Hoax

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  “Or you can honor your grandmother and become the man she hoped you would be. You can take your gift and make a difference; you can be a poet and tell the people the truth so that they learn and maybe, just maybe, something will change for the better. Your choice, Alejandro. Good or bad, but it’s your choice.”

  • • •

  The day came for Alejandro’s release, and the priest was waiting for him in the parking lot in his car. “Figured you might need a ride,” he said. “It’s a long trip on a bus.”

  Alejandro smiled and got in the car but was quiet for most of the ride back to Manhattan. Once back to the island, the boy spoke without looking at his friend and mentor. “I’ve been thinking ’bout what you said, you know, choices, and what my grandma would have wanted,” he said. “Some things I can’t change. I am still Boom, and I am still a Blood. I won’t turn my back on the only family who ever cared about me ’cept my grandma. I don’t trust your justice system—it wasn’t there for me when I needed it, and it hasn’t done nothing for my grandmother.

  “But I’m done bangin’…no more guns, no more crimes.” He turned to Dugan and gave him the smile that had charmed the counselor the first time he saw it on the face of a spiritually wounded eight-year-old boy. “Besides, I ain’t got time for none of that shit anymore. I’m gonna be a rap star.”

  It was Dugan’s turn to smile, but at the same moment he feared for the boy. Dropping out of the gang life wasn’t like quitting a job. Alejandro would be a target for any gangbanger and wannabe who wanted to make a name for himself by gunning down the notorious Boom Garcia. He’d always have to watch his back—never knowing at a park, or a movie theater, or just walking down the sidewalk when the bullet might come. But Alejandro knew it better than he, so now was not the time to bring it up. “You going to get me a backstage pass when you play the Garden?” he asked.

  “As many as you want,” Alejandro said, and together they laughed. They’d driven the rest of the way to the rectory at the Old St. Patrick’s Church on Mulberry Street, where Dugan lived and had arranged for his young friend to stay until he could get on his feet. The priest had also found him a job with a janitorial service company that, ironically, cleaned the New York Criminal Court Building at 100 Centre Street. Turning off the car, Dugan started to open his door, but Alejandro hesitated. “Father, I’m afraid. I ain’t got nobody left.”

  Dugan swallowed hard. “I’m afraid too,” he said. “You’ve just got to take it one day at a time. We all do. And you got me, and folks you haven’t even met yet.”

  Alejandro nodded and reached for the door handle. “Father,” he said, “whatever happens, you know I love you, man.”

  Dugan tried to speak, couldn’t, then tried again. “Yeah,” he said, his voice grown husky. “I love you, too.” He gave Alejandro a light punch on the shoulder, “Now, let’s get out of here before we start crying like a couple of busters.”

  3

  THAT WAS EIGHT MONTHS EARLIER, AND ALEJANDRO HOPED that the big break he’d been wishing for was now on the stage in front of him in the form of ML Rex. He’d kept his nose clean, worked his job at the courthouse—which started at 4:00 AM, two hours before even the early birds arrived—then went home in the afternoon to sleep a few hours before rising after sundown to work on his lyrics. He’d established himself as one of the most promising young rappers in Manhattan, and the feeling at the Hip-Hop Nightclub was that fame and fortune were just around the corner.

  Alejandro knew ML Rex’s work. But while he could identify with the streets that created the anger and hatred, he looked at the gangsta rap scene like an old man looks back on the indiscretions of his youth—with a shake of the head and regrets for wasted time. He bore the other artist in front of him none of the animosity that had been displayed toward him at their meeting backstage. But he also knew that the stare-down and posturing was part of the entertainment. After the “li’l bitch” comment, he’d jumped into the theatrics of the moment, and he and ML Rex were soon bristling at each other like a couple of junkyard dogs circling a bone—legs stiff, the hair on the back of their necks raised, teeth bared.

  Playing it up, the MC stepped between them like a boxing referee breaking up a pair of prizefighters. Just in case, he took a quick look to make sure the massive bouncers the club employed—twin man-mountains named Joe and Jim—were ready to keep the peace. “Heh, heh, homes,” he addressed the two rappers for the crowd’s elucidation, “save it for the battle, save it for the battle.” Once he had them separated, he turned back to the audience and shouted in the microphone. “Heh, heh, New York Citaaaay! Brothas and sistahs, have we got a special treat for y’all tonight!”

  He waited for the cheers to subside, then continued with the boxing metaphor, “Presenting in one corner, Pentagram recording arteeest and Los Angeles homeboy, ML Rex!” A chorus of boos rang out at the mention of the West Coast metropolis, but they were drowned out by the applause from those in the crowd who were impressed that someone famous was on the stage in front of them. Best of all, they had not had to pay one extra cent for the show.

  ML Rex ignored the reference to his former employer. They’ll learn soon enough, he thought, when I make the announcement. Instead, he imitated a fighter, dancing and shadowboxing at Alejandro.

  The loudest cheers erupted when the MC turned to the home-town hero. “And in this corner, a special welcome to NYC homeboy, Alejandro BOOOOOOOM! Garcia!”

  The object of his introduction cracked a smile that threatened to split his face in two. Alejandro used the moment to steal a look behind him to the wings where two younger boys stood grinning back at him. They looked as out of place as a cat at a dog fight. For one thing, they were white, and there weren’t many Caucasian faces in the crowd; and second, they were only eleven years old and weren’t supposed to be in the nightclub at all.

  In fact, if the MC had known their identities he might have gone into cardiac arrest, as Giancarlo and Isaac “Zak” Karp were the sons of the New York district attorney. However, the MC had nothing to fear as far as the boys saying anything. They were supposed to be at a friend’s house studying for their bar mitzvahs.

  Zak was the stockier of the two and dressed in the latest hip-hop fashion—swimming in a hooded sweatshirt three sizes too big with the waistband of his pants perched precariously on his butt. A New York Yankees ballcap was planted backward on his head and his feet sported a pair of Lugz (“For Thugs”) boots—untied, of course. He was reveling in the tension of the moment, though he kept his face in a scowl that he thought made him appear older and tougher. Surrounded by so many rough-looking characters, he was glad of the comforting weight of the switchblade he kept strapped to his ankle and covered by his sock. If his father had known he was carrying again, Zak would have received the mother of all lectures about being “in felonious possession of a weapon” and probably been strip-searched before leaving the apartment for the rest of his natural life. But he felt an overriding obligation to be armed as the self-appointed bodyguard for his more delicate brother, Giancarlo.

  Zak was a handsome boy, but Giancarlo was beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous women would stop on the sidewalks when he approached and gaze with envy at the porcelain skin, the rose-colored cupid lips, and curly black hair. But unlike his trendy brother, Giancarlo dressed like an old man from Little Italy in a button-down shirt and high-water slacks that showed several inches of white sock above his loafers. The dark glasses he wore were not for show either; he was blind—the result of a shotgun pellet from a would-be assassin’s gun.

  The attempted murder and subsequent blindness accounted for his brother’s fierce protectiveness. But Giancarlo was oblivious to any perceived danger and turned his face this way and that like a radar antenna, beaming goodwill to all. In his hands, he clutched a bag carrying several harmonicas, which is how he and his brother came to be in the club in the first place.

  A talented musician who played the harmonicas, as well as a button accordion, and was pick
ing up guitar at dizzying speed for his age, Giancarlo was much sought after by older musicians in the Village, who considered him something of a child genius. He enjoyed all styles of music, but he’d wanted to expand his horizons by playing background harmonica with “turntable music” and rappers. One of the first to try out the hybrid sound was Alejandro Garcia, who had been introduced to the brothers through their mutual friend, Father Dugan.

  The priest had explained that they were the sons of the woman who had placed him in charge of a multimillion dollar foundation to help the poor. Alejandro didn’t know the full story, but apparently the woman, Marlene Ciampi, had made a fortune in the stock market and had essentially given a large portion of it to the priest to give to the poor. One of the many things Dugan had done with the money was pay for Alejandro’s time at Xavier.

  Alejandro had surprised himself by taking to the boys like an older brother. He figured it had something to do with having always wanted siblings. As a musician, he appreciated Giancarlo’s talent. But he was also fond of Zak, who reminded him—rather disturbingly—of himself…a good heart but a dual nature that harbored the potential for violence and making wrong choices.

  As for the rest of the decidedly strange family, he’d avoided meeting the father. He never said why to the boys—after all, the man was their dad—but as far as he was concerned, the New York District Attorney’s Office was just another cog in a corrupt system. However, he’d met and liked the mother and the boys’ older sister, Lucy.

  The sister was an odd one, some sort of world-famous expert on languages even though she was only a few years older than Alejandro. The first time he saw her, he thought she was homely—a large nose set on too thin a face, made all the more severe in that she kept her dark hair cut short like a man’s. In fact, he’d wondered if she was maybe a dyke, until he saw her once with her boyfriend, who seemed to think she was a cross between J. Lo and Britney Spears. The boyfriend’s dedication made him take another good look at her, especially the curiously almond-shaped brown eyes that were so shot with flecks of gold as to be almost amber. He, of course, had heard of the term inner beauty, but seeing Lucy in a new light was the first time he understood what it meant.

  She also possessed an unexpectedly wry and somewhat risqué wit. He even found himself flirting with her in Spanish, which she accepted good-naturedly and spoke better than he did. But it was with the understanding that the flirting was the end of the line, and it wasn’t just because she was with someone else.

  Lucy reminded him of some of the nuns he’d met at Catholic school—the nice ones who seemed at peace with themselves and with God. She was deeply religious, but he also sensed a wound that she bore with martyrlike stoicism. She’d built a wall around the pain so that only she would know it existed, but he could see it in her eyes, way down deep, like his secret. The boys hadn’t told him what caused her such pain, other than to say “it was real bad.”

  The boys’ mother, Marlene, was something else entirely. He thought she was pretty hot-looking for an “old lady,” which to him was any woman in that forty-something category to which she belonged. Even the fact that she had a glass eye, or sometimes wore a patch, and had some small scars on her face, didn’t detract from her overall classic Italian looks. But she was beautiful like a falcon was beautiful. There was a wariness about her, as the one good eye seemed to take in everything around her as though constantly assessing the potential for danger.

  Watching her, Alejandro knew where Zak got his dual nature. She reminded him of some of the hard-core gangsters he’d known, which was surprising, because outwardly she was funny and charming. Still, he got the impression that the friendliness—while it may have once been a more dominant aspect of her personality—was now mostly a cover for her own dark secrets. He even suspected that it had to do with the attempt on Giancarlo’s life. Once, he’d asked what had happened to the would-be assassins, but the boys had looked at each other and clammed up, except to say that their mother had “taken care of it.”

  • • •

  “All right, all right, you know the rules,” the MC announced to the crowd. “Each of our artists has one minute to lay his opponent low and then you, the folks that put the hip in Hip-Hop Nightclub, will decide the winner by making NOOOOOO-ISE fer yer favorite!” He turned to ML Rex and said, “As the guest, you have the privilege of going first.” Then without waiting for a reply, he shouted, “Let’s give a big Big Apple shout out for the brother from LA!”

  The DJ turned up the volume for the twin turntables he used to mix and match sounds and beats to a sixteen-count rhythm. ML Rex bobbed his head to get into the groove. The cocaine was fogging his brain, and his tongue felt suddenly heavy, but he figured it wouldn’t take much to win this crowd over, especially as he planned to borrow liberally from “Ya Gonna Surrenda’,” one of the tracks on his first CD.

  Now I’m here ta tell y’all ’bout a sistah named Boom,

  And the OG’s rhymes that spelled his doom and gloom.

  ’Cause I’m the terminator, the instigator, the fine wine

  of manipulators, ain’t no one can match me,

  ’specially this masturbator.

  Alejandro was disappointed. He’d recognized the song and had hoped for better competition. He was also embarrassed that the twins were listening to the crude language. Same old shit, he thought, as his opponent rapped and danced around using the cliché gestures of grabbing his groin or pointing his fingers at Alejandro as if his hand were a gun.

  One way or ta-other buster’s gonna be my bitch,

  Sucking my dick or facedown in a ditch…

  Ya punk, ya sistah, I’ll take you down with my nine.

  Ya gonna surrenda’, it’s jus’ a matter a time.

  ML Rex finished and stepped back from Alejandro, smiling with his arms akimbo in the universal body language for “Want a piece of this?” He felt pretty good about his effort—the hookers and his homie, Jones, seemed to think so, too. So he was surprised by the rather light round of polite applause he received. His opponent simply shrugged, smiled, and launched into his own rap at a signal from the MC.

  Thas what you got? Thas all you can do?

  Dis women as hos, and your brothas as fools?

  There’s babies crying ’cause their mothers on crack

  Their daddies in prison, and you can only talk smack, Jack?

  But thas a fact, can’t take it back, you’re way off track.

  Alejandro mounted his attack like a chess player deliberately taking apart his opponent’s defenses, and the crowd picked up on what he was saying and cheered at the end of every line. In the meantime, Giancarlo had pulled one of the harmonicas out of the bag and was lightly filling in.

  You coulda spoke for them, you ought to be ashamed

  You ain’t got nothing to say, buster’s got no game.

  Go make your millions, wear your chains of gold

  But it ain’t music you’re selling, it’s your soul you’ve sold.

  ML Rex scowled and unconsciously stepped back. He was used to the posturing and the disparaging remarks, but he’d never really given much thought to what he was saying. If asked, he would have probably shrugged and said he didn’t care either. Music was a means to an end—his ticket out—not a soapbox for social commentary. But the kid was shaming him and the crowd was behind him.

  It’s over, way over, but you don’t even know it yet…

  We’re through with gangsta shit and misery it gets

  So go home to Mickey, Donald, and Goofy

  We ain’t got time for cartoons, and you’re just plain spooky.

  And while you’re at it take your nursery rhymes

  ’Cause it ain’t a matter of time…

  Alejandro paused a couple of beats as he tapped his head with two fingers and concluded, “…it’s a matter of mind.”

  With that Alejandro turned to the crowd with his trademark grin. There was certainly no need for a vote as the crowd erupted and starting
shouting, “BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!” The MC grabbed one of Alejandro’s hands and raised it to signify the victor. “Let’s hear it for the homeboy,” he shouted.

  Still smiling broadly, Alejandro reached in front of the MC to shake ML Rex’s hand, but the other rapper turned his back on him and stormed from the stage. Alejandro shrugged but happily pocketed the two-hundred-dollar prize and bounded over to where the twins waited.

  “Yo, li’l homies,” he said and lightly touched clenched fists with Zak and Giancarlo, who never ceased to amaze him because the boy seemed so aware of his surroundings despite his lack of sight. It had been explained to him that Giancarlo’s eyes had not been damaged by the shotgun blast. It had more to do with the message from his eyes to his brain being short-circuited by the pellet lodged there—that in fact, his sight occasionally snapped back like a signal from outer space, before it was lost again. “Okay, bros, time for you to get your butts home before your old man misses you and sends my ass to Rikers for contributing to your delinquency.”

  Alejandro escorted the boys to the back entrance of the club so that he could walk them to the street to catch a cab home. However, that meant they had to pass by where ML Rex was accepting the commiseration of the hookers and his business manager outside the dressing room. The rap star had his back turned to them, but as Alejandro and the twins approached, the business manager tapped his client on the shoulder and nodded toward them.

  ML Rex turned and smiled when he saw the trio, but his eyes were hard. “Well, well, ain’t it the li’l sistah,” he said then, looking down at the twins, added, “and I see you found a couple more midget bitches. They sure grow ’em short in New York Citaaay.” The hookers and the business manager laughed.

  Alejandro tensed. Some times were harder than others to remember he’d sworn off violence. But even as he clenched his fists, he heard Dugan’s voice in his head, “Words are never worth killing or dying over, Alejandro. Walk away.” Instead, he addressed the girls in Spanish, which wiped the smiles off their faces.