Ghetto Girls 5 Read online

  “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 wasn’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, and so did the waitress who brought Busta’s chicken.

  “May I get you something cool to drink, gentlemen?” she asked.

  “Bring us couple beers and some extra napkins,” Busta said to the waitress. Then he turned to Eric. “E., don’t sweat that. 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 screaming, ‘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 nightclub. He wanted silence. For once, the music haunted him. It sent chills down his back and he broke out in sweat. Patrons laughed and drank. He thought of his brother and how the police had done nothing.

  “So what…?” Eric asked after a few beats.

  “So what…?” Busta asked while attacking a piece of chicken.

  “Well, we got to do da right muthafuckin’ thing. Know wha’ I mean, E.?”

  Eric watched Busta who was still grubbing away as if his life depended on every bite.

  “What are we gonna do?” Eric finally asked.

  “We gotta break da right muthafuckas off a piece,” Busta said, waving the chicken leg. “I mean, niggas can’t be running free, raping, unsafe sex, spreading all kinds of germs and shit. They’re out there E. and your niece might not be their only vick. We got to make those dirty muthafuckas 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 cell phone, his chicken-stained fingers pressing buttons. Then he yelled into the phone, “Pick up that kid Shorty-Wop. Yeah, Rightchus, or whatever da fuck he wants to call himself. Bring him downtown to Mr. Geez.”

  “You sure you don’t want a piece?” Busta asked, hanging up.

  He gave Eric a long look, and ripped into a piece of chicken breast. Eric stared back lit a cigarette and sipped his brew. He took a deep drag and exhaled to the accompaniment of a jazz riff while Busta finished all the chicken.

  “Let’s go,” Busta said finally, as he placed a large bill on the table and got up.

  Eric rose as if he was about to greet a bad verdict. His steps came tentatively. Eric felt like he did not want to move, but did anyway. Like a prison guard leading the long 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 Wop 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, 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, that’s me all day. Sang all the way through high school… Now I’m old school. Shit, but lemme 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, that’s all good, but…” Busta said, calming the hyper Shorty-Wop. “We wanna hear ‘bout that rape thing, ya know wha’ I sayin?” Busta said, his annoyance showing 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. He quickly grabbed it and Eric lit it. The man took a drag and his mouth was running again.

  “Them niggas kill you at the drop of your jaw. You mouth off to any of them niggas an’ that’s it. Ka-pow, ka-pow!” Shorty-Wop pointed two fingers. “I can’t afford that, Mr. Ascot, you know wha’ I mean? 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…” Busta said, running out of patience. “Just tell us what da fuck you know an’ get hit wid some dough, a’ight?”

  “Eric, your niece was gang-banged by two knuckleheads. Lil’ Long and Vulcha, them’s da muthafuckas. Two, not one,” Shorty- Wop, a.k.a. Rightchus said.

  Eric cringed at the news. 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, you know her? She a singer, actress, da dancer… Now she got a lil’ sump’n going on, I’m sort a like her advisor. I be showing her moves that helps her when she be performing, know wha’ I mean? So your niece rolls up wid Coco and her girls in this bad- ass car… A Mercedes, black one… And when they went outside, boom! Them niggas gun-butt Coco, knocked her young ass out. Da bitch lay on da street, nose bleeding, swollen up like Santa’s reindeer. They took your niece and da ride. Them muthafuckas were dead wrong.”

  “Really…” Eric said.

  “Yeah, and they’s da ones who hit your brother, know wha’ I mean? He was paying off someone. He was fucking ‘round wid Xtriggaphan. Them fake-ass gangsta rappers, wannabes. Them niggas had beef wid everybody. They owed Lil’ Long dough, see.”

  “Hmm, I hear you…” Eric said.

  “So when Lil’ Long went to get his dough—Boom—He sees your brother fuckin’ wid them niggas. Lil’ Long and Vulcha start beating down the Xtriggaphan niggas. Your brother, may he rest in peace. Your brother steps up to them, and 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,” Rightchus said, snapping his fingers.

  “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 wid Deja. I could a fucked wid her, but every man she fucked get killed. No disrespect, know wha’ I’m saying?”

  “I hear you,” Eric said.

  “Them niggas, Xtriggaphan, they s’pose to be out in Cali or Cleveland. Lil’ Long hit them niggas wid some dough and I heard they paid da bitch, Bebop. Your brother was strapped and they killed him, right? Nobody crosses Lil�
� Long or Vulcha. They not having it! But see, they did ma boo Deja, see, an’ that was dead wrong. All he was doing was just grindin’ tryin’ a get his. But them niggas, they ain’t no joke. Da police don’t even fuck wid them.”

  “A’ight, a’ight Shorty-Wop. Hold this,” Busta said, slipping 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 cursed, throwing the smoke away.

  “Remember, if anything comes up…you don’t know me,” Shorty-Wop said as the van pulled off.

  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 were the 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, Eric saw Busta leaning over the curb, vomiting. He rushed over to him.

  “You a’ight, B…?” Eric asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good. Fucking chicken bones,” Busta said, his eyes were teary as he coughed.

  “We got to get rid of those muthafuckas, 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 said gritting his teeth.

  “Ease up, E. Chill, chill. Grab a hold of yourself. Cool out,” Busta said, gingerly removing his neck from Eric’s strong 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, them muthafuckas down wid da law. They involved in some sort of informant-type shit. Them muthafuckas 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 tin badges.”

  “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 and with that, the deal was sealed.

  “Where you parked?” Busta asked as they crossed the street.

  They walked to the oversized red doors of Mr. Gee’s, where notoriety was the valid I.D. card.

  “I’m gonna go back inside for a minute and chit chat. How’s Sophia?”

  “Sophia…Oh, shit, I have to do something with her tonight. She’s a’ight, Busta. Go ahead, B. I’ve got this thing, some kind a dress-up party to attend. I really just wanna fucking get drunk, just tore up, assed-out, like ol’ times and shit.”

  “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.”

  “A’ight, I’ll do that, E. I’ll see ya, man.”

  Eric ran to his car. Busta disappeared through the club doors, headed straight to the bar and ordered a drink. He stared ahead as he sipped. He winked at three women close by. Energy seeped into his groin area and alerted his scrotum.

  “Ah yeah,” he said. “I’d love to be hitting those panties tonight.”

  “We did the wrong nigga, Busta,” Eric heard himself muttered aloud.

  “What you did…?” one of his cellmates curiously asked.

  Sitting in the tiny cell, his thoughts in a swirl, Eric slowly realized that he had fiinally drifted off to sleep. His thoughts had emerged in a dream and he was talking in his sleep. Eric scratched the shadow of an unshavened beard, and opened his eyes to see an inmate eyeballing him.

  “I ain’t said nada, nigga!” Eric retorted, eyeballing the man. “What da fuck you want, huh?”

  “Sound like you talking in your sleep,” the bum said. “I ain’t trying to be all up in your B. I. but you might need a priest. It sounds like you got some confessing to do!” The man laughed, and couple other inmates joined in.

  “Yeah, he pillow-talkin’,” one of the inmates joked.

  “I hear you. What y’all in here for…? Bad comedy or y’all fucking bad taste in clothes?” Eric asked, looking the man up and down. Then shaking his head, Eric frowned and said, “Get away from me. It stinks in here!”

  The nosey inmate could hear the sarcasm dripping from Eric’s mouth and he walked away. He joined the other inmates huddled in discussion, and their loud laughter continued. Staring in their direction, Eric slowly realized he had been dreaming and his mumbles must have brought their unwanted attention on him. When his cellphone began buzzing, his thoughts veered to his niece.

  “Hey, Dee,” he said, excitedly answering the call.

  “Hi, Uncle E, how’re you doing…?”

  There was deep concern in her voice. So far she had been resilient throughout his legal ordeal. Ascot smiled and answered in a steady voice while wondering how his niece was holding up through this latest traumatic change.

  “I’m making the best of this situation. How’re you doing Dee…?”

  “I’m hanging in there, Uncle E. I tried reaching Sophia last night but couldn’t. I’m on my way to her office right now.”

  “You are driving and talking on the phone? That’s not safe, Dee…”

  “Uncle E…”

  “Dee, hang up and call me back when you’re not driving. It’s dangerous out there. You can’t be driving while on the phone, girl. C’mon now—safety first. Call me back.”

  “Okay, I’ll call back as soon as I reach Sophia’s office.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  “Talk to you later Uncle…”

  Ascot stared at the instrument and a pronounced wince formed on his unshaven features. His body tightened, clearly agitated by the news. Ascot didn’t want to reveal his feelings since three pairs of bloodshot eyes were on him. His expensive jeans, silk shirt and boots made him feel like a target. Scowling while looking at the phone in his hand, he willed it to ring. At the other end would be his high-priced attorney, but Eric couldn’t express this feeling. His fellow inmates, now looking him up and down, rolled their eyes toward each other and back, like they saw food. A loud sigh slipped through Ascot’s clenched teeth.

  He tried to still his breathing, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Annoyed, he sat while his mind churned. Eric jumped to his feet and began pacing. The rattling of keys disturbed a pensive Eric Ascot from exploding.

  “C’mon, Ascot, it’s time.”

  His cell phone chimed simultaneously with the command. Ascot felt a moment of relief wash over him when he saw the number: his attorney.

  “Man, what took you so long. I be paying you that phat retainer for you to be here for me. Right now, I need you and I heard you went fishing…? C’mon man, get me outta here! I’m in a fucking cell… I’m giving you one hour.”

  “Times up, Ascot, you know the routine. Let’s go do this perp walk for your media friends,” the officer laughed, opening the door. “Turn around, and put your hands behind you.”

  Ascot did as commanded. He bit his lips when he felt the handcuffs binding his wrists. Ascot was shaking his head as the officer led him outside. The boys in blue lined up and escorted him like he was public enemy number one. The clicking of shutters by the cameras of the paparazzi was under way. Newshounds rushed him despite the strong police presence.

  “Mr. Ascot, do you care to make a statement regarding the gun found in the office of your recording studio…?”

  Eric stared at the reporter and said nothing. As cameras continued to take photos, other reporters stepped forward with their questions.

  “A gun used in the murder of a detective from the city’s police department. Was the gun yours, Mr. Ascot…? You’re facing murder charge, and you have not
hing to say to that…?”

  Ascot kept his lips sealed and wore a sarcastic smirk as he was finally led away to the awaiting police transporter. The three drunks were being interviewed and probably had plenty to say about his phone conversations. From the window he glanced at the crowd and the whole event seemed arranged. It would sell on the news wire, and go viral. Eric’s thoughts moved quickly while sirens and flashing lights of the police vehicle loudly signal take off.

  About fifteen minutes later they were downtown at central booking. A sense of relief washed over him when he saw his attorney doing what he was being paid to do. He was busy shaking hands and finding a way to get out of this gloom. Eric sat in the holding pen for what seemed to be an eternity. Hours later, he finally heard his name being called. He couldn’t wait to be out of this circus.

  3

  Deedee guided her BMW through a busy Monday-morning Manhattan rush. She thought she had left early enough, until she saw the heavy traffic, and arrived to meet Sophia later than planned. Deedee parked in a garage and quickly walked down the crowded city sidewalk. A fly girl, down to her Gucci heels, Deedee felt the crush of busy pedestrians making tracks to places of employment. Slipping Gucci shades on, Deedee, unfamiliar with Sophia’s midtown office, navigated her way to the building.

  After being scrutinized by security, she made it upstairs a whole hour later than planned. A rotund secretary greeted Deedee.

  “Good morning. May I help you young lady?’

  “Good morning. I’m here to see Sophia Lawrence—”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible at this time,” the woman said.

  Deedee noticed the secretary was wearing her eyeglasses on the tip of her nose, and she slowed her roll.

  “We spoke and—” Deedee started to say, but the woman interrupted.

  “Did you have an appointment, ah…?” the secretary asked sharply.

  “Deedee, its Deedee Ascot. She was expecting me.”

  The woman flipped the bifocals from the edge of her nose to her eyes and covered her bulging eyeballs. She held the glasses in position with one hand while the other leafed through a list of names. Glancing down at note sheet filled with names, she shook her head.