Backstage: Street Chronicles (29 page)

Crook was opening for big name acts as far away as Philly, doing guest appearances on albums and even radio remix singles. Not to mention the labels. It was a bidding war for who would sign the hottest rapper since 50 Cent. The influx of money allowed Crook to get Sheena a 2000 BMW 325i, she quit her jobs and he put down on a house in Irvington, New Jersey. Sheena was in heaven seeing her man finally happy for the first time in her life, but she didn’t realize there was much more to come.

“Yo, let’s shoot some dice,” Crook announced one evening after dinner. He, Sheena, and the kids had just eaten a hefty lasagna meal Crook had whipped up and everyone was stuffed.

“Boy, I don’t know how to shoot no dice, and you ain’t teachin’ my babies no stuff like that,” Sheena chuckled.

“Naw, it’ll be fun. Besides, it’s good to know in a bind,” Crook urged her, pulling her out of the chair. “It’s like a family fun game … in the hood,” he joked. “Like Monopoly, that’s dice, too!”

Crook handed the dice to Tameek. “Aiight, Tameek, roll ‘em.”

Tameek threw the dice and they landed on two threes. It was Syasia’s turn next and she rolled a seven.

“Damn, girl, I need to take you on the block with me.” Crook laughed and Sheena hit him. He picked up the dice then turned to Sheena. “Your roll.”

“Vic, I don’t wanna roll dice,” she whined. “Let’s watch TV.”

“In a minute.” He smiled, putting the dice in her palm, and balled her hand. “Now shake ‘em up.”

Sheena shook the dice but felt something else in her hand. She opened her hand and saw a diamond ring sitting between the dice. Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes got big as plates. Crook took her hand and said, “For real, baby, life is a gamble, make me a winner.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as Crook slid the ring on her finger. “It ain’t much,” he conceded, “but I promise when—”

Sheena silenced him with a “shut up and tongue me”—they kissed—”I’d marry you if it was a rubber band, baby. I love you … Crook.” She smiled, calling him by his nickname because he had truly stole her heart with the proposal.

“Mommy and Daddy gettin’ married!” Syasia cheered and Tameek did, too—mimicking her big sister. That night Sheena put it on Crook’s ass, leaving him almost wondering why.

The next morning, Crook was awakened by the phone ringing. He rolled over groggily and picked up the receiver. “What?” His voice crackled.

“We got a problem,” Larceny told him. “Come out to Ike’s.”

“Yeah,” was all Crook said, hung up, and went back to sleep.
But Larceny knew him and called right back. “Man, get yo lazy ass up. It’s serious.”

“Aiight, aiight, I’m comin’.” This time, Crook was on his feet. He pulled up to Ike’s condo in Sheena’s BMW. The same condo Ike had him taken to that night. He hopped out,
chirped
the alarm, and rung the bell. Larceny answered the door in a robe and sweatpants, greeted him wit some slick shit, then took him to the kitchen. Ike was sitting at the table fully dressed and reading the paper, while a cute chocolate chick named Michelle cooked breakfast.

“Hey, Crook, you hungry, baby?” she asked over the frying eggs.

“Naw, boo, I’m good. Wifey don’t let me leave without a hot meal in my belly.”

Ike put down the paper. “Airplay is dead.”

Crook just looked at him, like he didn’t understand. They had pressed up over a million singles and sent every major urban station in the country copies. Everybody was on that Crook shit, wasn’t no way radio could front.

“What you mean dead?” Crook probed.

“Just what I said. They ain’t played the single one time since I sent ‘em out,” Ike explained, slamming the paper in disgust. “We got over two hundred grand invested in CD’s, waitin’ to ship and not one single fuckin’ spin!”

“They get the CD?”

“Of course they got the damn CD,” Ike hissed. “I sent the shit. They just refuse to play it, talkin’ about it’s controversial, too street.”

“Fuckin’ cowards,” Larceny spit. “It ain’t no more controversial than the shit them puppet rappers be sayin’, yo.” Larceny was hot. Michelle brought the eggs and toast to Ike and Larceny along with some orange juice, then bounced out of the kitchen. Ike took one bite and dropped the fork; it hit the plate with a ceramic clang. “Yo, what the hell is we gonna do wit a million CD’s?”

Larceny shrugged. “Sell ‘em out the trunk?”

Ike looked at him, like, wrong answer, shut the fuck up.

Crook shook his head. “Man, fuck that. Radio gonna play my shit, yo.”

“So what you gonna do, kill every DJ in America?” Ike asked only half sarcastic wondering if this crazy mu’fucka was thinking exactly that.

Crook took a sip of Larceny’s juice, then smiled to himself. “Ay, Michelle.” he called out. Moments later, she reappeared. “Yo, ‘chelle, you ever been to California?” he asked with a mischievous smirk.

Larry Taylor was the VP over urban programming for Clear Channel Communications, the number one radio conglomerate in America. Clear Channel Communications had stations in every urban market in the country, and they basically controlled the daily playlist at every station. Locally, radio had really no control, because in the radio business, the power is centralized. Larry Taylor represented the apex of that power. He was fortyish, an impish black man with a seriously receding hairline. He had graduated from Howard University with a major in communications. Larry had climbed the corporate ladder from DJ to program director on seven different stations in Texas, New York, and Miami, to VP at Clear Channel Communications. He was a man stuck on the cameo era, who didn’t care anything about rap or hip-hop, yet it was his word that determined it, when and how many times a record got spun. This was the man Crook sent Michelle to go see.

She posed as a student from his alma mater, doing a paper on the music industry. Michelle said, in her initial email, that she thought his job was exciting, big-upped the influence he had and the power he possessed, and that she would like his opinion on the state of the music business.

Flattery will get you everywhere, but what got her invited to L. A. was her picture that accompanied the email. Larry may have married a white woman, but he couldn’t help fantasizing about
the young chocolate tender and how she would choose to thank him for his time.

Michelle entered his large office with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the smog-laced panorama of Los Angeles. She was dressed business-like, but the purple silk shirt she wore hugged her curves and accentuated what it was supposed to conceal. She carried a briefcase that she set down by his chair. She shook Larry’s hand, then sat and crossed her long sexy legs all in one slow, sensual motion.

Larry tried to hold his composure, wanting to bend her over the desk, but instead, he cleared his throat. “It’s very nice to meet you, Ms. Graham, but as you know, I’m extremely busy. So I can only spare fifteen minutes,” he stated, but his mind added,
For now
.

“That’s fine,” Michelle agreed, taking out a blank notepad. “I didn’t plan on taking up too much time anyway. I’m interested in knowing how you feel about rap music and the rule Clear Channel Communications set on why and when it is played.”

“Well,” Larry began. “We here at Clear Channel Communications have a very strict policy on the content of what we endorse. We try to give the listeners a variety yet … maintain our integrity,” he explained, sounding like a public relations memo.

“Do you have a favorite group?” Michelle asked.

Larry smiled. “No, I must admit, I don’t listen to much rap. I’m more of a Billy Ocean type of guy. Do you have a favorite? Maybe I can help you get an interview with them for your paper.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I was sent up here by my favorite group. Have you ever heard of Crook and Larceny?” Michelle quipped, her tone still pleasant and business-like.

Larry’s brow furled in thought. “No, not right offhand. Unless you’re referring to court charges.” He laughed and Michelle joined in politely.

“No, they’re a rap group, a very good rap group who can’t seem to get any play on any of your stations. They asked me to find out why.”

“I don’t see what that has to—”

Michelle cut him off. “Really, that’s what I’m here for. Crook and Larceny want their record played on your stations.” Larry chuckled lightly. Rappers were getting more creative in how they tried to get play. Sending this young hottie up here to fuck him in exchange for spins was definitely original. Pussy was one thing, but his job was another. How he did either didn’t affect the other.

“Ms. Graham, if that is your name. Do you even attend Howard?”

“No.” Michelle grinned.

“I see … so this is all a play just to get me to play Larson Crook or whatever you said?”

“Basically,” she admitted, because there was nothing to hide.

“Well, I’m sorry. I give them an ‘E’ for effort, but, the radio business is much more complicated than that. They, like all the other million and one rap hopefuls, will have to go through the proper channels.

“Now … we’ve wasted enough time … so …” His tone said goodbye.

“Well,” Michelle sighed. “I guess I’ll just leave you a little something to remember us by.”

Pussy!
His dick screamed, but unless she kept hers in a briefcase, that wasn’t it. She put a large dusty photo album on his desk.

“What’s this?” he asked, recognizing it vaguely, but unable to really place it.

“Oh, that? Well, that’s just an old photo album your mother keeps under her bed, next to her nightstand. The one she likes to show on Christmas”—and after seeng his eyes light up—”Yeah, that one. I like your uncle’s cabin in Colorado and I hear his ski shop is doing real well. Oh, and your son? He’s such a cutie. Think he’ll go to Howard, too?” Michelle’s voice never lost the sugary tone, but the meaning was unmistakable. Larry sat pale faced and shocked, wondering how they had gotten the photo album and where his mama was right at this moment.

Michelle picked his thoughts and assured him, “Oh, her?
She’s fine … for now.” She giggled. Larry’s attitude went from shocked to anger in a split second.

“You think you can threaten me?!” He stood up, trembling with indignation. “I’m calling the police!”

Michelle just studied her freshly done manicure as he picked up the phone to dial and said, “Why, Larry? For communication threats? We’ll make bond and then we’ll make sure that album is the only thing you’ll have left of your family.”

“Nine-one-one, may I help you?” Michelle could hear the voice say through the receiver. Larry stood stock-still.

“Hello?”

Michelle placed her finger on the button and cut off the connection. Nine-one-one rung right back.

“Larry, don’t do anything crazy, because if you answer that phone, you might as well call the funeral home next for your whole … fuckin’ … family.” The venom came out in her threat, and Larry knew she was dead-ass serious.

He absentmindedly picked up the receiver and said, “Everything’s okay,” then hung up and sat down.

“This is the deal.” Michelle leaned forward and folded her hands on the desk. “And please listen closely. Crook and Larceny will get heavy rotation. They will be headliners on your Summer Jam Tour and they will receive full support at every station Clear Channel Communications runs. Any questions?” Michelle closed up her briefcase then looked at Larry as she stood up.

“Wh-what did you say the name was?” the once confident Larry said.

“Crook and Lar-ce-ny.” She articulated every syllable clearly through her full strawberry lips. “Your stations already have the single. All they need is your word to make it happen.” She blew him a kiss. “That’s from Newark, baby, kiss your mama for me,” she stated, heading for the door, then added, “As a matter of fact, kiss her goodbye if I don’t hear my favorite song before I leave L.A.” She laughed and closed the door behind her.

As she drove the rented drop-top Jag back to LAX, she heard the DJ on L.A.’s number one rap station announce, “New music! Hot new music by Crook and Larceny and produced by T-Beats. Check out this banger, ‘Gun Music’!”

Michelle smiled to herself, knowing on every station across the country, niggas was hearing the same thing.

The stores couldn’t keep the single on the shelves and the bootleggers couldn’t get enough of tracking down the few mix tapes Crook had done back in the day and putting them in circulation. Everywhere you went, Crook and Larceny was that gangsta shit. Ike was constantly fielding phone calls from labels begging to sign Crook and major distributors putting offers on the table for the upcoming album. Money was pouring in. Some cats in the Bronx even wanted Crook to play Akbar Prey in a straight-to-video movie they were doing. Crook kept the BMW he bought Sheena, but copped her a brand-new burgundy BMW 6 Series and the house they were living in. He didn’t floss himself out in diamonds and furs and he cut back on the powder habit until it was basically nonexistent in his life. Psychologically, he didn’t need it anymore, so the need for it dwindled away. Crook stacked his cheddar, except for an indulgence here and there. But he did remember old debts.

“T, you got a cat out here wanna see you. I think it’s that rapper Crook,” his man said, sticking his head in the door of the studio.

T-Beats was mixing down a track for Lady Dee, the illest female rapper out, when the word came through the door.

“Fuck he want?”

His man shrugged his shoulders. “Say he got somethin’ for you. He’s carrying a duffel bag, too.”

“You check the bag?” T asked, knowing Crook’s MO and not knowing what type of shit he was on.

“He ain’t let me,” was all his man said.

T-Beats got up and stormed into the front office to face the nigga just in case. When he walked in, Crook was all smiles, sitting in one of the leather lounge chairs. T-Beats looked him up and down when Crook stood up.

“Ay, yo, dog, it’s good to finally meet you,” Crook greeted.

“Yeah, what you want? I’m busy,” T snapped.

Crook understood the hostility, so he got right to the point. “Ay, yo, I know you probably feel like I came at you sideways, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I just came to give you this, to let you know I wasn’t tryin’ to play you.” With that, Crook unzipped the duffel and handed it to T-Beats. He looked in the bag and found himself face-to-face with two hundred thousand dollars.