He walked up to one of the ones he had met before, a seventeen-year-old kid from North Miami Beach named Antwan. He was one of the ones that Corleone was looking at for working inside the school. He had always seemed down enough, and didn't stand out much. He was only about average height, lighter skin, and blended in well, but still seemed smart enough to handle numbers and wise enough to stay on the right side of things. Mike nodded to him and gave him and the other boy from his same school that had showed some promise, Kevin, a pound, but didn't say anything more, so he could listen to the tail end of the verse one of the other guys was just finishing up. Not bad, but not great, certainly not as good as some of the stuff Mike and his boys used to write.
While this guy was finishing his verse, Mike just stared him down, not smiling or frowning, and not showing any sings of approval or even notice, just watching him with the intimidating look he'd learned over time with the business.
"Something on your mind, player?" the kid said, stopping his rhyme abruptly.
"No, brother," Mike said, "Keep going. It's cute."
The kid rapping cocked his head a bit sideways and looked hard back at Mike, while the other just smiled on. Antwan shook his head at the others in warning.
"So you can do better?" the rapper said.
Mike just smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
The youngest of the three unknowns, the one with he iPad, smiled slyly and scanned through songs until he found one that made him smile even bigger. It a flash, a new instrumental was pumping through the speakers, and the rapper glanced over at him and nodded.
"Okay, Trina, check this out."
My name ain't Robin, but my rhymes' so Thicke
I been in this rap game since 2006
Since then it's been my mission to split up cliques
Come up with new rhymes each time the clock ticks
And I took the crown from the ruler Slick Rick.
And no way, no how, I'm not giving it back,
Cuz suckers keep coming with that style so sack.
You think you're so hard but I can see your cracks
Just like the fat plumber when he bends his back
Side - all right, baby girl don't cry,
I'm a get off this beat like a subway ride
Almost before he finished, the other two unknowns were already giving him pounds and slaps on the shoulder, even the one he had just beaten. The beat coming from the speakers plodded on, and Mike flashed a haughty smile at Antwan, jealous to have someone on his side.
"That's mine." The rapper said, "What you got?"
Mike felt a little nervous, but didn't show it. He waited for the beat to come around twice and then jumped in.
I come harder than a balled up fist,
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this.
I spit flames foot long 'til you burn to a crisp
And then walk away with your cash and your chick
I carry nines with loaded clips
None of y'all punks seen nothing like this
In a moment, all words failed him. He couldn't think of another rhyme, or start a new one. It seemed as if he had forgotten how to speak altogether. He bobbed his head to play it off, thinking to catch the beat when it came around again and say something clever to atone for his silence, but when the moment came and went, the others started laughing. In fact, allow them were laughing, except for Antwan, who was shaking his head again and trying to calm them down.
"That's it?" said the rapper who had gotten beaten before, "What kind of crap is that?"
"Yo, player," said the winner of the battle, "keep practicing in the mirror for a while more before you take on a champ."
Mike's face burned with shame. He hated these boys and hated himself for getting involved with them. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out his pistol and held it loosely down at arms length for a moment before making a show of tucking it into the front of his jeans and pulling his shirt over it.
All laughter stopped immediately.
Antwan was already backing away, keeping his eyes fixed on Mike's waist, where the pistol was hidden. The other boys froze where they were.
Of course, Mike wasn't really sure what he wanted to do. He felt embarrassed and ashamed, knowing he should be better at this, hating he fact that he was beaten by a stupid kid. Somebody who should be staying clear of Mike hade instead been openly mocking him. It was exactly the opposite of what Mike wanted. Besides the money he yearned for so desperately, the power of wealth and the influence over other people's lives called out to him. Staring at these boys, he felt a desire to gun them down, or pistol whip and beat them, to show his dominance over them in some brutal and decisive way.
Then he saw Antwan's face, the horror and disgust displayed there. It was the look one would given a petty man and a sore loser. Mike looked away for Antwan, through the doors of the mall entrance, took his hand off his gun, and covered it back up. He looked back at the boys, who were frozen, backs against the wall, eyes flitting back and forth from his face to his hands.
Mike walked backwards about eight paces, almost to the curb, then turned around and picked up the pace. "I don't need new shoes any way," he muttered to himself as he approached the car. After getting in, he left the mall in a hurry and drove around for a few hours, listening to music, and trying to sort out a way to make more money, to get more power.
By nightfall, Mike found himself near Hollywood beach, about fifteen or so miles from home. It was one of his favorite spots when he was a kid. He remembered when he was four and five, before his mother died, she would bring him during the summertime whole school was out. Now he knew that it was because his mother had lost her job that she had so much time to play, but then he only knew that they were together, and having fun. As soon as he could drive, this beach became an even more attractive spot. There was good food all around for little money, fine women, and usually some kind of music or something going on.
Even as a child, Mike never came to swim, just to watch. He would play in the sand when he was little, and watch the grown ups or the other kids, people with lives very different from his own, who came to the beach with jewelry and huge radios, and left in convertible Benzes and Beamers. When he was a teenager, he would watch the women, and the men who came with them. Looking back, he wasn't sure if he lusted more after the women, or the opulent lifestyle.
Since it was a Thursday evening, there wasn't a whole lot happening. The air was too cool for natives, but the snowbirds and the tourists, hadn't really arrived yet, people who came from places where the climate made sixty degree weather seem just right for the beach. There were a few people eating in the beachfront restaurants or drinking in the bars. One or two couples lay close to their partners on the beach, watching the waves, but Ike steered clear of them and found a spot all his own, near enough to the water to see the edge of it come and go with the waves and tide, but not near enough to get wet. He sat down on a blanket he kept in his trunk for nights when he might want to bring a girl out here.
There was a boat off in the distance, not quite at the horizon, but far out on the waves. It was a yacht, the kind that Mike had seen plenty of times during the day, even as a child, and wondered what kind of life happened on it. Did he people on those boats have jobs that they had to report to, places to be? Or did they just stay on that boat all the time, doing what they wanted to do, until they got tired of it and moved on? How did they come into this lush life? How long would it take for him to get there?
The sand Mike was laying back on was sloped downward, with just enough decline that he could put is hands behind his head, lay back, and still be able to watch the yacht move slowly across his field of vision headed south in the moonlight, taking its wealth with it. The slow movement of the boat against the horizon mesmerized him, and he fell asleep.
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