Chapter 1 Money, Lust, Fame It was a little after one on a Friday night and mics were on fire at the House of Homicide. Junius "Hurricane" Jackson was Homicide's CEO, producer, and all-around king niggah in charge. Hurricane commanded mad respect on the streets of New York City, and even the most thugged-out criminals feared him like the badass hustler that he was. The House of Homicide was located smack in the middle of Harlem, on a block that stayed live twenty-four hours a day. It was originally built as a neighborhood movie theater, but when Hurricane started running things, he converted it into a hot nightclub/recording studio that attracted hundreds of ballers, rappers, and hopeful wannabe artists looking to get on a stage and get paid. Every superhead in Harlem wanted to be down on Homicide's tip. The crack fiends, the teenage baby mamas. The video hoes who were lost and turned out. "That Cane niggah is hard!" they'd laugh as they lined up half-naked outside the studio, posing and shivering in the cold, just dying to get a spot on his latest video shoot. "Let that rich motherfucka put the camera on me. I'll rock my ass so hard he'll forget his mama's name!" Yeah, Hurricane was a living legend in Harlem, and he had his House on lock and under total control. He was a genius when it came to recognizing raw street talent, and he dominated the music industry so viciously it made those cats over at Crunk Cuts and Ruthless Rap look weak and broke-down. Hurricane was in deep with the Mafia too, and they gave him a lot of rope. He strong-armed a bunch of small businesses and laundered Mob money through almost all of them, especially the corner liquor store he owned and his rib joint that was right next door. He played the role of a community leader and all that too. You know, giving out free turkeys during the holidays and sponsoring bookmobiles and things like that for the kids in the hood. He had fat knots in his pockets and was even known to organize street cleanups and pay people's bills when they got too far behind. But nothing went down in Harlem that Hurricane wasn't involved in. No deals got made, no pussy got sold, no dice got tossed. Nobody so much as rolled a blunt unless Hurricane got his cut. Hurricane had mad pull from coast to coast. In the time that I'd known him he'd signed some of the hottest singers and rap artists from L.A. to Miami and snatched them into his camp. A few artists he straight stole from other labels, and some he actually got honest. But no matter how they got here, the minute they put their name on the dotted line their asses belonged to the House of Homicide, and Hurricane Jackson became their don, their daddy, and their dictator. This Friday night was starting out just like any other. I was chilling downstairs in one of the recording rooms with two hopeful artists, Jazzy and Danita. Friday nights were fresh-talent night at the House of Homicide. The House was packed, and rappers and video hoes were lined up out the door and around the corner waiting for their chance to jump in the pit and impress Hurricane. Jazzy had been here once before, but it was Danita's first night in the House. Since we were sitting around waiting for the pit to go live, we decided to kill some time listening to some bootleg mix tapes somebody had brought in off the streets. I'd watched both of these chicks rehearse the tracks they were gonna perform in the pit tonight, and they didn't sound half bad. The problem was they were regular. Didn't nothing stand out about them except they asses. I knew exactly which rooms they would end up in, and it damn sure wasnNoire is the author of 'Candy Licker An Urban Erotic Tale', published 2005 under ISBN 9780345486479 and ISBN 0345486471.