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brought a mixed tape with a new female rapper named Nicki Minaj from Jamaica, Queens.
    “What you think about this chick?” Cartier asked Monya as she began to remove the old nail polish to apply a new coat. “I’m trying to figure out what’s all the hoopla over her. If you ask me, she’s a Lil’ Kim knockoff, minus the hard lyrics.”
    Cartier looked at the neon pink OPI color she’d just applied and loved it. “Listen to how she manipulates her voice. That’s all Kim,” she exclaimed, getting hyped for no reason. “Damn, Kim fell off. How you gonna let someone come and steal your style? A style that B.I.G. created and Kim pulled off. If you ask me, after B.I.G. got murdered and Kim dropped La Bella Mafia, she didn’t put the sexy swag in her voice. She was just rapping regular, almost trying to sound hard like Foxy, but not realizing why we liked her from jump.” Cartier held up Monya’s hand to her face. “How that look? I’m hooking your ass up.”
    Cartier then got up and walked to sit on the other side of the small hospital bed, so she could paint Monya’s other hand.
    “Yeah, back to this Minaj chick. I’m not trying to make it a Queens versus Brooklyn thing, but you know those bitches always wanted to be us. And when I say us, you know I mean Brooklyn. Queens girls are some lame, wannabe bitches, and I’m fucking pissed that Kim ain’t riding for us no more. She’s moved from Brooklyn and went all Hollywood . . . talking about Hollyhood.” Cartier rolled her eyes. “I should slap her face!”
    Cartier knew if Monya was awake she’d agree with every word she was saying. “Anyway, Monya, as soon as you wake the fuck up and stop trying to hog all the attention”—Cartier laughed and playfully tapped Monya on her shoulder—“we could get back out there and do us and have these bitches worshipping us. We could even do something legal. You know”—Cartier looked off into space—“I was thinking we could get paid just for being who we are. This whole reality TV seems to be here to stay, and if we could get us a show, I think we could really blow up, you know, get our fifteen minutes of fame. And we wouldn’t have to sell out either, like these fake-ass people manufacturing drama. Shit, we bring real drama every day, the real drama that people wanna see. And here’s my thoughts. The show would be called Cartier’s Cartel.” Cartier paused. “Oh, I know you just didn’t flinch, bitch. I see you’re still a hater. OK, how ’bout The Cartel? How that sound?”
    Cartier looked at Monya and actually waited for a response. Then she continued, “Yeah, the camera would follow us as we roll through Brooklyn with real fights, checking bitches and niggas, and hugging the block. Imagine the camera rolling, back in the day when we fucked up Shorty Dip with our moms! The ratings would have hit the roof. Or how ’bout the time when we got busted for Donnie’s murder? I can still remember the look on Trina’s face when the police came kicking in the door.”
    Cartier laughed so hard, she almost couldn’t stop.
    “Wait. Imagine the camera catching the day you came to visit me in jail to tell me that you and Jason were fucking around and you were pregnant. I know the look on my face had to be priceless.” She doubled over in laughter. “Wasn’t that some shit? I know I must have looked like Boo Boo the Fool.”
    After about five minutes of silence with Cartier just staring at her friend with anticipation and a longing in her eyes, she got serious. “Monya, I know you’re going to wake up soon. I know that in my heart, but I think Janet is losing her faith. You gotta do something to help her, Monya . . . open your eyes, squeeze her hand, do something ’cause she’s starting to talk like you’re already gone, and if something doesn’t happen to change her outlook, then I’m afraid that she’s gonna take matters into her own hands and try to kill Ryan herself. You know she has it in her,