of the clerk's stations. The woman had her head down and was filling out some paperwork.

Fabiola stood there for about a minute, and when the woman didn't look up she said, “Excuse me.”

“Yes?” The clerk looked up from her work, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“I'm trying to get any information you have on a gunshot victim that came in tonight. His name is Casino.”

“He must be one helluva man. Everybody is asking about him. He's real popular in these parts it seems. You're going to have to sit down and wait just like everyone else for the doctor to come out.” The clerk went back to her paperwork.

It turned out that most of the crowd was there for the same reason she was: to find out what was going on with Casino. Because she didn't know any of the people in his circle, Fabiola felt alone. She tried to sit and wait, but there were no vacant seats.

Wow, he has a bunch of people who care about him
, Fabiola thought as she stood next to the water fountain. She thought about leaving. Coming to the hospital was an impulsive decision, but she thought that maybe Casino would need her help somehow. However, it seemed like he had plenty of friends there to support him.