Let Me Hear a Rhyme Read online

  Never thought my first funeral would be for someone I really knew like that. I thought it would be a random kid from school or some great-aunt back in Jamaica. Not my main man hundred grand. I used to wonder what Peter Parker felt when Uncle Ben was killed in Spider-Man. How it felt to lose someone you looked up to, someone you cared about. Now I know.

  The shit aches, and the thoughts are giving me ruthless bubble guts. Or it could’ve been that Cap’n Crunch.

  A gold Lexus stops at the light, its tinted windows halfway down, blasting “Can I Get A . . .” by Jay-Z with Ja Rule and this new chick Amil. The bass thumps through my chest and I’m not even in the car. They keep it up and they gonna blow out their speakers by Halloween.

  Two cats stare at us, their seats leaning like they about to take a nap. We stare back. You never know what a dude is holding, so you gotta stay ready so you ain’t got to get ready, feel me? And the way they did Steph . . . I don’t trust nobody out here in ‘Do-or-Die Bed-Stuy,’ and neither should you.

  Once the light turns green, they roll off and I take a breath.

  After a while Quady says, “That’s that new Jigga Funk Flex dropped last week.” Music is our thang and I’m happy to change the subject.

  “Yeah. What’d you think?”

  Quady shrugs, rubbing his arm. “It’s aight.” He stops to think for a second. “Steph would’ve murdered that beat, though.”

  Can’t argue with that. You gave that fool Steph a hot beat, and he’d smash it to smithereens with the quickness. I palm his tape in my pocket, rubbing my finger against the grooves.

  “I just can’t get over that part,” Quady says.

  “What part?”

  “The part about him being dead and all that niceness going into the ground. It’s blowing my mind! Yo, deadass, he would’ve been one of the hottest emcees to come out of Brooklyn. He should’ve been signed.”

  More should’ve, would’ve, could’ves.

  “And I’m not saying that ’cause he was my man; it’s just facts,” he continues, and starts pacing. “He had shit wayyyy better than anyone you heard on Def Jam, Death Row, or even Bad Boy.”

  “Yo man, you right! This is some bullshit,” I say, slamming my empty can on the ground. “I could’ve been kicking it with some shorties on a tour bus right now.”

  Quadir gives me a look then starts snickering.

  “What, son? What you laughing at?”

  He waves me off. “Nothing, man. Nothing.”

  “What you saying with that laugh? You saying I’m fat? You saying I can’t bag no shorties?”

  “I didn’t say that, you did,” he chuckles.

  “Man, get out of here,” I laugh, patting my belly. “The ladies love rubbing the Buddha. You know Biggie was getting all the ladies too. So was Heavy D. Big boys like me be smooth as fuck and snatch yo’ girl when you ain’t looking.”

  Quady frowns. “Yo, did you just fart?”

  I gulp and go serious. “Aight. You know what? I ain’t even gonna lie to you. I did.”

  He howls, and that light-skin pretty-boy face of his turns red. Quady got the complexion of a waffle. He acts tough, but that fool is soft, soaking up all the syrup he showers in.

  “It ain’t funny, man,” I say, trying to hold back a smile. “All this death talk got my stomach leaning. Think I ate too many of Ms. Rogers’s deviled eggs.”

  Quadir is crying real tears, he’s laughing so hard, until he slowly stops, his shoulders sagging.

  “Damn,” he mumbles.

  “What now?”

  “It’s . . . it’s just not the same snapping on you without Steph here.”

  I know exactly how he feels. “Yeah. That fool was pure comedy.”

  A blue Toyota Camry rolls by, his chrome rims gleaming in the sun, blasting Tupac’s “How Do U Want It.” All the girls love that song. Funny how over a year ago, no one would be caught dead rocking to Tupac like that. During the East Coast vs. West Coast beef, we rep hard for Biggie and the whole Bad Boy family heavy. But in the end, it didn’t make no sense. Tupac’s gone. Biggie’s gone.

  Now Steph’s gone.

  I feel myself dipping back into sadness until I hear Dante’s voice.

  “Oh shit, look at Rico Suave with this here suit on!” Dante strolls down the block with a grin and dusts my shoulders off. “Looking smooth, kid!”

  Dante’s our age but barely taller than my baby brothers. He keeps his braids fresh, his gear tight, and his Timbs clean, so you gotta pay him mad respect.

  I laugh. “What up, boy?”

  We pound, dap, thumb, and snap. The handshake be looking real complicated, but it’s actually mad easy. Dante offers his hand to Quadir, and he shakes his head.

  “Nah, son. I’m good.”

  Dante smirks. “No problem, man. Yo, sorry about Steph. Shit is crazy out here on these streets. Anyone find out what happened yet?”

  Quadir and I share a quick look. Surprised Dante doesn’t know. He be knowing all the hood gossip.

  Quadir sighs. “Wrong place, wrong time. You know how it be.”

  “Yeah, man. I heard Ro Ro got murked last night.”

  “Which Ro Ro?”

  “You know, Ro Ro, the one who played with that hood team who lived down Ralph.”

  “Son! That kid used to dunk on cats.”

  “I just played him the other day,” Quadir yells. “He was supposed to go to St. John’s next year. Full ride and everything.”

  “Well, not no more. Got murk over some girl. Swizz-cheesed his ass just like Steph, right in front of his crib.”

  The thought of bullet holes in Steph makes my stomach lean left.

  Quadir closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Damn.”

  “Anyways, y’all look like you need some cheering up, and I got just the move.”

  He hands out orange flyers like a car salesman.

  “What’s this?”

  “Party at E. Rocque’s tonight. All the blunts and girls with big butts you could want.”

  “E. Rocque’s having a party? Bet! I’m there.”

  Quady shakes his head. “Nah, son, I’m not in the mood.”

  No way, man, he gotta come! Can’t have him out here looking like a sad puppy. We all we got now! “Quady, it’s an E. Roque party! We gotta go.”

  “And you know your girl Ronnie’s gonna be there,” Dante added.

  Quady raises an eyebrow. “When you see Ronnie?”

  “Just a couple minutes ago, stepping out the salon.”

  I roll my eyes. “So your girlfriend can get her hair done but can’t come with you to your main man’s funeral?”

  Quady waves me off. “Whatever.”

  Quady always acts like he don’t feel what kind of knockoff material his girl is made of.

  “But for real, though, we gotta roll through. Come on, man! Steph wouldn’t want us crying like this. He would’ve wanted us to go and live life to the fullest.”

  More could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.

  “Shit, if it was one of us and he was still alive, he’d be the first one to wanna go just to take our mind off it.”

  “Yeah, just come,” Dante adds. “Get your party on real quick and dip. Easy.”

  Quady hesitates then smiles.

  “Aight. You right. Let’s do this.”

  Cheesing, I dap him up. “Word, kid.”

  4

  March 18, 1997

  The air was thick and electric.

  A hum buzzed through the crowd blanketing sidewalks. Heads popped out of open windows, staring off into the distance. Everyone watching anxiously . . . waiting to catch a glimpse of hip-hop royalty.

  Stephon Davis snorted up the electricity with a smirk. He craned his neck into the desolate street lined with blue police barricades working like dams to hold the overpacked crowd from flooding the empty space. Any moment now, the cars would roll through, and his hometown hero would make his last drive through the borough of Kings.

  Steph touched the ten
der spaces in between the cornrows under his knit hat with a slight wince. Jasmine always redid his hair when his mom couldn’t, but she had a nasty habit of pulling too tight and twisting pieces of his scalp into his braids. A little pain is better than looking busted, he thought, and sniffed the air again.

  Old ladies held candles around the makeshift memorials peppered with cards and teddy bears. Kids held up handmade posters . . .

  Notorious B.I.G. Forever! Biggie Lives! We Love You Big Poppa!

  Much different from the guys he passed on Fulton selling Biggie RIP T-shirts.

  “I can’t believe we skipped school for this,” Quadir said behind him. “You know Ms. Reign’s gonna call my moms on me.”

  “Fuck reading about all those dead white people,” Jarrell said, squished next to him, his hoodie up. “This is real history happening right now!”

  The temperature began to drop and the cold sank into their bones. All they could do was blow hot air into their hands and hope the March sun would peek out from behind the clouds. They hadn’t come dressed for the weather. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision by Steph.

  I should’ve brought Jasmine, Steph thought, watching a group of girls cry across the street. She needed to see that it wasn’t just him with unconditional love for Biggie.

  TV crews and cameramen wiggled their way between residents. On the opposite end of the block, cops gathered, patrolling in riot gear. A few people booed, their presence unwelcome.

  A hushed stillness came over the crowd. The quiet felt unnatural for Brooklyn, and it made Steph edgy. He was more comfortable with the noise of hectic traffic, street sirens, and arguing neighbors. He couldn’t even fall asleep without the radio on.

  “Yo, where this fool at?” Jarrell said, shivering. “It’s brick out here.”

  “You sure they gonna drive this way?” Quadir asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  “This is Biggie’s block. He lived right over there, 226 St. James Place!”

  “But we’ve been waiting for like two hours. The funeral gotta be over by now.”

  Steph started having doubts. What if they lied? What if he wasn’t coming through Brooklyn like planned? That would mean he had convinced his best friends to ditch for nothing. That also meant he wouldn’t have the chance to say goodbye.

  “Aye! There they are!” Someone cheered.

  At first only a few cops on motorcycles rounded the corner, crawling up the street, but behind them, the procession slowly followed, a caravan of limos following a black hearse, similar to what Biggie stood next to on the cover of his last album, Life After Death.

  The block erupted with cheers. Everyone waving signs, clapping, whistling, saluting with fists held high, as girls screamed, “We love you, BIG!”

  “Look! There’s Faith!” Someone yelled, pointing at Big’s widow in the back of one of the limos.

  People peered through the tinted windows, straining to see the stars inside. One car passed, covered in beautiful wreaths, a standing spray with B.I.G. spelled out in red flowers. Tears flowed, even from the hood cats and stickup kids. They felt the impact of losing someone who had represented not only their struggle, but the life of every kid growing up in Brooklyn.

  One of those kids was Steph. And as the hearse rolled by, surrounded by his best friends cheering and screaming, he raised a hand to wave and watched in silence.

  The last car made a turn with a sharp finality and the block became still again. The small ripples of sadness that washed over them while they waited became giant tidal waves.

  “Damn,” Jarrell said. Only word to describe the feeling.

  The boys instinctively started walking toward Fulton as raw emotions spilled into the streets.

  “He was ours, yo!” A man cried on the corner, sniffling through his words. “He was us! He dressed like us, talked like us, looked like us. No one from Brooklyn represented us like Big. No one!”

  “Yo, duke is messed up,” Quady said solemnly.

  “That’s what it’s like when you lose family,” Steph said. He was familiar with the shape mourning leaves you in: bent, broken, shattered, grasping at anything that would make you feel whole again. Music healed Steph after his father died. Biggie healed Steph.

  Now, they’re both gone.

  Then, out of nowhere, someone turned up the volume, and “Hypnotize” rumbled through speakers. . . .

  Uh, Uh, Uh . . . c’mon

  Biggie’s voice was the lighter that set the streets on fire. Everyone started jumping, dancing, and singing. The boys grinned at one another and took off into the crowd.

  Hah, sicka than your average

  Poppa twist cabbage off instinct

  Niggas don’t think shit stink, pink gators,

  My Detroit players

  Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn

  On the corner, Jarrell jumped on a dumpster with a crew of other kids, waving their hands in the air. Quadir and Steph set it off with the crowd below. They partied, singing at the top of their lungs, celebrating a dynamic life cut short on the very block he sold crack.

  WOOP WOOP! In an instant, the cops descended like an army, shutting down their one moment of happiness. They ripped people off the cars they danced on, throwing men on the ground and against store windows, struggling to slap cuffs on anyone they could get their hands on.

  In a panic, Steph looked up at Jarrell, unaware of the cops approaching.

  “Rell! Watch out!” he screamed, but it was too late. A cop yanked at his arm and he toppled over to the ground. Another cop pressed a knee into Jarrell’s back.

  “Yo, get off me,” Jarrell gurgled out, cheek pressed into the concrete. “I ain’t do nothing!”

  Pepper spray perfumed the air. Pandemonium. Women coughed, sergeants barked, and sirens blared as Biggie continued to play in the background.

  “Why y’all doing this?” a young girl cried to the cops pushing at the crowd. “This is mad unnecessary! We came here to represent for Biggie. Y’all won’t even let us have this!”

  Steph looked to Quadir. There was only one way to save their friend. On the count of three, they bum-rushed the cop with their joint shoulders. The cop fell on his back. Quickly, Quadir helped Jarrell to his feet, doubling back.

  “Yo, go! Go!” Quadir yelled, pulling Steph with him. “Run!”

  Steph took off running, down Fulton Street, toward home. Wind whistled through his ears; his sneakers smacked the pavement as he ran harder, faster. Running from the cops and the new pain thumping in his chest he couldn’t tell his friends about. They would look at him . . . funny. He hated having to be so strong all the time. He looked back at Quadir, hot on his tail, Jarrell trailing behind them.

  They all knew where to go: straight to Habibi’s.

  They jogged down Marion Street to Patchen Ave, collapsing outside the corner bodega facing Brevoort.

  “Yo, shit got crazy, I can’t believe they tried to bust me,” Jarrell wheezed. “Good looking out back there, y’all. Drinks on me!”

  Jarrell grabbed three red quarter waters, a pack of sunflower seeds for Quadir, Dipsy Doodles for Steph, and chocolate Hostess cupcakes for himself.

  Steph leaned against the light post, gazing at Brevoort across the street, Biggie playing out the speakers of almost every other window.

  “Son, there were mad people out there,” Jarrell said, leaning against the brick wall. “Even white people! So much love for Big!”

  “And you saw all them cameras and reporters,” Quadir added, squatting down on an empty black milk crate. “It’s gonna be all over the news tonight.”

  Steph remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. The weight of grief settled like dust upon his skin. How could he lose the two men that shaped him? Why do the people that he love got to die? And how does he protect everyone left who’s important to him?

  Quadir glanced up at his friend, cocking his head to the side. He always noticed when Steph drifted too far and had to fish him back out.

  “You aig
ht, kid?”

  Steph sighed. “I just can’t believe he’s gone. He should’ve never went to Cali! Should’ve stayed his ass right here in Brooklyn. Cats took him out on some revenge-type shit when he never did nothing to nobody.”

  Quadir spat out a few sunflower seeds on the concrete.

  “Yo, deadass,” he said, cautious of the ears around them that could brand him a traitor. “This whole East Coast–West Coast beef never made sense to me. They even said it in Vibe—it was just a bunch of ‘he said, she said’ shit. And look what it cost us. Two of the best rappers alive.” He shook his head. “Tupac was the man, and I was shook to listen to him ’cause cats were wildin’. Why can’t I rep for Bad Boy but fuck with an artist on Death Row? Good music is good music. Point, blank, period.”

  “Yeah,” Jarrell said, stuffing his mouth with the last cupcake. “That’s like when cats go ‘which one is better, DC Comics or Marvel?’ Son, everyone know Marvel is the illest. But you gotta respect Superman. I mean, duke’s an alien that can fly, carrying buildings and shit.”

  Steph smirked. “So Tupac’s an alien?”

  “He ain’t from our world,” Quadir said, laughing. “Duke was from the future or something.”

  “Word, kid. See, ’cause Superman was born on the planet Krypton, which is like light-years ahead in the future, so he got all these powers beyond our human capabilities.”

  His friends stared at him as if he had five heads.

  “What?”

  Quadir laughed. “Son, I can’t believe you got us out here on the block talking about comic books like a bunch of nerds.”

  “Shut yo’ ass up!” Jarrell snapped. “Everybody reads comic books!”

  “So what you saying?” Quadir challenged. “Biggie was like Spider-Man or something?”

  “Yeah! Well, except the part him being from Queens and all.”