Part 11 (1/2)

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.