Welfare Wifeys (24 page)

“Somebody should write a book about this shit our sorry asses,” Tionna said, pouring them all a light shot in the nickel plastic cups on the table.

“And what would they call it?” Gucci asked sarcastically.

Tionna pondered the question and a title materialized in her mind. “Welfare Wifeys!”

“I’ll drink to that.” Jada raised her glass.

“Welfare Wifeys,” the girls said in unison and touched glasses before downing their cognac.

Just then the radio DJ announced that it was time for the “Top Eight at Eight” on Hot 103.7. Before Flex did his thing Ms. Info came on with her celebrity drama report. She had a few juicy pieces of information, but it was the story she promised to come back with at nine that got everyone’s attention.

“When keeping it real goes wrong. Mega rapper and Harlem native gets shot at a dice game. Hello, don’t millionaires usually gamble in casinos and not on street corners? We’ll be back with details on an update on Don B.’s condition at nine.”

To everyone’s shock Tionna fell over laughing.

“Damn, T, a man gets shot and you’re laughing? That’s cold,” Jada said.

Tionna finally composed herself to respond to Jada’s statement. “Don B. ain’t no fucking man, and I hope they bodied his ass.” She tossed a Dutch Master on the table. “Now, one of y’all roll something up so I can be good and high when Ms. Info comes back with the details.”

Though Tionna found it amusing, Gucci did not. She knew that whenever Don B. was on the chopping block someone other than him ended up suffering the consequences. Her thoughts immediately turned to Animal.

By the time they pulled up to Harlem Hospital it was a madhouse. News vans were double parked up and down Lenox Avenue while journalists floated around talking to people and trying to find ways to get past security and into the hospital. There were hundreds of fans camped out outside the barriers erected to control traffic, holding candles and signs wishing Don B. a speedy recovery and the police tried their best to control the madness.

“Look at all these muthafucking people. I don’t think I’ve seen this many niggaz in one place since they started bussing people into Houston from Katrina,” Soda said from the backseat.

“Shit, Don B. is like the fucking John Kennedy of Harlem!” Chip said.

Animal ignored his chattering passengers and found a parking spot on Fifth Avenue. He secured his gun and made sure he didn’t have anything on him before starting the trek back to Lenox. As soon as the trio rounded the corner they were blinded by the flashbulbs of the media and the crowd. Animal and his crew were assaulted by a flood of questions ranging from whether Don B. was dead to when the new material was coming out. He acted as if he didn’t even hear them as he elbowed and shoved a
path to the entrance, where they were immediately stopped by the police.

“Hold on, fellas. No one gets inside the hospital without proper ID and I need to know which patient you’re going to visit?” a beefy black cop said, sizing them up.

“We’re here to see Donald Bernard,” Chip said, handing over his driver’s license.

“Only police and immediate family are allowed upstairs,” the cop told them.

“I’m his brother. Can’t you see the resemblance?” Chip asked with a smile.

“Okay, wiseass, keep it moving.” The cop handed him his ID back.

“We’re part of the record label,” Animal spoke up. He was hoping to have as little interaction with the police as possible but he didn’t have time for the holdup.

“I wouldn’t care if you were his wet nurse. Only authorized personnel are allowed upstairs and you ain’t authorized, pretty boy,” the cop said slyly.

Animal chuckled. “Pretty boy. I didn’t know they were allowing homosexuals in the academy these days? Check it, since you’re obviously just a grunt why don’t you go get your superior officer so we can clear this up?”

The cop’s eyes flashed anger and he took a threatening step toward Animal. “Why don’t I
clear you up
for talking slick?”

Animal took his hands out of his pockets and let them dangle loosely at his sides. “You’re welcome to try it, player. But if you put your hands on me I can guarantee you that Don B. is gonna have some company in there. Make your move, big man.”

“What’s going on out here?” An officer with sergeant’s bars on his sleeves came out.

“About to clear the streets of this trash,” the black officer told his superior, keeping his eyes fixed on Animal. Most young men
were intimidated by the uniform, but he could tell that he would have to make a believer out of the wild-haired young man.

“He’s with us,” Devil said as he came out of the exit behind the sergeant. His eyes were red and filled with emotion, but his face was hard.

The sergeant looked from the young men to Devil. “Look, guy, it’s crazy enough as it is with the fucking circus your boss getting shot has turned my district into without adding to it with this constant flux of traffic. We’re already over the allowed number of visitors upstairs. I can’t have this.”

Devil sighed and tried to keep his cool. “Let me rap with you for a minute, boss.” Devil led the sergeant off to the side. “Look, I appreciate the hassle you guys have gone through to accommodate us, and so does Big Dawg Entertainment. So much so that we’d like to make a donation to the Police Benevolent Association.” Devil stuffed an envelope into the sergeant’s coat pocket.

The sergeant patted his pocket to test the thickness of the envelope. “Okay, but they ain’t all going up. I’ll allow you one more visitor upstairs, but the rest of these jokers gotta wait in the lobby.”

“Fair enough,” Devil agreed. “Yo, Animal, come on.” He waved him over.

“Fuck is up with this? Don’t these pigs know we all made niggaz?” Soda said hostilely.

Devil grabbed young Soda by the arm and whispered to him, “This ain’t the time or the place to let that weed and syrup talk for you, Soda. There’s a lot going on right now, so I need all y’all to keep it cool. Kick back down in the lobby and we’ll let you know what the deal is in a minute.”

“You got that, Devil,” Soda said reluctantly.

“Good man.” Devil slapped him on his back harder than he needed to. “Let’s go, Animal.”

• • •

The first face Animal saw when he got off the elevator was Tone’s. Tone was the cat that Don B. had come up with during his hustling days in Harlem. He was just as much a degenerate as the rest of them, if not more so, but Tone had a mind for business that couldn’t be ignored, which is why Don B. brought him on as his manager. Tone was thumbing away so furiously on his BlackBerry that he didn’t notice Animal until he was almost right on top of him, which was very unlike Tone. One of the things Animal liked most about Tone was the fact that no matter how expensively he might be dressed, he had never lost his killer edge. He was just as reliable in a gunfight as he was in a conference room.

“How is he?” Animal asked, giving Tone dap.

“Shit, you ain’t got ears?”

Animal hadn’t noticed it at first, but there was shouting coming from the hospital room.

“What part of fall the fuck back don’t you niggaz understand? A’ight, let me say it to you in English: get the FUCK out!” Don B. was barking on somebody.

When Animal and company came into the room it was crowded with nurses and two hospital security officers. He was sitting up on one of the beds topless, with his arm in a sling. Don B. had some nicks and cuts, but the bandages going from his neck to his shoulder looked like the worst of the injuries.

“Mr. Bernard,” one of the nurses began in an even tone. “You’re recovering from a gunshot and still suffering the affects of the shock, so you need to rest. We can’t have all these people in here.”

“This shit is a scratch.” He motioned toward his bandaged shoulder. “The Don is Teflon. Furthermore, if y’all would give me and my fam some privacy, everybody would be able to be on their way and y’all could do ya jobs properly.”

“My dude, having all these people up here is not only against hospital policy, but it’s a security risk. We need them to leave so we
can do our jobs, feel me?” the dark-skinned security guard said in a hip tone.

Don B. gave him a blank look. “No, I don’t feel you. How are you gonna protect me and you ain’t even got a gun? Fuck outta here. Yo, can I get somebody with some sense in here so we can make heads or tails of all this shit?” Don B. looked around the room.

Seeing the hospital staff clearly irritated with Don B.’s treatment Tone decided to step in. “Okay, okay, let’s all be adults about this. If you guys can give us ten minutes I promise we’ll clear the room and let you work.”

The nurse weighed it for a minute and finally agreed. “Okay, but let’s make it five minutes and that’s nonnegotiable,” she said before leading the staff out of the room.

“These niggaz need to get their etiquette up.” Don B. slouched back on the bed and rubbed his shoulder. “Yo, thanks for coming, Animal.” He and Animal gave each other a complex handshake, which they ended with a military salute.

“You know, I was in motion as soon as I got word,” Animal told him. “Police got Chip and Soda downstairs and it’s niggaz on high alert in the streets. It’s crazy out there.”

“As is should be. You can never lay hands on a king and expect his subjects not to react. I’m in here strategizing my next move and these nurses is all up in my mix, B. They need to go somewhere with that dumb shit,” Don B. fumed.

“Don, you can’t keep wilding out in here like this, especially when the people you’re flipping on are responsible for your life,” Tone told him.

“I know, T, but I’m just tight! I can’t believe these niggaz had the nerve to try and come at me cross-eyed. Cocksuckers act like I ain’t got no power uptown? We gonna see about this shit. I’m putting something to rest personally.” Don B. slammed his fist against the wall sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder.

“You need to take it easy, B., and let the wolves deal with this,” Tone said.

“That’s what I keep trying to tell him, man,” Devil added.

“How the fuck can I take it easy when these niggaz tried to lay me in my own backyard?” Don B. looked around the room waiting for someone to answer the question. “I was born and raised on these Harlem streets and I pumped bread back into when I came up, I’m supposed to be untouchable north of 110th Street,” he said emotionally.

“Anybody got a reason to hate you?” Animal asked. If it wasn’t for the sincere expression on his face Don B. might’ve taken him for trying to be sarcastic. It was common knowledge that Don B. had countless haters due to both his accomplishments and wrongdoings.

“Not outside the usual dick suckers, but there was that lil thing with Bruiser right before the shooting went down. Don B. cracked him for some bread in the dice game and he wasn’t happy about it,” Devil recalled.

“Bruiser from 123rd?” Animal flipped through his mental Rolodex. “His gun definitely goes off, but I can’t see somebody like him shooting first, especially over a dice game and in broad daylight. His heart ain’t there.”

“It don’t matter where his heart is at because I’m about to put it on a sidewalk,” Don B. said.

“You don’t even know it was him who tried to get at you!” Tone tried to point out.

“It don’t matter, fam. Bruiser and whoever else I know that has a problem with me is gonna get seen, B.”

“So you just gonna murder seventy percent of the dudes in Harlem?” Animal asked. “Blood, we ain’t gotta revisit my pedigree for you to know it’s the gospel when I tell you it’s a bad move to go about it like that.”

“Then what would you suggest I do? Wait until they make another play for me and ask who they’re working for? That ain’t gonna work, lil homey. I need somebody touched.”

“Then touch ’em, but make sure you touch the right muthafucka,” Animal replied. “Let them people you pay do what they do and you just get low until this shit blows over. We can cancel the party and the promo tour and go back to recording.”

Animal’s approach came as a bit of a surprise to everyone in the room who knew him, because he was a notorious hothead whose reputation and methods for dispatching his enemies preceded him.

“Cancel the party? Are you crazy? No, too much has already been invested for it to go down. Besides that, it’d look bad on us if we turned tail. Let this party send a message out to all these niggaz that Big Dawg is still popping,” Don B. said.

“So, you’d put your life at risk just to prove a point?” Tone asked disbelievingly.

“To hold my throne I’d be willing to put the lives of everyone in here at risk,” Don B. said seriously. “They won’t fold me and they won’t fold Big Dawg. We’re having this party.” Their conversation was interrupted when two police officers walked into the room. “Come on, what happened to my five minutes?”

“Mr. Bernard, I’m Officer Rizzo and this is my partner, Officer Vasquez. We need to interview you about the shooting,” the dark-haired officer told him.

“My story is the same as the one I told you when they were loading me in the ambulances. I don’t know nothing,” Don B. told the officer.

“Mr. Bernard,” the blond cop began in an even tone, “we can do this the easy way or the hard way, and it’s all the same to me. But if you don’t help us then we can’t help you.”

“Help me?” Don B. gave him a crazy look. “My G, I could’ve used your help when these niggaz was trying to Rambo III me uptown. Right now all I need you to do is leave me alone until my lawyer gets here, cuz I ain’t got shit to say.”

“Fellas, I think we’re done with the questioning right now. When
our lawyer gets here he’ll be able to provide you with all the information you need,” Tone intervened.

The dark cop took in Tone’s ensemble of a bow tie and sports coat and laughed. “Look, Farrakhan, we have a procedure to follow when it comes to gunshots so don’t try to tell us how to do our jobs.”

“Let me tell you something, nigga, I will knock . . .” Tone began, but was cut off by a well-dressed Hispanic man who had just entered the room. He was tall and handsome with playful eyes and a thin mustache. Watching his back was a bulldog of a man, who scowled at the whole Big Dawg crew, but his eyes lingered on Animal.