Читать книгу Gods & Gangsters - Соломон - Страница 9

“What kind of mission?” Power questioned, once he and Kane were driving along Merrick Boulevard, smoking a blunt.

“Guns, my nigga. Guns. They got a cousin in Carolina that turned them on to a sweet ass pawnshop lick. Shit official,” Kane explained. Kane passed Power the blunt.

“Ay yo, I got some official shit, too.”

“What up?”

“That nigga Duppy.”

Kane scrunched up his face. “The rap dude?”

“Yeah,” Power replied, exhaling smoke. “His Brooklyn nigga back on the island got links to ‘em.”

“So what, we gonna stick that nigga? God damn thun, pass that shit.”

Power hit the blunt once more, then passed it back. “Nah, yo. We gonna get scrams to put us on.”

“Man, ain’t no money in that rap shit. We see more dough than them,” Kane replied dismissively.

“That’s ‘cause they ain’t us. Nigga, our weight up! That Q.B.C. shit we on is murder music for real. All we need is the plug,”

Kane flicked the roach out the window. The night, lights and cars streamed by. He couldn’t see it. “Man, that rap shit is some pastime for me. But fuck it, you wanna see this nigga? I’m wit’ you.”

Power smiled, a dragon’s breath of smoke blooming from his mouth and nostrils. He passed the blunt back to Kane. “Yeah, ‘cause if he don’t put us on, we can always rob his punk ass,” Power said. He said it like he was joking, but deep down they both knew he was dead ass.

“What you call yourself?”

That was the first thing Duppy asked Power and Kane once they introduced themselves at the club. Power wasted no time getting in touch with the chick Mona that C-Allah had told him about, and she shot straight at Duppy. He’d told them to meet him at club Vertigo in Manhattan, where he was having a showcase for an R&B group he was planning on signing.

Kane and Power looked at each other, then back at Duppy “Call ourselves?” Kane echoed.

“Yeah, the name of your group.”

“Q.B.C.,” Power replied without hesitation. It had always been their crew’s name, so he just went with it.

Duppy nodded thoughtfully. “Q.B.C.… what it stand for?”

“Queens Boro Crew.”

Duppy sat back and swigged straight from the magnum of champagne he had in his hand. Power watched him with amusement. Power could tell Duppy was the type of dude they used to chase home from school and rob in the cafeteria; the type of dude the rap game would elevate into shine status and who would act like they were really street dudes.

He looked at Duppy’s two bodyguards standing close to him, creating a false sense of security that could easily be shattered.

“You know that street shit don’t be sellin’, right? You gotta make that smooth shit for the bitches. That’s where the money at. Y’all got some smooth shit?” Duppy asked.

“Nah,” Power answered simply.

“That’s too bad. Don’t get me wrong – I like that street shit. I mean, I’m a Harlem nigga for real, but business is business. Hol’ up, they about to intro my new group. Watch these bitches go crazy!” Duppy said, his arrogance screeching like fingernails down Power’s blackboard.

They turned towards the stage, Duppy’s bodyguards on either side of him scanning the crowd like he was the President of Shit.

“And now, Duppy presents his latest discovery – Exclusive!” the emcee announced, and the crowd reacted with frenzied applause.

“Watch,” Duppy said, his eyes lighting up like neon dollar signs in a cartoon.

Three dudes dressed exactly alike in rhinestone-covered jean suits and Timberland boots hit the stage. They all looked like pretty models, and just as Duppy had predicted, the bitches screamed with abandon. Power looked across a sea of gyrating pussy. Hands in the air, asses working like dryers in the laundromat. Power liked the look of the crowd, but was not impressed by the lame ass niggas on the stage.

“Yo, this nigga a clown, thun,” Kane agreed with Power’s expression of disgust, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot like he was ready to see it.

“No doubt, but he our connect to that industry dough, my nigga. Check it – I got an idea,” Power replied slyly, then began to approach the stage.

Kane fell in behind him. They maneuvered through the crowd, then disappeared through a side door, and saw a short set of five steps leading up to the stage. Kane looked at Power. “Fuck you thinkin’ about doing, thun?”

“I’m on my KRS-One shit tonight,” Power cracked, and they both laughed.

They grasped hands and gangsta hugged, then hopped up the steps to the stage. Exclusive was still doing its dance routine. Sparkling like some Vegas niggas who didn’t know shit from shit about any kinda shit. The group was putting it to the crowd as if they were already worth a million dollars and were going to be drowning in the pussy sea tonight. They had no idea Power and Kane were behind them and walking forward.

Duppy looked on -when he saw Power and Kane, his whole face scrunched up. “What the fuck is these niggas doin’?!” he barked, jumping to his feet.

“What you want to do, boss?” the head bodyguard Jaylan asked, ready to rush the stage. Before Duppy could respond, Power had snatched the mic from the lead singer and mushed him over, sending him toppling into the crowd, just as Kane pushed the alto and knocked dude out cold. The third dude dropped the mic and ran. The crowd went from crazy to bananas, screaming so loud for that real shit, that bitches was getting nosebleeds.

“QB in the house!” Power bellowed.

“Buck! Buck! Buck!” Kane barked, stepping over the sprawled body of the sleeping singer.

“Yo DJ, fuck that corny smooth shit! Gimme that real shit!” Power demanded.

The DJ in the booth looked at Duppy. He was fuming, but he could see the energy in the room was on a thousand. He reluctantly nodded. The DJ cut in the boom bap with a thunderous scratch, then the beat for Wu-Tang’s “Protect Your Neck” exploded like a terrorist bomb in the club.

Kane set it off, spitting about growing up in Queens Boro and the way that makes you into steel, forged in the city’s fire.

Then Power took over. Doubling down on Kane’s line. Murder and terror just a way of life. You fight back or die.

The crowd lapped it up like thirsty bitches on a dry day. The DJ clicked hard with Power and Kane’s attitude, and gave them the sickest beds on which lay their lyrics. The club rocked, the bass boomed. Even Duppy’s head bodyguard was nodding along like this crazy shit was getting inside his head.

Duppy, finished the last dregs of champagne from the bottle and then popped the cork on another from the ice bucket. One more look at the madness in the room and his eyes were counting gold bars.

Q.B.C. were definitely moneymakers.