Harlem Hustle by Janet McDonald

Author:Janet McDonald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)
Published: 2011-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

Cigar smoke clouded the air. The man looked much older without his hip cap. A strip of gray, crinkly hair fringed the bald pate of his head.

“Sorry to just drop in, Tone, but I was over at the park and figured …”

“Hey, we’re all family, am I right? Have a seat before you wear out your sneakers. Me and Pranksta were just discussing some business and your name came up.”

His cell phone rang.

“Uh-huh … hmmm. You done? Okay, now read my lips, I got it in writing, you son-of-a—Oh really? I’ll have you and your disbarred lawyer in a rathole so fast—Sue this, you stinking piece of crap.”

He closed the phone and slipped it in the breast pocket of his charcoal gray, single-breasted suit. “A pain of a business associate … fuggedaboutit. So how you been, my friend?”

The telephone conversation had impressed Hustle. Tone was the kind of dude he was glad to have on his side. He shifted his weight in the comfortable chair. It was almost unreal, but here he was, sitting in a promoter’s office, about to get his.

“I been all right. Getting, you know, kinda itchy about the demo, heh heh. You had a chance to pass it on to the Tuff Roller people? I hope you got the new ‘Back-Seat Shorty,’ I put it in the mail about two—”

Motta puffed on his cigar, his cheeks filling and emptying. “It’s been a freakin’ zoo around here, deals, fights, phones, pagers. When I retire I’m going to buy me an island and go live on it. What you just heard, I go through the same nonsense ten times a day. I don’t know what’s wrong with people, they make a deal then they want out …

Hustle shook his head to show he shared Motta’s disgust with people like that.

“But anyways, getting back to the rap … you did a good job. It’s more radio-friendly but hasn’t lost that street edge.”

Hustle was thrilled. “I gave it a softer flava, you know, for the ladies!”

“I intend to push for heavy airplay, and I mean saturation. Of course, nothing’s free, it’ll cost me, but that’s the business. And I’ve locked up a solid video rotation deal …”

Hustle almost gasped. He was doing a video!

“You the man, Tone, and that’s for real!”

Motta slid a sheet of paper towards him.

“So here’s where you come in. This little note just says we wrote the rap together, you agree that full copyright ownership—don’t worry about the legalese—be in the name of Archibald Bidon, that’s Pranksta, and we’ve paid you a hundred dollars. That’s a lotta dough for a rap from an unknown. I’ll have to do some arm-twisting at Tuff Roller, but I’ll get it. Here, use my pen.” He turned the fountain pen between his fingers. “Look at this thing—it’s an Aurora St. Petersburg, Limited Edition. A seven-hundred-buck ink pen. A good old-fashioned Bic would do me fine, but in this crazy business you gotta impress, am I right?”

Hustle looked at the pen. He looked at the note.

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