Promise Kept, page 10
“I’m going to hold you to that.” Asher looked at his watch. “I got some moves to make, but come by my crib tomorrow morning about eleven, and we can chop it up. You remember where I stay, right?”
Atilla laughed. “We’ve been neighbors since we were shorties. How can I forget?”
“Bet, so pull up and ring my bell, and we’ll discuss this further. You’re still in the apartments down the block, right?”
“Nah, moms gave that crib up when she bounced. Since I got no address, I’m paroled to a halfway house in Irvington until I work my living situation out.”
“Nah, that ain’t gonna do. I’m gonna holla at my home girl who rents out rooms in the city and get you a proper place to lay your head. She can provide you with the paperwork you’ll need to convince your PO that you’ve secured a steady roof over your head. It ain’t gonna be the Ritz, but at least, you ain’t gonna have to worry about bedbugs or niggas stealing your shit while you’re sleeping,” Asher half-joked.
“After what I’ve been made to suffer through over the last few years, a Motel 6 will feel like a penthouse,” Atilla said.
“Follow my lead and that penthouse will be a reality sooner than later. On that note, I gotta make a move.” Asher gave him dap. He was about to leave, but Atilla stopped him.
“Before you go, I need to ask you something.” From Atilla’s tone, he knew that, whatever the question, it was a serious one. “What really went down with Ab?”
Asher wasn’t expecting that question, but he should’ve been. Ab was the one who turned Atilla out to the streets and fed him when he didn’t have anything. “Honestly? All I know is what the streets are saying. He was partying with some bitches in AC and overdosed.”
“Yeah, I’d heard that too, but it never felt right in my spirit. Ab didn’t do drugs. Yeah, he drank and smoked weed, but anything heavier wasn’t his thing. That was B-Stone’s lane.”
“You think it was foul play?” Asher asked, trying to see where Atilla’s head was.
Atilla weighed the question before answering. “I dunno. Maybe I’m reading too deep into it, and maybe I’m seeing what nobody else is.”
“Yesterday is yesterday. We need to focus on tomorrow.” Asher tried to ease his suspicions.
“You right, and I’m definitely trying to focus on getting this paper. Still, there is something about what happened to Ab that won’t let me rest. I had a lot of love for that dude. Ab offered me a hand up when nobody else would, same as he did with you. This is why I need to know for sure. If I find out his death didn’t play like what’s being said, somebody is gonna feel me,” Atilla vowed.
“If that’s the case, then they ain’t just gonna feel you; they’re gonna feel us!” Asher assured Atilla. Though he sounded sincere, in his heart, he knew that it was a promise that he wouldn’t be able to keep.
CHAPTER NINE
At about 10:00 p.m., the man of the hour finally showed up at Dirty Wine. He strode in, hair freshly braided in cornrows to the back and a gold chain swinging from his neck. He was an underground rapper who went by the name Inferno. He had a dozen mixtapes under his belt, some of which were hailed as street classics. Inferno was a highly skilled MC and could’ve probably been a big deal in the mainstream, had he not come with so much baggage. He ran with a rowdy bunch, and they were known for busting up clubs and heads. While a lot of dudes rapped about the life, Inferno was really out there living it.
Promise had never met Inferno in person, but she had seen his videos and experienced how his music could change the mood wherever it was played. Whenever Inferno dropped something new and the DJ spun it at Dirty Wine, Odell found himself working overtime to keep folks from tearing the spot up. People who played his records at their establishments did so at their own peril. Inferno was like the Pied Piper, leading all the children into the center of the town square where they would pummel each other while screaming his lyrics. With all this in her head, Promise expected more when he touched down than what she got.
Instead of the mob he was notorious for running with, there was only one other person with Inferno. He was a high-yellow Puerto Rican cat who wore his hair in a wavy, tapered cut. He had hazy green eyes and pretty pink lips, so it was easy to mistake him for a pretty boy at a glance, but he was from the bottom. He might not have worn it on his sleeve like most of the guys he grew up with, but he carried it in his heart. This was Inferno’s best friend and business manager, Finesse.
As soon as the DJ announced him, Inferno found himself flocked by groupies, male and female. He had to stop every few feet to sign autographs or pose for a selfie. Inferno may have not found mainstream success just yet, but in ghettos across America, he was a young legend.
Inferno and Finesse were met by two people who Promise hadn’t even seen enter the club. They’d likely slipped in while she was in the bathroom. One was a short man wearing a black T-shirt and a heavy gold chain. Promise felt like she had seen him before but couldn’t place him. The other was a woman. Or at least, Promise thought it was a woman. It was hard to tell. She was dressed in baggy jeans, boots, and a loose-fitting sweater with dark glasses covering her eyes. Whoever the duo was, Promise could tell that they were dangerous. It had nothing to do with anything that they had done since she spotted them. In fact, they seemed to be all smiles, but their body language told a different story. Promise had been around enough killers, and it was easy for her to spot one, even from across the room.
Larry greeted the rapper with his lips pulled back into an ass-kissing smile. Inferno nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t say much. The Puerto Rican did most of the talking. After the pleasantries, Larry led the rapper and his people to a booth that sat in the shadow of where the DJ was set up. It was the largest booth in the spot and was always reserved for VIPs or big spenders. With a snap of Larry’s fingers Odell appeared. He had Lita, Donna, and two other girls who weren’t worth mentioning in tow. The girls were a gift for the rapper and his crew. After getting them situated, Larry made hurried steps toward the bar.
“Jersey . . . Jersey, why the hell you just standing around like you ain’t got nothing to do?” Larry started right in.
“I’m not standing around, Larry. I’m getting more waters for my table,” Promise replied.
“Whatever.” Larry waved his hand dismissively. “I need you to do something for me, and I need it done now. Sally!” He slapped his palm on the bar top to get the attention of the older woman who was trying to flirt with a dude who was half her age.
“What, nigga?” Sally spun on him with an attitude. She was the only one in Dirty Wine who didn’t take Larry’s shit.
“I need four bottles of bubbles! Not that cheap shit we slinging to everybody else. Dip in the stash and pull out the good stuff. Give them to Jersey to take over to Inferno,” Larry demanded.
“But I’m working Sin’s table exclusively tonight, remember?” Promise reminded him. Working Sin’s table had proved to be not only easy but pleasant and profitable. She didn’t want to be bothered with the rapper and his crew and put in a situation where she would likely be groped or worse, for just a few funky dollars.
“You wanna be the first bitch to get fired from the same job twice in less than three hours, or you gonna do like I asked you to?” Larry challenged.
“Fine,” Promise said in a huff.
“You need to be showing me gratitude, instead of giving me attitude. Them two down south bamas with Inferno gonna take one look at that fine white skin of yours and lose their shit, and their bankrolls! Do you have any idea who that big head lil nigga is?”
“No,” Promise said honestly. From his swagger, she reasoned that he was either a rapper as well or a drug dealer.
“Of course, your square ass wouldn’t,” Larry capped. “All you need to know is that they’re notorious for spending big bread when they hit a spot. Not like them fronting-ass niggas you been catering to who trying to stretch their budgets as far as they can, so they can look good. If I check the receipts or ask the few girls they’ve tipped, I’ll bet it won’t come up to more than a thousand dollars, including them lil funky bottles they bought for window dressing.” Larry had dissected Sin’s whole facade. “As a matter of fact, they’re starting to smell like trouble. I see them over there watching everybody all sneaky and shit. I know one thing, they try and act up in my spot, and I’ll have Odell bounce all three of their asses out on their heads.”
“You done?” Promise asked, tiring of Larry’s rant. Big Sally had just placed a serving tray on the bar. Atop it sat a bucket of ice with two bottles of Moët & Chandon Nectar shoved inside.
Larry eyeballed her as if he was thinking about going into another rant. “Yeah, I’m done. Carry your ass over there and deliver these bottles. Make sure you put a little jiggle in your wiggle, too. Then you can go back to them larcenous-ass niggas at your table. When you do, be sure to let them shifty niggas know that, if they ain’t spending, then they best be preparing to tip on out, so we can free up that booth.”
“Sure.” Promise turned to collect the tray holding the buckets and bottles. When she tried to lift it, she realized it was heavier than she had anticipated. “Am I supposed to carry these over there by myself?”
“Jersey, you twice the trouble as any girl in here, so you should be able to handle twice the workload. Work it out or walk out, and I’ll get somebody else to do it. The choice is yours,” Larry offered.
Promise was ready to go in on Larry and tell him where he could shove his job and those bottles, but she held her tongue. In the last couple of hours, she had made more waiting Sin’s table than she normally did in a whole week at Dirty Wine. The night was still young, and she didn’t want to rock the boat and mess up her money. She gripped the platter by both ends and tried her best not to drop anything as she crossed the floor with it.
“I swear, sometimes I wonder how I let Keisha talk me into hiring that dizzy-ass girl,” Larry vented to himself. As he was watching Promise’s pale ass jiggle in the thong while she tried to cross the room, he remembered just why he had hired her.
“Because you wanted to fuck,” Big Sally answered as if she could read his mind.
“That girl holds that pussy tighter than a clam that don’t wanna be shucked. She ain’t giving nothing up.” Larry recalled the different occasions when he’d tried to proposition Promise for sex and had always been declined.
“That white hole you lusting after ain’t as exclusive as you think.” Sally snorted.
“What you talking about? Somebody done busted her out?” Larry asked like a man who had just heard that his wife had been out tipping.
“I caught her and pretty boy with the braids in the bathroom looking real suspect.” Big Sally motioned toward Sin.
“He fuck her?” Larry asked, almost uncertain that he really wanted the answer.
Big Sally paused for dramatic effect before speaking again. “Maybe so, maybe not. All I can tell you is that, when I walked in, they were looking real acquainted.” Big Sally knew nothing had gone on between Promise and Sin, but it was fun for her to fuck with Larry’s head.
“Funky yellow bitch!” Larry cursed. He couldn’t believe that, after all he had done for Promise, she had the nerve to play stink finger with the first nigga who came to the club waving a few dollars. His ego was bruised, and the fact that Big Sally knew this made it even worse. “I’m gonna fix her little ass. You watch.”
“Whatever business you got with Promise may have to wait. Seems like you might have a bigger problem on your hands at the moment.” Big Sally was looking toward the door.
A man had just walked in and caused quite a stir among the girls. At first, Larry thought it might’ve been another rapper, as a few of them were supposed to be there that night. As he craned his neck to get a better look, he realized that this was no rapper, but a certified problem. “Find Odell and tell him to get his ass to me right away,” he told Sally before plotting an intercept course with the newcomer.
CHAPTER TEN
Finesse sat at the VIP table Larry had provided them with, burning blunt pinched between his fingers and one arm slung lazily over the back of his chair. Though he looked completely at ease, he was on point. The club security had allowed Finesse to bring his gun inside, but they were still out of bounds. Not in the sense that they had enemies in the spot, at least not that he knew of, but Finesse never allowed himself to be at ease when he was that far from his hood. On his home turf, he knew the shooters, the bullshitters, and the problem starters. That made trouble a little easier to spot, but in a place like Dirty Wine, he’d never see it coming.
Several dancers had been placed on loan to him and his party by the club owner, Larry. While they were pretty enough, only a couple of them really stood out. One was a girl who called herself Lita. She was cozied up to him, whispering some real nasty shit into his ear. Finesse was only half-listening. Any other time he’d have been trying to figure out how best to convince her to let his dick play stick ball with her tonsils, but he was preoccupied at the moment. From under weed-hooded eyes, he was observing the exchange going on a few feet away from him.
Generally, Finesse was the mouthpiece when it came to things involving P.B. Entertainment, but in their present company, he decided to let Inferno take the lead. It wasn’t because he didn’t have the words. Finesse could talk circles around most executives and even street niggas, making off with a bag before they even knew that they had been fleeced. That was his thing, the reason they had started calling him Finesse. He was a good talker. The reason he played the background during the opening of the conversation was because he feared that anything he said would’ve betrayed the shock he felt when he realized who Inferno’s backup plan had been. Of all the men he could’ve foreseen himself sitting down to negotiate with, Trap wouldn’t have been one of them.
Trap sat perched atop the backrest of one of the padded seats that enclosed the table they were sitting at, looking like a little menacing black gargoyle. His head bobbed to track number four of Inferno’s latest project, while a blunt that was three times the size of the one Finesse had been smoking dangled from his lips. Sitting between his legs was Donna. She had staked her claim to him as soon as Larry had dropped them in the section. Trap showered the well-built stripper with dollar bills and ashes.
Forever at his side was his sibling Moochie, nestled deep under Keisha’s rear end getting a lap dance. Mouse’s cousin had her long legs wrapped around Moochie’s waist, grinding on her lap and talking shit into her ear. The way Keisha moved back and forth, had Moochie had a dick, she would’ve probably cum in her jeans. Keisha was just that good with the way she moved. Moochie was Trap’s big sister, but you couldn’t tell at a glance. She was a woman that was shaped like a middle linebacker and who hit twice as hard. She normally kept her thick black dreads pulled into a ponytail, but that night she wore them free, letting them spill over her face and shoulders. If you looked at her head-on, behind her sweeping locs were eyes so dark and sinister, you felt like you were looking into two caves that had been carved into the side of a mountain. Her black pools watched any and everybody who came within five feet of Trap. She had been protective of him since they were kids, so when he was on the come up, he figured, why not let her get paid for it? Moochie was Trap’s unofficial enforcer and road manager.
Finesse tried not to get annoyed at the nonchalant way Trap had been carrying on. He was acting like he was more interested in the atmosphere than what they had come there for, which was getting to the business. They had been in the private section for nearly half an hour, and in that time, the DJ had spun some of the hottest cuts from Inferno’s project, so he knew Trap had had a chance to digest some of the music, at least, in part. But he’d said nothing. Outside of a bit of small talk to break the ice and a bit of catching up, the subject of the album hadn’t been broached yet. Trap was playing with them, and Finesse knew it. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of feeding into the game; unfortunately, Inferno had no such hang-ups.
“So, what you think?” Inferno asked Trap.
Trap stared at him for a beat before responding. “Joint tight,” he said in his southern drawl.
“Man, this shit is more than tight. This is gonna be the next big wave. Watch what I tell you,” Inferno said confidently. Nobody with eyes or ears could deny the effect the record was having on Dirty Wine. The strippers were on the pole going crazy, while bills flew, and Inferno’s lyrics could be heard being repeated throughout the spot.
“I can appreciate your enthusiasm, big man.” Trap bumped fists with Inferno, but there was something about it that didn’t have the intended effect. It was more like a pat on the head than a compliment.
Inferno fought the urge to challenge the issue further. “Yo, I wanna thank you again for taking the time to slide through and check out my latest project. I know you’re a busy dude and all.”
Trap smiled, dim club lights kissing off his gold-plated teeth. Along the left side of the top row “305” was etched in diamonds. “Ain’t no thang, lil bruh. I had business in the city anyway, so it wasn’t taking away from nothing. I gotta admit. I was kinda surprised when you reached out.”
“I know you have an ear for music, so I figured maybe your label could appreciate it,” Inferno said.
“I’ve always had a good ear. I had a good ear back when we first sat down and you acted like my plate was too small to eat off. Why the change of heart?” Trap already knew the answer to the question, but he wanted to see how Inferno would answer. That would determine how he would deal with him from then on.
That was the elephant in the room that Finesse had prayed no one noticed when he discovered Trap’s was one of the labels Inferno had planned to meet with. He and Inferno had first met Trap nearly two years prior. He had recently moved his operation from his native Miami to Los Angeles. Inferno had been booked to do a show at the House of Blues, and Trap represented one of several labels that had come to check him out. Inferno was in the middle of a cross-country tour, tearing down venues from state to state. That night at the House of Blues had been no different. They’d only made it through three songs before the police came and shut it down.
