Betrayed (Season Two)

EPISODE FOUR

Tale of Two Brothers

How We React...

My father owned a studio off of Reading when Izarah and I was growing up. It was his legit business that kept the cops and IRS agents off his back. By the time I was six, the money he made making beats for upstart singers and local famed rappers was damn near equal to the money he pulled in from the streets. Business was good and everybody knew it. But Pops wasn't flashy. While niggas were out there trying to be Easy E and Ice Cube, my father was in the background turning out people's pockets like the Italians of old New York. Joe Pop is what they called him. The peace maker, the club owner that made beats for niggas that knew nothing about this life.

When crews had beef with one another, they called my father to have a sit down. The bosses would come in, make their cases and Pops would even it out legitimately so that bloodshed was minimal. For his services Joe Pop took a 10% cut of the new deal which was smooth as hell because little did these men know, my father was supplying both sides with the product.

Pops hardly took me or Izarah to the studio. He knew how to keep business away from the home. You see, Franklyn Michaels was a different man than Joe Pop, so his life had to be different as well. Mr. Michaels had a wife, two kids and a home he worked his butt off for while subbing as a math teacher at Walnut Hills. Joe Pop, on the other hand, was a small time hustler that worked his way up from selling dime bags to cranks to becoming the boss of the westside market. He had mass hoes and fat pockets. He even helped get a few statesmen elected by turning out the black vote. Cops didn't know he and Joe were one in the same. Hardly, anyone did nor wanted to because that was a guaranteed way to come up missing.

One evening, late July I believe, my father had to stop off at the studio after picking me up from little league practice. The moment I was inside I ran around his office the way I had if I was two years old. It wasn't before long my father entered the room, combing through papers, categorizing his books. He stopped when someone unexpectedly knocked on the door.

"Don't move or speak," Pops said in all seriousness. I hid underneath his desk. The door opened and I heard 3 men walk in, their footsteps were heavy among the carpet. "Good evening, Anthony."

Anthony Raimondi, also known as Tony Tee, was a low level hustler at this time. He was making a name for himself by cornering the illegal gambling market. I could see a slither of him through the wire hole in the desk. He sat in the chair across from my father as the other two men remained standing. The smile on his face was sadistic and bold. Even as an adult he frightened me to no end.

My father showed no sign of surprise or fear from this man. He sat causally as though the meeting between the two was planned.

"This is the first time I've been inside your studio," Tony said while swiveling his head round, mostly taking in just the office. "It's nice."

"I'm glad you approve," my father said, smiling. "So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? How can I help you today, Raimondi?"

"They don't call me that anymore," Tony said. "Out in the world I'm known as..."

"I know what they call you, but I've known you since you were knee high Anthony," my father explained, "old habits die hard, you know."

Tony adjusted himself in his seat. He looked uncomfortable with Joe Pop's response as though he had been doused with cold water.

"Offer me a drink," Tony said importantly. "I would like this meeting to appear civilized."

"Help yourself," my father gestured towards a cabinet over the bookshelf. One of Tony's men moved towards it. He fished out two glasses and filled them halfway with an amber liquid. He handed Tony a glass before setting the other down on the desk in front of Joe Pop. My father picked up the glass, raised it slightly as a toast to Tony whose face remained expressionless.