The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(48)

A Mercedes SUV and two white Tahoes were parked in front of his Urus. He showed a beamed lightly as he observed Attorney Bostic step down from the driver’s door holding a phone to her ear.

Just then, T-Walk’s smartphone rang.

“Would you mind tailing us to another location?” Bostic asked. “It’s only a block away. We can drive right up this alley behind Redbone’s.”

“That’s cool. I’ll be down there in a minute.” T-Walk picked up the box and gave Cup a nod. “Holla at you later, fam.”

“You’re leaving? I thought you said Alexus was meetin’ you here.”

“Change of plans,” T-Walk said tersely.

“Well,” Cup said, getting up and walking his guest to the door, “if I were you, I’d be trying to get Alexus to plug me wit’ that cartel she plugged Blake in wit’. I know she did it, ‘cause I used to get my dope from her.”

“I’m already on it,” T-Walk replied, and stepped out of the office.





Chapter 28

Money Bagz Management’s three tour buses--Blake’s lime-green one, Mocha’s hot pink Newell, and Young-D’s jet-black Newell—lanced down Roosevelt Road ahead of seven lime-green 1973 Caprices on chrome twenty-eights.

There were five others on the tour bus with Blake: Mercedes, Kenny, Fred Douglass, a studio engineer, and Blake’s older brother Terrence “Streets” King.

Standing before the microphone in his soundproof recording booth, smoking a blunt of Kush and sipping from a Styrofoam cup of cold orange juice, Blake put on his white diamond-encrusted Beats by Dre headphones and nodded for his studio engineer to start the track. It was the second track on the “Certified Boss” mix-tape he was working on, a track that would soon feature verses from Rick Ross, Yo Gotti, and Birdman.

The beat started, and Blake began lacing the hook:

‘Three Bugattis, couple Phantoms, I’m a kingpin

A hun’ed carats in my Hublot, I’m a kingpin

I’ll show you niggas how to floss, like a kingpin

Bulletface, Baby, Gotti, Ross-we some kingpins



Last night I hit King of Diamonds, threw three mill in a bitch face

My money tall, like six-eight, and I keep the yay like Kim K.

Keep the K for you f*ck-niggas who be actin’ hard on the Internet

That forty-seven’ll Swiss cheese you, cook ya squad up for dinner next

Hun’ed twenty racks in my denim, yeah nigga that’s Trukfit

Hun’ed twenty-five rounds in this choppa, dare you try to get that f*ck shit

I go to places you cain’t go, be in hoods where you cain’t be

You on YouTube ‘cause you hate to see that I’m ballin harda than Jay-Z

All in thanks to my queen bee, and that’s Queen A, we on fire, trust me

Her body looks just like Maliah’s, doesn’t it?

Cannon wit’ me, I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout Mariah’s husband…’

The fiery lyrics spilled out as if Blake had written them. He was free-styling, so deep in his own zone that he hardly even noticed the five faces that were staring in at him from behind the glass window. By the time he completed his verse, the tour bus had stopped moving. Taking in a mouthful of potent weed smoke, he stepped out of the booth and told his manager to send the track to Ross, Birdman, and Yo Gotti. Then he put on a black-and-gold leather Pelle Pelle jacket to conceal the .50-caliber in his shoulder-holster, passed the half-smoked blunt to his brother, and looked out the Newell’s tinted side windows at the huge crowd of black men, women, and children that was packed into the Albany Street park. Thanks to the $150,000 Blake had spent on food, drinks and prizes, the Chicagoans were enjoying themselves in the 79-degree weather.

“Was that freestyle?” Streets asked, slapping a coal-black hand onto Blake’s shoulder.

“Man, bruh, you murdered that shit,” Mercedes commented. “I want a copy of that as soon as it’s done.”

“I’m freestylin’ through the whole mix-tape,” Blake said. “I might freestyle from now on. Fuck writin’; I can go hard without a rhyme book.” He watched as a large gathering of ghetto girls converged alongside his tour bus. “On my kids, y’all just don’t know how bad I wanna get at that nigga.”

Everyone knew who “that nigga” was.

“Calm down, li’l bruh,” Streets advised. “Remember what Ross said on that Rich Forever mix-tape? ‘When you get a li’l paper, get ready for haters.’ Niggas hate to see real niggas gettin’ money. You gettin’ paid off words on paper, li’l bruh. Talkin’ in rhymes on a beat. So what Alexus gave you all that bread. The money you getting’ now ain’t comin’ from her. She ain’t dropped no albums. She ain’t sellin’ out no stadiums. All she did was give you the money to start this MBM Empire. So f*ck what T-Walk got to say about it. Reply to the diss and leave it alone.”

“Oh I’m gon’ reply to it a’ight. Straight gunshots,” Blake retorted sharply as he strolled toward the door.

He ended up signing over a hundred autographs. Then the loading doors on two U-Haul trucks were opened, and he and his MBM artists passed out boxes of brand-new Jordans to the men and children, and Louboutins, Pradas, Zanottis, and Louis Vuittons to the women. The ecstatic smiles Blake saw on their faces left an indelible warmth in his heart. He wished he could help out every poor black neighborhood in America.