Crushed Ice by Eric Pete Page B

far. They can keep their old machinery. I’m talking about a new way, using the rich musical history of this city as my tool instead. All these local rappers are on to something, my dear. I have a silent investor with contacts in places I’m unfamiliar with. I’m heading a record label,” he said, beaming with pride.
    â€œWant a job, son?”
    â€œSir?” I stated, remembering my manners.
    â€œJason, we just need a place to stay for a few weeks. Just so I can get on my feet. Leave him out of this.”
    â€œLook at you,” he jeered. “You look like shit, Leila. Y’all need far more than a few weeks.”
    He looked at me again. “Son, are you in school?”
    â€œYes,” I said, lying.
    â€œYou’re lying,” he said as he glanced at my mother again. “You know how I know?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œBecause I’m a liar,” he answered. “And a better one than you. Don’t ever forget that. Now, let me ask you again: Do you want a job?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œGood,” he said, placing his hand on the shoulder opposite the one my mother was touching. An angel on one and a devil on the other. At this moment, I didn’t know which was which. “What’s your name anyway?”
    â€œTruth.”
    He rolled his eyes at my mother. “As in, ‘the truth will set you free’?”
    â€œYes, sir. That’s what she named me after,” I answered, lying again.
    â€œInteresting,” he said. He bought it. My mother smiled through her haze, proud. I was learning. “And please stop calling me sir. You can call me Uncle Jason. We’re family, after all.”

Chapter 19
    I dreamed of an old Nissan Altima from pre-Katrina days. The one I drove down Old Gentilly Road in the rain, dodging potholes, with my precious cargo stowed in the trunk. In my rearview mirror, I saw the headlights of the other car that followed me. I jumped around in my dream, going back hours before.
    â€œThis yo’ fault, North,” Melvin, the real money and power behind On-Phire, barked. A dangerous man with a dark soul, his deep, raspy tone scared both of us. Jason was the front for the cameras, but the final decisions came from Melvin, a ruthless killer and not-so-former drug dealer. Jason’s law degree gave an air of legitimacy and class to a company that still had its hands dirty when dealing with its artists. Shitty contracts and outright theft were the normal course of business.
    â€œI had nothing to do with this, Melvin!” Jason yelled as he sidestepped around his massive desk to get some distance from his boss. “That cop was wilding out on his own. You know that.”
    On-Phire’s rising star, AK, had been feuding with us, and now he’d wound up shot and killed by an NOPD cop who lost his fucking mind. Real talk, AK had publicly thumbed his nose at the label and made some threats to tell all he knew, but Jason hadn’t ordered him taken out—yet. He knew better than to do something like that without Melvin’s blessing. Besides, Melvin would’ve been more discreet and personal if he chose to snuff AK. On top of that, there were rumblings of the feds, or at least the IRS, wanting to take a closer look at the label. Between the public AK/On-Phire feud and the shady business dealings, this was the worst of times.
    â€œToo much attention being brought on us. I don’t like that. You trying to put the company in the spotlight. I done told ya about that shit. Nigga need to slow his roll before I slow it for him.”
    â€œThere’s no need for threats,” Jason muttered. “Lord knows how successful we’ve been with your approach. If you had listened to me in the beginning—”
    â€œWhat the fuck did you say?” Melvin asked, his ebony features contorting into a grimace, like he’d just ingested prune juice. I tensed for my uncle.
    â€œI was