Eviction Notice Read online

  This story is dedicated to my friend, mentor, and inspiration, Leslie Esdaile Banks, who not only pushed me to succeed but offered me a hand when everyone else offered me a fist. You’ve done your part so rest easy now. I’ll take it from here.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilogue

  Also by K’wan

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  “This shit is fly,” Von said when he stepped into one of the elevators of the Empire State Building, looking around like a tourist.

  “You ain’t here to sightsee, you’re here to handle business,” Murder reminded him. He was a greasy-looking dark-skinned dude whose face always seemed to be twisted into a scowl. He had become a local celebrity on the underground circuit, which had brought him to the attention of Don B., the boss of one of the hottest rap labels in the game, Big Dawg Entertainment. Murder thought that since he got signed everything would be roses, but he soon felt the prick of the thorns in the rosebush.

  “Murder, I don’t know if this is a good idea. The lawyers said they’d handle it,” Steve tried to reason with him. He was Murder’s right-hand man and manager.

  “Fuck you mean the lawyer is gonna handle it? My nigga, we been waiting like three months already and the lawyer ain’t did shit yet, so I’m tired of waiting,” Murder snapped. He had been trading e-mails and phone calls for too long already with little results, and decided it was time to express himself in person. As insurance he had brought a few goons with him.

  They spilled off the elevator and into the carpeted hallway like gorillas at a zoo during feeding time, startling a young man with an armful of files who had been waiting for the elevator. He tried to skirt around Murder and his goons without making eye contact, but that didn’t stop one of them from smacking his files out of his hands, spilling papers all over the elevator floor, and drawing laughter from his buddies. After their shits and giggles they mobbed down the hall to their destination, the office of Big Dawg Entertainment.

  The office was nice, but didn’t boast the over-the-top bravado that was associated with Big Dawg. The carpet and furniture were all deep red, with posters and plaques of several popular acts adorning the walls. Behind the glass wall of the reception area several men were gathered in a conference room, sitting around a large table. Hunched over the receptionist’s desk was a dark-skinned chick with a high weave and a tight blouse.

  “Yeah, Shay, the muthafucka had the nerve to ask me if I was sure it was his baby.” The receptionist clicked her gum loudly as she spoke into the phone, completely ignoring Murder and his crew.

  “Shorty, you just gonna act like you don’t see us?” Murder asked.

  The girl rolled her eyes and raised her index finger for him to hold on. “Girl, I said the same thing. How you gonna ask me some shit like that just because I slept with his brother that one time? I told him we were twisted and it was a mistake. And then this fool—” Before the girl could finish her sentence, Murder snatched the phone from her and ripped the wire out of the wall.

  “Bitch, you keep acting like I’m invisible and the next thing I’m gonna snatch is you,” Murder threatened her.

  “Damn, you ain’t gotta be all violent and shit.” The girl snaked her neck. “What you want?”

  “I want to see Don B.,” Murder told her.

  “He ain’t here.” The girl rolled her eyes.

  Murder and his crew looked at one another, because they could all see Don B. sitting in the conference room. “Shorty”—Murder leaned forward on the desk—“maybe you don’t know who I am, but I’m Murder. Don B. signed me to Big Dawg last summer. Tell Don B. I wanna see him.”

  “It don’t really matter who you are, Don B. ain’t taking no appointments,” she told him.

  “See, you one of them bitches that like to do everything the hard way, huh? Come on, fellas.” Murder made his way toward the conference room.

  “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” the girl warned.

  “Fuck you,” Murder spat, and pushed open the door of the conference room.

  * * *

  Don B. sat at the head of the conference table with his white Nike Airs propped on the tabletop. His signature piece, a jeweled rottweiler head, hung from the end of his thick gold chain. His hair was freshly cornrowed into four thick braids that stopped just short of his shoulders. A black-on-black Yankee cap sat ace-deuce on his head, with the brim stopping just short of black sunglasses.

  Sitting across from Don B. were Blaze, a young rapper who had earned the Don’s favor, and the attorney for Big Dawg Entertainment. Blaze was visibly uncomfortable in the presence of the goons Don B. had looming around the conference room, but he did his best to keep up his gangsta-rap persona. He had been trying to get Big Dawg to sign him for months and his moment was almost at hand. Blaze was well aware of the stories associated with Big Dawg Entertainment, but he was willing to risk it if it meant he would be able to stand next to Don B. and get his piece of the Big Dawg pie. Everybody wanted to get down with Don B.

  Don B. was every little ghetto kid’s dream come true. He had gone from being a petty crack-cocaine dealer to one of the most successful men in the music industry, all thanks to his brainchild. Big Dawg had initially been a small record company started by two childhood friends from Harlem. In the last few years it had grown into one of the most successful record companies in the business, but also one of the most notorious. Big Dawg had been linked to a dozen high-profile murders, including those of the members of the up-and-coming group Bad Blood and their front man, True, who had been Don B.’s best friend. Though True’s murder had come long after the members of Bad Blood’s, they were both due to street-related beefs.

  Dealing with the deaths of his friends and artists had put Don B. in a very dark place, and had him questioning his love for the music industry. His next group, the Left Coast Theory, had shown great promise, but that fizzled when one of their members had a nervous breakdown and the other was sent to prison. Still, Don B. had found a bright spot in his life when he discovered a talented young man who went by the name Animal. When Don B. had first discovered Animal he was in the streets heavy and had made a name for himself as a strong-arm bandit and killer, but that all changed when his mentor and two of his best friends were gunned down. Their murders and a new love interest caused a change in Animal and he began to wonder how long he could run the streets before his number was called. With little other opt
ion than dying in the streets or going to prison, Animal finally ended the courtship between himself and Big Dawg Entertainment and accepted Don B.’s offer to join the Big Dawg roster.

  Animal was extremely talented and seemed to be a natural showman once he got into the swing of his new life. For a while it seemed like he had finally broken his ties with the streets, but soon the secret life he had been living under everyone’s nose came to light. Animal was arrested and convicted for the murders of several people who had been involved in the murder of his mentor, Tech. To make matters worse, Animal had escaped while being transported to Rikers Island and almost killed two police detectives in the process. The police launched an extensive manhunt for the young killer, but he had simply vanished. Animal’s notoriety made his album the biggest release in the history of Big Dawg Entertainment, but it was yet another black eye for the record label.

  “Yo, Don, I just wanna thank you again for giving me this opportunity, fam,” Blaze said sincerely.

  “It’s nothing.” Don B. made a dismissive gesture. “My mans and them told me you had some hot shit and after listening to your demo I find myself inclined to agree.”

  “I’m telling you, I’m gonna be the hottest nigga ever to come outta this camp, word to mine,” Blaze declared.

  Don B. was unmoved by the declaration. “So you say. Well, sign on the dotted line and let’s begin laying the groundwork for your legacy.” Don B. motioned toward the contract in front of Blaze. Blaze hurriedly scribbled his name and passed the contract to Don B. to sign also. Once both signatures were down, the lawyer slipped it into his briefcase.

  “Man, it feels like I just signed to the Lakers,” Blaze said excitedly.

  “Better, me and mine are like the Bulls when Mike was in his prime. This is a dynasty we’re building here and you’ll be a part of it, if you’re ready,” Don B. taunted him.

  “On fish and spaghetti,” Blaze shot back.

  “Good.” Don B. steepled his fingers. “Now there’s just the little matter of your advance. I was thinking…”

  Don B. was interrupted when Murder and his crew stormed the conference room. Murder smirked as he knew that they outnumbered Don B. and the dudes he had on deck, but he hadn’t accounted for the four guys who came out of a side office, led by Devil, who was Don B.’s bodyguard. Murder and his crew found themselves quickly surrounded and outnumbered.

  “Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” Don B. shook his head and got up from the conference table. He crossed the room and stood eye-to-eye with Murder. “I don’t recall seeing you in my appointment book for today.”

  “Fuck an appointment, we got business to discuss about the royalties I ain’t been getting on this single y’all put out.” Murder was referring to “Real G’s,” a song that he had put out through Big Dawg that was in heavy rotation all winter.

  “Listen, B., I told you before that my accountant will take care of you in a few weeks. Now if you need some paper or something,” Don B. pulled a knot of money out of his pocket and started peeling off bills, “I got you.” To everyone’s surprise, Murder slapped the money from Don B.’s hand.

  “Nigga, I don’t want no punk-ass sneaker money, I want what’s owed to me,” Murder barked.

  Don B. looked at the money scattered on the floor, then back at Murder, and sighed. “Okay, I can tell you’re upset, Murder, but there’s no need to get physical. If you look at clause zero-three-one in your contract, then you’ll see where Big Dawg stands on this li’l dilemma.”

  Murder was clearly confused, as he had only skimmed through his contract instead of reading it thoroughly. “What the fuck is clause zero-three-one?”

  “Mr. Devil, could you please explain clause zero-three-one to Mr. Murder?” Don B. asked politely.

  “No problem at all, Mr. B.” Devil stepped forward with a clipboard in his hand and proceeded to slap Murder across the face with it. The clipboard broke and so did Murder’s nose. Devil grabbed the taller Murder by the front of his shirt and heaved him through the glass doors leading to the reception area. “That’s clause zero-three-one, blood.” Devil laughed and spat on Murder.

  “I told you not to go in there.” The receptionist laughed.

  “Anybody else need to go over their contracts?” Don B. addressed Murder’s crew.

  “Nah, we good,” Steve said, backing out of the room. He and Von helped Murder to his feet and out of the office.

  Don B. sat back down to the table with a shocked Blaze and folded his hands calmly as if nothing had happened. “Now, where were we?”

  Part I

  AN INTRODUCTION TO GANGSTERISM

  CHAPTER 1

  The sky was rich with darkness that night. The meteorologist with the bad hairpiece on the CBS Morning News had predicted that the rain would stop by that afternoon, but it was approaching midnight and it was still going. Every few seconds one of the whirling clouds would belch a rumble, followed by bright flashes of menacing lightning. When the flashes of lightning caught them right, they made the thick drops look like diamonds raining over Harlem. If only this were so.

  Holiday was slumped in the passenger seat of the gray Dodge Magnum, staring lazily at the smoke wafting from his nose and being sucked out through the partially cracked window. He had a hard face that told the tale of the wars he’d fought in the New York streets and detention centers. Holiday took another deep pull and held the smoke while he took a gulp from the pint of Hennessy that was sitting on his lap. Holding everything in until his eyes were good and bloody from the rush, Holiday finally passed the weed to Baby Doc, who was behind the wheel.

  Baby Doc tried his best to look cool when he reached for the bottle and blunt simultaneously, using only his knees to steer, and he almost lost control of the vehicle. Baby Doc quickly regained control of the station wagon and tried to play it off like he was cool, but Holiday had already given him the face, that look of disappointment he got from his big homie when he did some silly shit.

  Holiday was only three years his senior, but he was connected, whereas Baby Doc was still just a wannabe trying to crawl out from under his father’s shadow. Big Doc was Holiday’s OG and shot caller of their crew. He was a tough old dog who had seen heaven and hell and was still on the block to talk shit about it. Holiday was Big Doc’s eyes, ears, and, when necessary, judgment on the streets, and because of this the older heads gave him a wider berth than the rest of the up-and-comers. Baby Doc looked up to Holiday and wanted to walk a mile in his shoes.

  A cut Baby Doc liked came through the speakers so he cranked the volume. The bass from the song was so heavy that it rattled the speakers and Holiday’s teeth.

  “What yo turn that shit up so loud, B.?” Holiday turned the volume down to a respectable level.

  “Chill, that’s Lord Scientific.” Baby Doc readjusted the dial.

  “Lord who?”

  “Lord Scientific, he’s this new cat from outta Jersey. Holiday, this cat is hard, pause.”

  Holiday listened to the vulgar lyrics about gang banging and murder and found himself bobbing his head. “He’s type nice, but I ain’t never heard of him.”

  “That’s because you outta the loop, kid. Lord Scientific is all over the Internet and the news,” Baby Doc said, filling him in.

  “The news, what the fuck is he, one of them new rap celebrities?” Holiday laughed.

  “Nah, Lord Scientific is a gangsta rapper, but he’s really off that shit he be kicking. Yo, me and a few of the homies was at this club in Brooklyn a few weeks ago when he came to perform and that shit got super ugly. Some kids tried to snatch his chain in the middle of the performance and that muthafucka went ham! On my moms, Lord Scientific jumped off the stage and outta nowhere bust out with like ten razors. There was so much blood on the floor that I had to throw my Timbs away after that shit.”

  Holiday shook his head. “Rappers trying to be gangstas and gangstas trying to be rappers, what is this world coming to?”

  “Nah, Lord Scientific ain’t
playing, he’s the real deal.”

  “Baby Doc, you stay on some starstruck shit. What you need to do is turn off that fucking radio ever once and a while and digest some of this game being dropped on you.” Holiday shut off the radio. “See, that’s the problem with y’all li’l niggaz, you’re more focused on shit that goes on outside your world then you are with what’s going on in it. The same way you know all these rappers, you need to know the names and faces of every nigga in our organization. This is the trap, li’l nigga, not the MTV awards.”

  Baby Doc twisted his lips. “Holiday, you need to loosen the fuck up. All you ever talk about is the trap this, and the block that.”

  “Muthafucka, because that’s all I know,” Holiday snapped. “I am these muthafucking streets, so I always gotta know what’s going on with me. It’s this type of thinking that has me sitting on the inside while your ass is still peeking through the window waiting on yo daddy to let you in!”

  “Man, fuck you.” Baby Doc went back to looking at the road. He hated when Holiday tried to come at him like a kid, and had a hard time hiding it.

  “BD, I know you ain’t getting sensitive on me.” Holiday pushed him playfully, but Baby Doc was nonresponsive. “Come on, BD, don’t act like that. I’m just trying to keep you on your toes, my nigga.”

  “Holiday, your problem is that you don’t know how to talk to people. I know I’m the youngest of the crew, but I’m still a man,” Baby Doc declared.

  “Is that right?” Holiday looked at him disbelievingly.

  “Muthafucking straight. Y’all keep looking at me like Big Doc’s kid, but there’s gonna come a day when I gotta get my weight up and step outta my father’s shadow.”

  “Baby Doc, there’s more to this shit than what you think. It’s one thing to get your hands dirty, but when it comes time for you to receive that blemish on your soul…” Holiday shook his head. “I don’t know many who can carry that load.”

  “So you think I’m a pussy?” Baby Doc eyeballed Holiday.

  “Not at all, BD. I know what your bloodline is so I would never slander your pedigree. All I’m saying to you is that being a part of this family is not something to do, but a way to live.”