The Diplomats’ CEO Jim Jones directs videos, peddles liquor like a moonshiner, talks tough and does tough things. Now Cam’ron’s homie is out to prove he can spit 16s and earn his props as one of the nicest on these mic devices.

It’s approaching one in the morning on a Sunday night in June. A dense crowd is amassing on a West 39th Street sidewalk in front of the Big Apple’s latest hip-hop hot spot, “the new Tunnel,” Club Speed. Girls, barely clothed and heavily tattooed, prance across the pavement while the guys shout “compliments” about their body parts. A woozy vibe is in the air, reminiscent of hangovers and one-night stands. People are pushing forward in packs, trying to get to the head of the line, when someone spots the man they all came to see near a front entrance. Chicks crane their necks for a better view and scream, “Jimmy! Jimmy!” while bouncers search their fake Louis Vuitton bags.

Outfitted in army-fatigue shorts, shirt and bandana, rocking cream-colored Nikes and enough diamonds to catch the eye of Lucy in the sky, Jimmy—Harlem rapper Jim Jones—doesn’t even notice the commotion. In a few minutes, the self-proclaimed Ghetto Advocate will make his debut performance as a solo artist, and he’s been preparing all day: planning his wardrobe, coordinating his team of bodyguards/hypemen, rehearsing his lyrics on the drive over. Jim is geared up for tonight. No manager. No label reps. No lackeys running around to set everything up. Jim works like a renegade and knows that old adage: If you don’t do it yourself, it probably won’t get done right. So it’s the man himself out pacing 39th Street, organizing things with club security so that his crew of 30-odd red-clad, bandana-waving boys all get inside and onstage.

As the crowd thickens, so does the tension. Cops inch closer to the clogged club entrance, looking like they’re itching for a reason to shut shit down. But Jim won’t let that happen. Nothing is going to fuck this up. Not the po-po sniffing for drama. Not security saying the swarm of blooded-out homies is bringing the wrong kind of attention. Jim’s got an agenda—get in that club and perform his breakout single “Certified Gangsta” for the local crowd. A handful of linebacker-sized bouncers and a few nosy representatives of New York’s finest? They won’t stop him.

With the line of club-goers swelling and pressure rising from every direction, Jim decides it’s time. He gathers his team and single-files it through a thorough pat-down into the club. Inside, Speed is brimming with partiers. It’s difficult to move. Girls grab onto Jim’s side; guys call out, “Brrratttt! Brrratttt! Brrratttt!” Jim’s biggest dude, a wall of a man, pushes through the throng, making way for the conga line of homeboys that snakes behind him.

Once he gets backstage, Jim confers briefly with the DJ, Mister Cee, and dons his entrance outfit—a pink-, white- and gray-striped button-up with a matching Von Dutch trucker cap—over the camo. When he jumps out on stage, the wildly cheering audience seems a bit taken aback by his appearance. He pauses under the lights for a moment before raising his mic and shouting, “Fuck this Kanye West shit!” He rips the trendy shirt off his chest, Superman-style, and throws it on the floor. Then he takes off the hat and tosses it into the frenzied crowd. “We don’t need none of that shit in here,” he says. “Ya smell me?” A roar of approval. The homies behind him throw signs in the air and cheer along. A chant starts up, every voice in the house: “Dip Set! Dip Set!” And Jimmy launches into his first song.

“Coming up, I always had to do something.” Another night, west Manhattan, Jim’s putting the final touches on a freshly wrapped blunt. It’s well past midnight, but the day is just beginning for the Diplomat Records CEO. He’s joining Cam’ron and R&B singer Rell for a recording session at Sony Studios. He arrived bearing a hefty bag of potent weed, a video camera, a laptop, and an armful of bottles of mysterious purple liquid. “I always had to be the man at something. I had that feeling from early on. I grew up young. My moms taught me how to ride the train at eight. From there I was out the door. Out into the world.”

For most of the last decade, Jim’s been the man behind the man—handling the business side of things for long-time friend and controversial rap star, Cam’ron (and, more recently, the two other members of the Diplomat foursome, Juelz Santana and Freekey Zeekey.) Jimmy’s been there, grinding, through delayed albums, label changes, fights and fallouts. But since 2001, when the Set signed a label deal with the powerhouse Roc-A-Fella Records, Jim’s played Dame Dash to Cam’s Jay-Z—polying with the big dogs, directing videos, signing acts, coping with the turmoil of the biz, while steadily building a name for himself as an artist. Now, with his solo album On My Way To Church, recently released through a side deal with Koch Records, and a dark-horse hit in “Certified Gangsta,” Jim Jones is ready to prove that he is a bona-fide rapper.