Wifey: Part 1

Shabazz frowned and had a look of confusion. He held his hands up as if to ask what I was talking about.

“How the fuck you coming up in here fucked up? What the fuck is you thinking?”

“We partying!”

“Nigga, you supposed to come up in here on the humble. Skeen got murked on your watch, your numbers is down, and you coming up in here high like shit is all good? Word up you better drop all that animated shit and sober up real quick and maintain, muthafucka!” I barked. “The wolves could be up in here itchin’ to put your fuckin’ lights out and you’re ready to give them your head on a platinum platter! You a hard-headed muthafucka.”

Shabazz still had that confused look on his face, but I said what I had to say. I walked off to find the promoter. I was done with explaining and talking to that nigga. We were partying for Bebo’s homecoming, but that didn’t mean we could afford to be reckless. A party like that was intoxicating for all stickup kids from the Bronx to Brooklyn, just waiting for a quick come-up. Our soldiers—such as Shabazz—had to always be alert. But that dumb muthafucka comes in the spot high as a kite and all off-point and then sits up next to the nigga whose nephew he let get killed?

Everybody in Ghetto Mafia knew how I got down. I ruled with an iron fist, but that didn’t mean that niggas didn’t try me. Goons were always lurking just waiting to catch me slipping, but I rarely, if ever, got caught without my burner.

I found the promoter, and he told me that the girls were coming in from New Jersey, that he had just spoken to them and they were about twenty minutes away.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“Nico, I got it. I’m on it. I’m good money,” the promoter replied.

“Twenty minutes?” I asked and I glanced at my Audemars Piguet. “Get them bitches here in ten,” I demanded.

“OK,” the promoter said, and without hesitation he got on his cell phone and started making phone calls.

After I had squared that away, I went back to the lounge we had. Now it was twice as packed as it had been before I’d left. People were snapping pictures, and cocktail waitresses were taking orders.

Bebo was sitting down on a couch, next to Shabazz. From a distance I could tell that Shabazz was back to his drunk, animated bullshit and was trying to be the center of attention.

I had already had the promoter set up a wireless mic for our area, and the mic was linked to the speakers in the lounge Once the wireless mic was turned on, it would override the music coming out of the speakers so that only what was coming out of the mic would be heard. I turned on the mic and got everybody’s attention.

“Yo, Bebo, come to the mic, homie!” I shouted into the mic.

Bebo stood up from the couch and came over to me, and he gave me a pound.

“Everybody know why we here. We all in here celebrating this dude Bebo right here. Fuck all them fantasy stories and lies that these rappers be talkin’ in their music about so-called gangstas and all that Hollywood shit. When you talkin’ ’bout New York, there ain’t no name that rings out more than Bebo. And that’s because Bebo is the realest nigga in New York. He’s the best whoever did it! This is a real G right here, and we celebrating his homecoming. And be clear, so everybody understands, he just did seven years and he did them numbers with honor! A lotta niggas nowadays be snitching, and copping pleas and all that bullshit, but that ain’t even in Bebo’s DNA! Believe that! So everybody get a glass, a bottle, a drink or something, so we can do a toast to my nigga.”

I reached and a grabbed a bottle of Dom P champagne. I waited and watched as other champagne bottles were popped and liquor was poured into all the glasses in the room. After about two minutes I popped open the bottle of champagne I had in my hand, and Bebo popped open the bottle that he had, and we tapped bottles.

“Welcome home, fam!” I said into the mic.

Everybody started to tap their champagne glasses and bottles.

Some chick screamed out, “Welcome home, Bebo! I love you, baby!”

I then turned off the wireless mic, and the music came back blasting through the speakers.

“I got some shorties coming through for you real soon,” I said directly in Bebo’s ear and I handed him a brand new $800,000 watch that was worth more than the one that I was rocking.

Bebo hardly acknowledged the expensive gift. He nodded his head, and then he took me off to the side and we started to talk.

“You on that shit with my nephew, right?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

“This party, the Bentley, the Audemars Piguet, the chicks, that’s all good, but I wasn’t supposed to come home to no news like that.”

“I gotchu, man. I’ma handle it,” I assured him. “I put that on my life.”

Bebo nodded his head, and then he pointed out the two dudes who came to the club with him.

“What you think about eating off the same package with different crews?”