God Don't Like Haters (10 page)

"Put that shit on hold." He got in the car
and started it up. He looked over at me. I was still standing
outside the car with the gun in my hand, looking across the lot at
the robbers who had long disappeared. "They're gone! You
comin'?"

Hesitantly, I started to get in the car but
then I saw something on the ground. The wind blew it against one of
the storage units and I chased it down and picked it up. It was a
flyer representing a rap performance at a nearby club taking place
this weekend. One of the robbers had dropped it.

"What is it?" Archie asked.

While stuffing the flyer in my bra, I looked
over my shoulder at him. "Nothing," I lied.

CHAPTER 16

Kirbie Amor Capelton

"Let it go for now," Coras said to me, then handed
me the flyer back.

I couldn't believe he just said that. "Let it
go?" I repeated. "One of those niggas just put a boot on my face.
Look at my face!"

"What did yo boyfriend say?"

Coras said it as if it wasn't his problem.
That hurt. I thought he cared about me.

"Archie told me to leave it alone."

"You need to listen to yo man then."

"But Archie is just being a pussy. He doesn't
care about the loss but I do! I was gonna use those pills to get
the money that'll help us on our tour and pay bigger artists for my
mixtape. It would've benefited all of us. You too, Gee."

The three of us were in the studio—me,
Coras, and Gee Beats. Gee took a sip from his Hennessey bottle when
I called him out on his obligation to help me get the niggas that
jacked me. I didn't think I would need to do any convincing. A few
months ago we all collaborated on a song called "My Turn" that was
basically a revenge song for anybody that crossed us. Now I was
starting to wonder if it was just a song. At the time we recorded
it I really thought Coras and Gee had my back.

"Throw that flyer away," Coras said. "You
don't even know if the nigga who dropped it will be at that
party."

"I'm gonna find out."

"You need to chill, Kirbie. If you go on
another Rambo mission now and get locked up again, that'll throw
all of our progress out the window. We're close to getting our big
break. I sent my mixtape everywhere, including Mount Eliyah ENT. We
could be getting a call from a major label any day now."

"If it was you," I said, "and somebody jacked
you for a brick of OG Tahoe, would you let it go?"

He sighed, crossing his arms in front of his
chest.

"I know you wouldn't," I said. "But since I'm
a female, you want me to let it go."

"Kirbie, you're one of the most thorough
females I ever met. I know you're not scared to pull the trigger.
You've proved that one too many times. But you're also a better
singer. And this music needs to come first if you wanna get out of
this life. We'll take care of you financially on the tour. We'll
help fund yo mixtape."

"I don't want a hand-out! I've been making my
own money since I was fourteen!"

Gee Beats swigged his bottle, then said,
"That's that Scorpio in her."

"Shut up, Gee!" I shouted.

"Let the situation play itself out," Coras
said to me. "The streets talk. We'll find out who's behind it soon.
Kansas City ain't that big. But don't go chasing clues and making
hotheaded decisions. Be smart. Be patient. Be calculating. At least
wait until after we do the Sprint Center."

"It'll be too late. This flyer says the
party is the day before we perform." I held the flyer up so he
could see the date.

He snatched it out of my hand, then ripped it
in half once, twice, three times. He let the pieces fall to the
floor. "I'm not gon' let you fuck off yo life. I invested too much
in you. Let it go, Kirbie. Take the loss, keep it moving. God has a
plan for you. For all of us."

I snatched my jacket off the back of Gee's
chair—well, I tried to snatch it but his back was pressed against
it so he had to lean up a little before I could pull it away. It
was embarrassing.

But I still stormed out of that studio with
my head held high.

And I didn't need the flyer. I had already
memorized everything on it.

Kirbie Amor:
 Who can you depend on but
yourself? You may think you have people in your corner, but when
the time comes will they really ride for you? I'm the type that
don't care no more. I ride for myself.

CHAPTER 17

La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor

Saturday night in New York City was the best time to
hit the club to find new talent. New York DJs were renowned for
spinning records by up-and-coming artists. Or at least they were
before I went to prison.

The New York night life was bustling
tonight. Tourists crowded the sidewalks and I was almost lost among
them. The tall buildings, the simple neon lights to the explosive
and iconic LED high-definition displays, the sour smell of harmful
emissions of nitrogen and sulfur oxides blind to the eye—it was all
still enthralling to me.

I missed being home.

On West 25th Street, I stumbled upon a new
hotspot and tried to walk to the front of the line. I expected the
bouncer to unhook the red rope for me. But he just pointed to the
back of the line like I was an average person.

"Starts back there," he said.

"I can see where it starts," I replied. "But
I don't wait in lines."

The big man squinted at me. "Who are
you?"

"Buddy Rough," I said.

I never used to introduce myself as Buddy
Rough. But the name had been forced upon me by the media. I
preferred La'Renz. However, the bouncer looked young and probably
wouldn't have made the connection if I had used my government
name.

"Never heard of you," the bouncer said.

"Really?"

"Back of the line, nigga."

Nigga?

I politely said, "Young man, will you please
undo the rope so I can enter? Or do I have to do it myself?"

He dropped his hands and took a committed
step toward me. Either he suddenly seemed larger or I had suddenly
seemed shrunken. Yet and still, when he put his hand on the chest
of my Balenciaga suit to give me a hard shove off the curb, I
diverted the attack, then snatched his fingers and bent them
backwards. He dropped to both knees and wailed in torment.

"Sir, please-that-shit-hurts-don't-break-it,
goddamn!" he uttered in a super-fast wail. "Sir, please!"

"I'm sir now?" I asked.

"You-can-go-in-just-don't-break-my-hand, 
pleeeease!
"

Clubgoers started snapping pictures and
stealing video on their smartphones so I kicked the bouncer in his
chest, walked over and unhooked the rope, then adjusted my suit
jacket as I strolled into the darkness of the club.

***

The music was hard on my ears, but after a few
minutes I got accustomed. As I made my way to the bar amidst a
teeming crowd of young people, I felt a grab on my jacket.

I turned and pulled away with quick
reflexes, thinking the bouncers had found me. But it was a pretty
light-skinned girl with a nose ring staring me in the face. Her
eyes were dreamy and her peachy lips were parted in an expression
of wonderment. She was glistening with sweat, standing so close to
me I started to feel an erotic bond with her. She reminded me of my
ex-mistress Sundi Ashworth.

"Are you Buddy Rough?" the girl asked.

"What?" I honestly didn't hear her over the
music.

"Are you La'Renz 'Buddy Rough' Taylor?"

"Yes, I am."

I didn't have time for groupies so I turned
back around to finish my path. That's when she smacked me in the
back of my head. I turned back, tried to get to her but the moving
bodies became a dam between us.

"That's for killing Jazzmine Short!" she
yelled, flipping me off. "She was my idol!"

I reached for her again and didn't come close
to grabbing her. Furious, I started heading for the bar. I ordered
some Ciroc and Red Bull and slammed it down, did the same with the
second shot, then I found me an area off to the side near the
stairs where I had breathing room to just stand and collect
myself.

I knew this would be my reality. Restoring
my image would be an uphill battle against the fans of my late wife
Jazzmine Short. She had become a martyr of R&B. The only way to
clear my name in the eyes of the public would be to top the charts
through the talent of a new artist. People were often devotedly
forgiving of successful rich men, and with my frontpage success I
would be in a position to hotpotatoe the burden of Jazzmine's death
where it needed to be—and that was in the lap of Eliyah Golomb.

Even if Eliyah didn't get criminally charged,
I wanted him to be publically condemned.

Condemned like I was now and had been for the
past seven years.

"Fancy seeing you in the club," someone near
me said.

I looked to my left and saw
a grinning Julian Beltrán, who was a major member in the New York
chapter of the Beltrán drug cartel. Julian had gray in his mustache
now. 
Amazing how time
flies,
 I thought. And Julian looked
more American than Mexican now. He was in a gray Gucci suit with
slim-fit coat and trousers. Wrapped around his neck was a blue
scarf that served no other purpose than style. The three Spanish
men standing behind him looked just as dapper.

Since when did the Mexican Mafia know
anything about high fashion menswear?

I shook Julian's
hand. 
"¿Cómo estás, mi
amigo?"
 I said.

"I couldn't be better, La'Renz. I'm glad to
see you survived American prison."

"It's not as bad as one would think."

"I hope I never have to find out. I dodged a
bullet after you got arrested. They tried to tie Beltrán to your
wife's murder. Media said we threw her off of that Dubai hotel
balcony for you. There was a major crackdown on our operation."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Genuinely, I am. I
read a little bit about the busts in the papers."

Prior to prison, I had heavy involvement
with Julian and the Beltrán cartel. I supplied celebrities of every
field—not just hiphop—with nose candy to help ease the pressures of
fame and fortune. Cocaine was my "in," my way of garnering favor
for my artists and gaining access to Hollywood's elite. Cocaine
gave me control over the super-rich. If I wanted to take the coke
route to the top again, I could. But the risk would be even greater
this time around. Because along with my publicized arrest for
allegedly killing my wife came the speculation in the news and
blogs that I was tied to and had hired a Mexican drug cartel to
carry out the crime. And once it got repeated in mainstream media
day after day, month after month, speculation became fact. So if I
jumped in the game now, it would be harder to move in the
shadows.

Even at this very moment I felt uncomfortable
standing next to Julian in public.

He sensed what was on my mind. "We'll talk
later," he said. "Private setting, no?"

"Or maybe not," I said.

"Or maybe so," he insisted, then leaned in to
give me a hug. He kissed me on the cheek and I felt him drop
something into my inside jacket pocket. "It's good to see you alive
and well, La'Renz."

"Likewise," I said.

I watched Julian and his men get swallowed up
by the crowd. Then I took a peek inside my jacket's inner pocket
and saw a perfect square of vacuum-sealed cocaine. It was tempting.
The white substance looked at home in its couture cubby.

My first coming-home
gift, 
I thought.

***

After another half hour I started to feel relaxed
enough to really hone in on the music, which was the reason I was
here. I paid attention to the artists and their vocals and the way
the crowd responded. Some of the songs I had heard continuously on
the radio from acts that had long since been signed, and other
songs I had never heard in my life and didn't care to hear again. I
would have liked to close my eyes to really become one with the
ambiance, but I didn't feel safe here.

Then I heard it: the voice
I had listened to in my hotel last week! I didn't recognize the
song but the sensual voice caught me 
immediately
. I wanted to be sure it
was Kirbie’s voice so I made my way across the dance floor again
and climbed the stairs to the DJ booth.

The DJ looked startled. He was an Asian man
with several tattoos on his face. He took his headphones off and
they plopped around his shoulders.

"You can't be up here," he said to me.

I extended my hand. "I'm La'Renz 'Buddy
Rough' Taylor."

He stared at me until
recognition sparked in his eyes, then he smiled and shook my hand
fervently. I was thinking, 
He didn't try to punch me, he must not be a
Jazzmine Short fan.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Rough. I know all
about you and your struggle and I support you a hundred percent. I
think it was foul how Eliyah Golomb stole Yayo Love from you. You
built Yayo from the ground up."

He didn't mention the murder or my plea
agreement. I liked this kid.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"DJ East."

"Who's singing on this—"

He cut me off. "Can I get a picture with
you, my nigga?"

"Sure," I said impatiently, and I joined him
in a quick selfie. "Who's singing on this song?" I asked after the
snapshot.

"The singer is Kirbie Amor. The rapper
is—"

"How'd you get this song?"

"It's an old song off of
Coras Bane's first mixtape, 
Swope
Park Gritter Vol. 1
. I heard he just
released 
Vol. 2
 but I haven't got my hands on it yet. Coras is hot
underground and Kirbie is dope! I try to give mainstream and
underground artists a shot in my crowds, instead of ..."