Brooklyn Noir Part 11

When Code's lurid tales of murderous mayhem coursed their way through the underground, neighborhoods that had been relatively quiet spiked in crime. It took awhile for the police to figure out what was going on in certain neighborhoods, but they eventually found a correlation between Code's underground tapes and an increase in robbery, spousal abuse, and urban cowboy antics. He "Ain't f.u.c.kin' Around," as he relayed in one song: There was n.o.body orNo one to hold me downI've kicked every motherf.u.c.kahEven my mama aroundn.i.g.g.az knows me as a man about townAin't no motherf.u.c.kah who doesn't know thatI ain't f.u.c.kin' around Or: Yeah, baby, let me do it to youI knew you'd love it since you're just coozeI've never met a b.i.t.c.h that wouldn't do the doIt's my G.o.d-given right to smack you & be cruelYou know you likeYou know you like thatYou know you like itAnd if you don't you're still gonna be smacked "You Know You Like It" was accompanied by the d.i.c.khardening, a.s.s-smacking sound of a woman screaming, "Yeah, f.u.c.k me!" "Yeah, f.u.c.k me!" That caught the ear of Dr. Rhyme, one of hip hop's most influential producers, the genius behind That caught the ear of Dr. Rhyme, one of hip hop's most influential producers, the genius behind Da Sick n.i.g.g.az Convention Da Sick n.i.g.g.az Convention Rhyme put his trackers out to find that "crazy motherf.u.c.kah with the sick-a.s.s lyrics and slick production." Rhyme put his trackers out to find that "crazy motherf.u.c.kah with the sick-a.s.s lyrics and slick production."

Word went out on the street, and Code's hands went into his pocket when two unfamiliar n.i.g.g.az unexpectedly approached him at his local hang spot, Club Prospect on Franklin Street.

"Who the f.u.c.k sent you?" he screamed at one, who was down on his knees, mouth bleeding from the pistol whipping he had just received from Code. Code was nervous; rumors were circulating that two of the other chart-topping rappers, Wuz Dat and Killadelic, had ceased their war and were thinking about jacking his a.s.s up: The new n.i.g.g.a on the block was a threat. And Code could always smell another n.i.g.g.a's evil ways blocks ahead.

The club went silent: The doors were locked and all the customers witnessed the legendary Bad One in action. Only a few were disgusted by Code's criminal-mindedness. Most of the patrons, young men and women from the neighborhood, had become inured to the random display of violence, which was increasingly the soundtrack to their reality. Watching Code was like watching a power fantasy in actual play. He was a brother in control and knew how to handle another n.i.g.g.a. Even the club's exotic dancers stopped moving and watched Code at work. Finally, one of the men was given permission to reach into his jacket pocket and retrieve a card with Dr. Rhyme's telephone number.

With his 9mm's barrel jacked up against the roof of one of the n.i.g.g.a's mouths, his foot on the neck of the other emissary from Rhyme & Crime Records, dialing his cellphone with his thumb, Code found that the doctor was in New York. The doctor wanted to know if he was ready to be a serious music playa. If so, would he join him for dinner in Manhattan?

Used to Mickey D's or curry goat with dirty rice and beans, Code and his thuggish trio of bodyguards rolled into an Upper East Side restaurant on 61st Street. Their presence caused some consternation (it was mainly the display of do-rags, sports jerseys, oversized trousers, and untied shoes) until Dr. Rhyme approached the maitre d' and interceded. A gray velvet jacket was placed on Code, and his boys were told to park their rumpled a.s.ses at a bar that kept him in their eyesight.

"I'm sorry about that misunderstanding with yo' n.i.g.g.az," said Code as he sat down, referring to Rhyme's messengers.

Dr. Rhyme was gracious; as a former Cali gang-banger, he understood the dictates of security; it was the code of the streets. Obviously, his agents hadn't approached Code with respect, and respect was important. He would dispose of them accordingly.

Code was nodding to all that Rhyme said, but kept his eyes on the most magnificent-looking one-eyed b.i.t.c.h he had ever laid his own bloodshot eyes on. She was dark, and Code, like most n.i.g.g.az, tended to go for the current J. Lo model of Boricua negritude. But T-Sound was fine fine, despite the one eye, and she displayed her finery with even more subtlety when she excused herself and went to the ladies' room. Code a.s.sumed that she sucked Rhyme's d.i.c.k; that's what b.i.t.c.hez were good for. That, and giving a n.i.g.g.a a son. Rhyme recognized the trajectory of Code's male gaze.

"She's one of my producers," said Rhyme. "T-Sound discovered your tape and listened to it. Girl got ears."

"And one eye," Code retorted. Not bad for a one-eyed b.i.t.c.h-and with a wicked a.s.s to boot, thought Code. If she didn't return, he'd have to start licking the chair she sat in.

She was Tanya Sonido, from el barrio el barrio, and Code was trying to calculate how he could get her away from his new contact, the man who was going to produce his way outta the ghetto. He may have to kill him to s.n.a.t.c.h her. He had done it before-but before business?

"Will she be my producer?" asked Code.

Rhyme looked at him. "You don't mind a woman producing your sound?" This was unheard of, and Rhyme recognized that this was one n.i.g.g.a who didn't give a f.u.c.k what other n.i.g.g.az said or thought.

"s.h.i.+t, she could suck my d.i.c.k while doing it."

Rhyme nodded: "Yeah, she's a bad motherf.u.c.kah ..."

"You Negroes talking about me?" asked a suave voice.

The two turned around and found T-Sound standing behind them. She returned to her seat and flashed the whitest pair of teeth that Code ever saw on a black woman. It was also her almond-shaped eye eye and wide, sensuous smile. She was an older woman, maybe about thirty. She probably knew how to really f.u.c.k a man. Not like these amateur b.i.t.c.hez who watched skeezer videos and acted like they could hump. This b.i.t.c.h could probably f.u.c.k as well as a dude; that is, putting her back into it as if she had a d.i.c.k. Men knew how to f.u.c.k; b.i.t.c.hez just got laid. and wide, sensuous smile. She was an older woman, maybe about thirty. She probably knew how to really f.u.c.k a man. Not like these amateur b.i.t.c.hez who watched skeezer videos and acted like they could hump. This b.i.t.c.h could probably f.u.c.k as well as a dude; that is, putting her back into it as if she had a d.i.c.k. Men knew how to f.u.c.k; b.i.t.c.hez just got laid.

Dinner proceeded with Rhyme and T-Sound finding their prospective new talent something to eat on the exotic menu. After coffee and cognac, they-Code, along with his boys-went to Rhyme's nearby hotel room and discussed his vision for his project, The Code The Code While fixing drinks at the room's wet bar, Rhyme saw the effect that T-Sound's bod was having on Code. It was her pulchritudinous figure and that black eye patch. There was something mysterious, remotely kinky, about a fine-looking woman wearing an eye-patch that got some men's third leg thumping in their pants. There was heat between them, the b.i.t.c.h and the n.i.g.g.a. Rhyme watched them as they sat down and talked about his lyrics, life, and production ideas; who he listened to and what he wanted to incorporate. It would be a chronicle of gunz, b.i.t.c.hez, and bodacious n.i.g.g.atude. Code was surprised that T-Sound had produced many of the CDs that he liked and had been deejaying in clubs. Code mentioned that he enjoyed listening to women screaming and hollering, and told her that he watched a lot of p.o.r.n.

"So do I," she said, "but I like to watch men getting their a.s.ses busted."

Code smoothed the waves on his head. "s.h.i.+t, the only people who do that are f.a.ggots."

"Yep, and they be the only ones getting it up the a.s.s, baby. I especially enjoy she-males busting a n.i.g.g.a's a.s.s."

"Whut?" He looked at Rhyme and then back at her.

"Have you tried it?" asked T-Sound, an inquisitive arch rising over her good eye.

"f.u.c.k no no," laughed Code, slightly put off that a b.i.t.c.h he was getting hard for would ask a 100-percent black man like himself that kind of question. "I'm the f.u.c.ker; not the f.u.c.ked!"

"Too bad." She looked him over as if she were imagining herself doing something very nasty to him.

"If you were a dude, I'd have killed you for ..."

Tanya tossed her head back. A mane of rich black hair swept through the air as she sat invitingly across from him. Her legs were parted slightly, as if she was offering a taste of herself.

"Well, come on, nigguh," she challenged. "You want to slay me like you do those n.i.g.g.az back in Brooklyn? Or you wanna f.u.c.k this Boricua Boricua b.i.t.c.h? This b.i.t.c.h? This black black b.i.t.c.h? This b.i.t.c.h? This disease-free disease-free b.i.t.c.h? I got something for you." b.i.t.c.h? I got something for you."

She rocked her head as if she was good to go, kicking it to him in Spanish. "Yo, popi ..." "Yo, popi ..."

Rhyme watched him. Tanya was taunting him before a room full of men, his n.i.g.g.az. This would have been different if it were just him and the boys, but Tanya was playing with fire. A few seconds went by and Code gave her a hard n.i.g.g.a stare, an icy glance that he had perfected when deciding another man's fate.

Rhyme understood what was going on and walked over with a drink and handed it to Code, who took it down in one swallow and said to his boys, Bebop and Cisco, "Let's roll. I'll have my lawyer contact you about a contract. b.i.t.c.h, I'll see your fine a.s.s in the studio." He grabbed a fist full of crotch before he went out the door, then added, "You better not bend over while we're there, or you'll get this!"

With that, they left.

"d.a.m.n, that n.i.g.g.a was fine," moaned Tanya as she grabbed her own crotch, taking a drink from Rhyme. "I wanted to f.u.c.k his a.s.s there on the spot!"

"s.h.i.+t, that boy would have shot you, Tanya."

Tanya reached down and pulled up a Glock pistol from between the cus.h.i.+ons of the couch. "Or he would have died trying. How much do you think we can get for him?"

"Well ... if we do this CD, he'll be a premium," surmised Rhyme.

A few months later, a contract signed and time spent in the studio, Tanya walked into Club Prospect on Franklin Street and sat down beside Code, who was sticking dollar bills in a dancer's G-string with his teeth. He could feel himself thickening even when she sat an inch or so away. Lately he had been having dreams about her ... pulling her clothes off, inching his way down to her crotch, getting her hot and nasty for his coup de grace. coup de grace. But now she wanted to talk about some business, music business. But now she wanted to talk about some business, music business.

"Look, one of them sounds like someone is being choked to death," she said, flicking an ash of her clove cigarette into a tray on the bar.

It was homage to an original gangsta, the legendary Nate Ford, he told her. Ford excelled in the "asphixiation of love," a love/death grip. Ford had learned that by choking a b.i.t.c.h, his hands on her throat, he could involuntary cause her v.a.g.i.n.al muscles to firmly grip his d.i.c.k as he simultaneously exploded into and suffocated her.

Not even the Marquis de Sade had that one in his a.r.s.enal of techniques, Ford was reported to have told a Russian business a.s.sociate as they sat around one evening laughing over c.o.ke and cognac. "Kinky technique," Code explained. Ford had even shown his Russian guest a video of himself snuffing a young Puerto Rican woman. On the tape, Ford leered into the camera and then, with the brio of ultimate contempt, pulled out and discharged over the dead woman's body. "Good to the last drop," "Good to the last drop," Ford then said. This was the sort of video that Code collected. Ford then said. This was the sort of video that Code collected.

"That's what you want on your debut alb.u.m?" asked T-Sound. "You want people to see you as a sick, demented f.u.c.k?"

"I don't care what people think," snarled Code, his eyes narrowed nearly to slits, mocking an African mask. "I am the last of a dying breed: the last of the bad-a.s.s n.i.g.g.az. True to form, true to the code: I just want n.i.g.g.az to buy my music ..."

"And s.h.i.+ne your shoes ..."

"Whut?"

"Skip it," said T-Sound. She wasn't going to engage in self-disgust just because of dealing with low-lifes like him. This was a business, and it sometimes became nasty when dealing with nasty people.

"T-Sound ..." he rolled off his tongue.

"What?" She was looking at a dancer who could have made better money by keeping her clothes on.

"How'd you lose your eye?"

"Fighting a n.i.g.g.a who wanted to get some free free p.u.s.s.y p.u.s.s.y the hard way," the hard way," she coolly replied. "He didn't understand any part of the word she coolly replied. "He didn't understand any part of the word no." no." She went into her hand purse and pulled out a matching onyx cigarette case and lighter. She went into her hand purse and pulled out a matching onyx cigarette case and lighter.

"Did he get any?"

"No," she said, lighting the cigarette. Tanya turned and faced him fully. A shadow fell across her face, the dark patch growing into a partial shroud over one side of her head. "All he got was an eyeball, but his b.a.l.l.s got some of this!" She pushed a little black switch upward on the lighter with her thumb, and a gleaming, sharp two-inch blade appeared.

What Code found menacing wasn't the blade, but that she was too cool; nothing frazzled her. She was just like him: a deadly n.i.g.g.a. Weeks ago he had walked into the recording studio with his boys, armed, stinking of liquor, and she had thrown out his bodyguards with her even bigger, badder, and bolder bodyguards, n.i.g.g.az who worked day jobs with the city's most feared gang, NYPD. He tried to stare her down during a disagreement about one song in which he was going for the soap-soft. After dissing women for ten tracks, he wanted to include some lovey-dovey sop-asking a "girl" if she would love him even if he didn't have money-after having extolled the sociopathic virtues of getting it by any means necessary on the rest of the recording!

T-sound had told him: "Look, it is clear to me that even though you enjoy f.u.c.king f.u.c.king us, you don't like or have any respect for women. So who are you trying to fool with this track, your mother? n.i.g.g.az like you don't have mothers. You're the cla.s.sic son of a b.i.t.c.h, us, you don't like or have any respect for women. So who are you trying to fool with this track, your mother? n.i.g.g.az like you don't have mothers. You're the cla.s.sic son of a b.i.t.c.h, tu sabes? tu sabes?

She told him this an inch from his face, like a Marine DI to a jarhead, and added: "You gonna be hard, be hard all the way. No half-steppin'. Save that p.u.s.s.y love s.h.i.+t for your second alb.u.m-if you live that long."

Tanya Sonido. She looked like a woman, smelled like a woman, and even dressed like one. She wore the kind of clothes-dresses, suits, or blazers with jeans-that accented a woman's best features, and she had rounds rounds of features like the military had rounds of ammunition in Iraq. A phat, firm a.s.s that didn't bust out the seams like other n.i.g.g.a b.i.t.c.hez; voluptuous b.r.e.a.s.t.s that hung underneath her s.h.i.+rts in their own right, not a.s.sisted by silicone injections. She had nice calves and strong-looking muscles that ran along her thighs, evidence of gym work, and nice definition to her shoulders and biceps. The b.i.t.c.h was of features like the military had rounds of ammunition in Iraq. A phat, firm a.s.s that didn't bust out the seams like other n.i.g.g.a b.i.t.c.hez; voluptuous b.r.e.a.s.t.s that hung underneath her s.h.i.+rts in their own right, not a.s.sisted by silicone injections. She had nice calves and strong-looking muscles that ran along her thighs, evidence of gym work, and nice definition to her shoulders and biceps. The b.i.t.c.h was built built. She was hard like him: ghetto-but she had style and grace, and wasn't n.i.g.g.a-down 24/7. That was all he could ever be, and he was beginning to suspect that this was limiting.

T-Sound exhaled some smoke from her nostrils: "Hear that, Code? Hear 50 Cent kickin' it on the jukebox? That's the n.i.g.g.a you ought to have a problem with, not me. I'm on your side." She set down her cigarette and looked at him, her full red lips slightly parted. "Or are you having trouble concentrating?"

Suddenly it was getting hot. OGs had talked about a special kind of woman that men found hard to beat, hard to resist. The French called them femmes fatales femmes fatales, mysterious women that could do a n.i.g.g.a in if he wasn't careful. Code realized that his d.i.c.k was getting hard due to his overpowering l.u.s.t and fear fear of her. She could do what no other man or woman had ever been able to do: read him. She knew what he wanted from her, needed from her, and what he could never allow anyone else to do: become close to him. His rules of engagement dictated that he possess no friends, only a.s.sociates; that he have no real love, only p.u.s.s.y; no family-that had been destroyed years ago. of her. She could do what no other man or woman had ever been able to do: read him. She knew what he wanted from her, needed from her, and what he could never allow anyone else to do: become close to him. His rules of engagement dictated that he possess no friends, only a.s.sociates; that he have no real love, only p.u.s.s.y; no family-that had been destroyed years ago.

But Tanya was different; she took her time with him. She reminded him that despite being shot four times; despite never being convicted of killing two men and exterminating another man and his two children; despite raping or g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging a dozen women of various races and nationalities, as well as engaging in numerous hold-ups and burglaries; and despite selling vast quant.i.ties of controlled substances, he was just breaking twenty-two. She could be his mentor and get him out of a life that he didn't mind rapping about, but had worn thin since the last time he was shot. The code dictated that a n.i.g.g.a didn't last too long.

But he did have a problem with her, and she had scoped that out earlier.

"You want to f.u.c.k me me, right?" prompted T-Sound. She reached over in his direction to get another napkin from a bar dispenser for her drink. "No can do. Someone else has f.u.c.king rights to my c.u.n.t."

"Rhyme?"

She shook her head. "No, we're partners. My wet-box is saved for someone else ... but you can either f.u.c.k my a.s.s or come in my mouth. Two out of three ain't bad, is it?"

T-Sound, looking at her watch and announcing an impending meeting, told him that if he wanted to do it, it had to be now, in the p.i.s.s-smelling, HIV-potential men's room of Club Prospect. "And you better get that tongue of yours good and moist, because you're going to stick it up my a.s.s before you stick your third leg in me. See you in a few minutes, chocolate." She slid off her seat and grabbed a handful of him at his below-the-belt area. "Hmmm, I'm gonna like this entering my back door. She slipped into the men's room, making sure the video camera would capture them at the right angle.

Code went to work on his tongue. Water, followed by orange and grapefruit juice, and then some club soda with a twist of lime. He purchased a few sample bottles of one of those new-fangled sweet-tasting cognacs that all the n.i.g.g.az had been singing about and promoting over the airwaves and in intellectually deficient shop-and-f.u.c.k magazines. He was going to drink them out of her a.s.s-crack. Armed with them in the side-pockets of his urban fatigues, Code pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few pre-coital lines: Now what does a n.i.g.g.aHave to think aboutWhen a G.o.dd.a.m.n nasty b.i.t.c.hOffers her a.s.s or her mouth!

The Prospect Place Ladies' Auxiliary liked what they saw. They saw fine-looking black meat inching in and out of an even finer, perspiration-coated posterior-Tanya's. The audio portion was still better, with Tanya saying all kinds of nasty things Espanol Espanol, and the preferred exclamations in n.i.g.g.aese about b.i.t.c.h this b.i.t.c.h this and and b.i.t.c.h that b.i.t.c.h that "Believe me, girls, this boy can barely read," confirmed Tanya, "but he knows how to work a woman's a.s.s."

The women cackled and hooted when Tanya told them that she had emptied him three times, enjoying the feel of his warm s.p.u.n.k oozing down her legs as she left him nearly drained on the john at Club Prospect.

"Watch this, ladies," she said, directing their attention back to the TV/video monitor. The tape showed a limp but ma.s.sive black snake slowly retreating from Tanya's rear.

"Mon Dieu, that boy is hung!" said Francesca, an Afro-Francophone from Paris. "But can he eat?" eat?"

"He can be trained," Tanya commented with an authoritative crack of her crop against her boots. "Any man can be trained under the proper regimen."

"What's the word on the bidding?" asked Janette.

"It's starting at a million," replied Tanya.

"What?" said another woman, Carmen. "Why so much?"

"Because your your GOP friends in the Log Cabin Society and several of the Sons of the Confederacy want a raw n.i.g.g.a as much as some of you do," Tanya explained, "and when GOP friends in the Log Cabin Society and several of the Sons of the Confederacy want a raw n.i.g.g.a as much as some of you do," Tanya explained, "and when The Code The Code is released and he suddenly disappears, he'll be a collector's item." is released and he suddenly disappears, he'll be a collector's item."

"No wonder they call it the Log Log Cabin Society," quipped Dominique. Cabin Society," quipped Dominique.

"I heard that even a few Saudi princes are taking a bid on him," commented Francesca. "Non?" "Non?"

"Oui," affirmed Tanya. "Raw n.i.g.g.az are the rage; hip hop has advertised that." affirmed Tanya. "Raw n.i.g.g.az are the rage; hip hop has advertised that."

The women a.s.sembled at Tanya's Prospect Heights brownstone, the creme of nouveau black womanhood, were wealthy. Businesswomen, achievers, well-known role models, church-going hot moms-they had all acquired a taste for supine men, especially hard-co' raw n.i.g.g.az. Over the years, certain people had tried to eradicate the scourge of what some called gangsta rap gangsta rap, but had been less than successful. While others had managed to a.s.sa.s.sinate some well-known acts and perpetuate the myth that their deaths had been the result of incessant male-ego feuding, Tanya had been developing the art of "s.l.u.tting," turning street n.i.g.g.az into c.u.n.t-lapping dawgz.

There was no better example of her handiwork than "Juliette," a corseted, black-fishnet-wearing, muscular servant whose pecs had been tagged with the emblems of his gang-banging days. Jam-Bone Jones had been lured to Tanya's bas.e.m.e.nt months ago. She could always pick the s.l.u.ts by their inordinate fear of "f.a.ggots." These young ghetto bucks were obsessed with h.o.m.os.e.xuals and treacherous black women-people who had to be either exterminated or kept down. She could always tell which ones could be flipped. In her mind, Code was no different. Soon after showing him that her a.s.s-muscles could squeeze him into a climax, she knew she had him hooked. She had even encouraged him to include the piece he had written about their toilet tryst, "s.l.u.tz and Dawgz," on The Code The Code That way, she thought, his mind would always be on her and what she could do for him-and him. That way, she thought, his mind would always be on her and what she could do for him-and him.

After a long day at the studio, where she had castigated him for lame delivery, she had him stay behind for some vocal-relaxation exercises: She blew him. But she wouldn't allow him to speak or come near her without a withering comment or a comparison to 50 or Nas or Jay-Z, or the ultimate insult, Eminem. ("That cracker makes n.i.g.g.az like you look counterfeit!" she told him after a flaccid flow.) Jam-Bone Jones had been the same. He excoriated f.a.ggots but wasn't beyond sucking off a vivacious she-male like Dominique, and he was definitely surprised that T-Sound had a little something extra.

"What's the plan?" asked Darlene, while testing Juliette's serving etiquette. As the newly minted s.l.u.t poured tea, Darlene grabbed "her" dangling meat and Juliette didn't even flinch. How could she with her exacting cycloptric mistress watching her every move, ready to punish her with the severe sting of a silver-tipped riding crop. Tanya looked every bit the b.i.t.c.h G.o.ddess; she wore a white linen s.h.i.+rt, jodhpur breeches, and knee-high riding boots.

"Well," said Tanya measuredly, "I thought I would appeal to his masculine nature and tell him that a bunch of hot b.i.t.c.hes-you all-wanted to meet him. This will be the night of the CD release party at Club Prospect. He'll be high and ready ... and hot. Muy caliente!" Muy caliente!"

You got it! You got it!You know you got itWhen you see meGunnin' for yo' a.s.s!Blocks of motherf.u.c.kahs be running my wayn.i.g.g.az be gone when they see my 47/AKTaking my time, drinking my wineShot another n.i.g.g.a couldn't tell timeBack at da crib, laying back,Had a b.i.t.c.h suck my d.i.c.kShe drown when I didn't hold backYou got it! You got it!You know you got itWhen you see meGunnin' for yo' a.s.s!-"Gunnin' for Yo' a.s.s"

The Source, Vibe, XXL, Murder Dawg Review, Rolling Stone, SPIN and even one commentator on National Public Radio proclaimed the era of and even one commentator on National Public Radio proclaimed the era of The Code "The most vicious piece of misogynistic and anti-gay p.o.r.nography ever produced by the team of Dr. Rhyme and T-Sound The Code "The most vicious piece of misogynistic and anti-gay p.o.r.nography ever produced by the team of Dr. Rhyme and T-Sound," wrote a reviewer-and she liked it.

"What's not to like/I'm a powerful motherf.u.c.kah when I'm on the mike," rapped Code as he walked the length of the bar at Club Prospect. The joint was jammed and n.i.g.g.a deep; the 'hood had turned out to see one of their own, who had gone platinum before the CD was even released. rapped Code as he walked the length of the bar at Club Prospect. The joint was jammed and n.i.g.g.a deep; the 'hood had turned out to see one of their own, who had gone platinum before the CD was even released.

"King Kong with a powerful ding-dong!!!" he roared, thumping his chest, grabbing his meat. he roared, thumping his chest, grabbing his meat. "Give me cas.h.!.+ I'm a ho' too! You got it! You got it! I want it!" "Give me cas.h.!.+ I'm a ho' too! You got it! You got it! I want it!" And they gave it to him-small green piles of dollar bills formed at his feet. Code tore off his s.h.i.+rt, used it to mop his face and chest, and thew it to his fans. Half-naked, his ripped musculature was coated in a thin sweat; he had the aura of a champion boxer, a new jack Muhammad Ali. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about calling himself that, toying with naming his next alb.u.m And they gave it to him-small green piles of dollar bills formed at his feet. Code tore off his s.h.i.+rt, used it to mop his face and chest, and thew it to his fans. Half-naked, his ripped musculature was coated in a thin sweat; he had the aura of a champion boxer, a new jack Muhammad Ali. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about calling himself that, toying with naming his next alb.u.m Jihad Real n.i.g.g.az Die. Jihad Real n.i.g.g.az Die. He took in the adulation and the sullen stares of the wanna-be players, confident that he could whack any one of them as he jumped off the bar with his hands on his heater. A real n.i.g.g.a, he thought, was always ready to die. That's why the likes of Eminem and the legion of other pallid wanna-bes were counterfeit; they weren't going to die like real n.i.g.g.az. He took in the adulation and the sullen stares of the wanna-be players, confident that he could whack any one of them as he jumped off the bar with his hands on his heater. A real n.i.g.g.a, he thought, was always ready to die. That's why the likes of Eminem and the legion of other pallid wanna-bes were counterfeit; they weren't going to die like real n.i.g.g.az.

Rhyme sat in a special VIP section of Club Prospect, a cus.h.i.+oned alcove that rose above the floor and allowed him to peer down at an elevated angle at the ma.s.ses. Code was making his way through the crowd, toward the club's door. Code's executive producer made a phone call: All was ready. The place was stinkin' on a midsummer night and management hadn't fixed the air conditioner. Everything was set. Tanya had left and waited outside. It was 9 p.m. and a crowd was still waiting to get in to see "King" Code.

With a phone to her ear, Tanya leaned against a car and took in a sultry summer breeze, an amazing relief after experiencing the sweatbox that pa.s.sed for a club.

"T-Sound!"

Tanya, flipping down the cover of her c-phone, turned and saw him. He looked magnificent; the moonlight made his dark skin glisten. He was manly beautiful, gorgeous, and she was going to break him.

"The party is in there," he said, pointing back to the club.

"n.i.g.g.a, are you high?" she asked.

"I'm always high when I'm with yo' fine a.s.s."

Before he could say another word, she embraced him and burned his lips with an infinite kiss, brus.h.i.+ng a thumb against an exposed nipple on his chest.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n ..." he said, catching his breath. "You can bring a n.i.g.g.a down with that."

"I want you to meet some people, Code," she said softly. "I'm having a special celebration at my place ..."

"Naw, I got my peeps, my crew back there, and ..."

"... and then you can f.u.c.k me, really really f.u.c.k me ..." f.u.c.k me ..."