Ghetto Girls 3. Anthony Whyte
right where the beat drops,” Show Biz said and gave Eric a pound.
“The track is kind a hot. I laid some new sounds on it. Lemme hear it when you mix it down and add the other vocals, ahight E?” Silky Black requested.
“Coco we throw sump’n, sump’n up there for you. Show Biz said turning to the girls. We need about thirty-two bars from you to set it off. Eric will show you what I’m talking ‘bout.”
The girls walked into the studio. Eric Ascot directed them to the lounge area filled with television sets and vending machines. A pool table was bare and unused.
“Coco I got this track that I want to use for a Silky Black song. It was just going to be his vocals but I wanted to try a thing and get a verse or two from you on it.”
“This is something I’ve been looking forward to doing,” Coco answered enthusiastically.
“Josephine will also do some background stuff, so we’ll get everyone involved.” Eric continued.
“Wait a minute Uncle E. I don’t hear my name being called?” Deedee frowned. Eric walked over and put his hand around her shoulder, “I’ve got something very special planned for you. Only you can handle this task. I’ll discuss it later.”
“Okay, it better be something important,” Deedee said.
“Alright, let’s go invade the studio,” Eric said leading the way.
Eric Ascot and Coco sat facing each other at the sound-board.
The engineer slipped a disk into the drive and musical notes danced across the computer screen. The earth shook as the sound was filtered through Klipschs 911 studio size speakers. Coco was transported to a musical wonderland. The speakers vibrated and a steady sound of Hip-Hop came through heavy and inflexible. Coco jerked from her torso to the top of her head. She was feeling the whole thing.
“It’s yours, when you’re ready, just go in the booth,” Eric announced.
He disappeared as the bass led the horns that ushered the percussion.
She worked the mechanics of the beat, breaking it down, and then spat freestyle lyrics that hit like an automatic weapon.
Niggers terrified when they hear what comes from the young one…
Coco’s in your town put down your guns have fun…
This lyrical gift is like Teflon can’t say I won’t kill anyone…
I ain’t just rapping to be popular step to me I’ll bury ya…
The Teflon things come flyin atcha…
In the race for cheddar I’m natural born killa…
Hustla running laps like I’m a track star…
Oh yeah hip-hop-hooray in case you forgot I say…
Coco’s getting ghetto n your town today…
A champion like Laila my rhymes lay you out forever…
Try to peep me but can’t see my phantom jab coming to smash ya ...
You cold before you feel me suckas?”
There was a loud howl and scattered applause, some present in the studio laughed. Coco’s verse off the top of her dome served to convince all that she was ready for the next level.
ONE
No Standing Any Time
Read the sign above the black, Range Rover on chromes. The rims were still spinning and two burly bodyguards remained seated in plush leather, air condition comfort, waiting for Deedee’s return. One of them doubled as a chauffeur, sat in the driver’s seat. The other, remote in hand, switched the radio dial to a local station.
The news and weather report were in progress: “March 9 97 Biggie Smalls was shot to death out in LA while listening to his joint; I’m going back to Cali… Today on the sixth anniversary of his death we will remember the legend coming right after the weather. Right now New York stand up… Fordham Road in the Bronx, Jamaica Ave, Queens... up in the streets of Harlem... you’re in tune to the best Hip Hop ‘n’ R&B sounds in town. It’s three ‘o’ five and right about now we’d like to take it back to the streets of Brooklyn with the sounds of Notorious B.I.G. This is ‘Warning.’”
The disk jockey said his piece and a raw, pulsating drum and bass laced with the lyrical flow of rap legend, Biggie Smalls followed. The classic knocked hard through the streets.
…Who the hell is this?
Paging me at 5:46 in the morning
Crack a dawn now I’m yawn n,
wipe the cold out my eye,
See who’s this paging me and why…?
The rhythmic spit of the Notorious B.I.G. banged clear through Bose Acoustics Systems speakers echoing through the hectic, city sidewalk, reverberating from buildings. The sound almost over shadowed the sight of several people running from out of the same building Deedee and her friend went into earlier.
“What d’ya thinks is going down?” The curious bodyguard asked.
“Where?” The driver answered with a shrug. Without taking a second glance, he went back to bopping his head to the rap legend.
…It’s my nigga pop from the barbershop
Told me he was in the gambling spot
and heard the intricate plot…
“Sump’n gotta be up…” The grumble came from the concerned bodyguard.
The driver peered from smoked window and mumbled something inaudible. He saw the clamor in front of the building but quickly dismissed it.
“Nah, sump’n definitely up,” the guard said.
“I’m saying ya always see niggas running,” the driver quipped. “Most o’ them don’t even know why they running. They just run to be running. Like my man, Cedric the Entertainer sez, ‘don’t take much to set black folks off running.’ Niggas think they hear sump’n strange they ain’t turning around to find out what happened? They be like ‘see ya.’” The driver chuckled. A few more people darted from the building as if it was on fire.
“Sump’n ain’t right. Deedee went up in that building, and as far as I know, she’s still up there. We getting paid to make sure nothing goes wrong with her. Matter fact, it was her Uncle who said ‘Make sure no harm comes to not even a strand of her hair.’ I’m a go take a look, ahight.” He checked his weapon and exited the vehicle.
“I ain’t mad. I’ll be right here. Hit me if there’s problems.” The driver held his cell phone high.
The bodyguard walked away from the vehicle and headed to the entrance of the building.
“What’s going on up in there?” He asked pointing to the building where a couple of teens were pitching.
“A bunch a bitches up on the third floor arguing ‘bout some man or sump’n, you know the usual. But big man, big man check this out we got dat, ya heard?” Before he could turn toward the door, he overheard a conversation. “Man, you know that bitch straight up lesbian, man. That bitch ain’t fighting over no man that bitch fighting over some other bitch.”
“Ah, there you go again hatin’ cuz the bitch ain’t givin’ you none, petty ass nigga.”
“I ain’t bout it like