Her night was done. Back to the bathtub. Tomorrow night, she was to encounter another prissy pimp. Apparently London was full of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
MADE IN AMERICA
Fuck Trump. Fuck Paul Ryan. Fuck chicken-neck McConnell and fascists disguised as Christians and scandal mongers masquerading as journalists and all the people who said there was no difference between Trump and Clinton.
D was watching CNN or MSNBC or something like that with the sound off, using the graphics projected under the talking heads to get a sense of what inhumanity was passing as government policy in the first year of the reign of Putin from Queens. Trump’s election had been the triumph of the white rage that had been building during Obama’s eight years, and this current brand of white supremacy was baked into the nation’s DNA a lot like lynching and pious hypocrisy.
The image of Trump and his designated Uncle Tom, Dr. Ben Carson, appeared on the screen. D flashed back to the nineties when Trump’s black friends were way cooler. D had worked security at upscale events where New York’s new money congregated, at a time when Trump and hip hop were scandalous new forces on the social scene. D remembered #45 at Puff’s white parties in the Hamptons, talking to Penny Marshall and eyeing Naomi Campbell. He remembered #45 at Moomba on Seventh Avenue gossiping about the boxing biz over a Dom P with Mike Tyson. He remembered Russell Simmons and Andre Harrell greeting Trump one night at Indochine before they all headed to a Fashion Week party.
What Trump shared with the hip hop moguls was that they were all outerborough kids obsessed with Manhattan props. Trump wanted mad fame so much he splashed his name on every surface he owned, like a graffiti tagger using gold block letters. His visionary branding had impacted hip hop. He preached, “Put your name on everything.” His hip hop acolytes followed suit.
The exchange between Trump and hip hop wasn’t a one-way street. When D watched the GOP debates he recognized a man working by the rules of a rap battle. He tagged his opponents with disrespectful nicknames (“Mr. Low Energy”) and constantly sang his own praises with the superhuman certainty of a cocky MC. His GOP opponents thought they were there to talk policy. #45 was there to dis. Trump was his own bellowing hype man. He took out GOP contenders like Rakim did those seven MCs.
Obama was the first black president. Trump was the first rap-battle president. #45 promoted the culture’s worst values (clueless capitalism, blatant misogyny, baseless boasting). So while D had despised conservatives before (Cheney, Rumsfeld, etc.) and doubted many liberals (de Blasio, Sanders, etc.), he thought Trump deserved a special place in hell for combining rap aesthetics with racism.
Whenever D’s blood pressure rose and he grew fearful of the future, he remembered what his late mentor Dwayne Robinson used to say: “No one and nothing stays hot forever. This world is composed of cycles and epochs. Movements spawned by one generation are either evolved by the next one or totally rejected. Today’s hero is tomorrow’s jerk, and vice versa.” Now Dwayne had been a music and cultural critic; politics had not been his specialty. But D thought his words were applicable to the dance of progressive and conservative, open-mindedness and dogma, that America was engaged in. Right now, the music of politics was ugly and simpleminded, like the melody in an idiot’s head.
D switched off the cable-news mind maze, moved over to his laptop, and clicked on Spotify’s Rap Caviar, a weekly selection of the newest jams from the white-hot center of twenty-first-century hip hop, like listening to Funk Flex at his Hot 97 peak. D knew he was moving into a maze of a different kind. Rap Caviar made hits and pushed the conversation forward. There were traces of the hip hop D had grown up with in Kendrick Lamar and Chance the Rapper, but most of the acts were trap-based, including Lil Daye, whose new “Hy Life” was number one on the Rap Caviar playlist.
D thought Dwayne Robinson would have loved this moment, a time similar to when band-based funk gave way to computers and drum machines, to when gospel became soul, to when singing yielded to rapping as the apex of black expression. And here D was, in the middle of it as a manager.
The irony was that his relationship with Lil Daye had developed because of R&B. D had only gotten into talent management because his friend Night and his longtime road manager Al Brown had begged him to join their team and help save Night’s singing career. Al and D had squeezed a Grammy Award–winning album out of Night and gotten him back on the road after a self-imposed decade-long absence.
However, what finally got Night back on track were the contacts D had developed within the Koreatown business community to get the singer gigs creating nineties-style R&B tracks for K-pop bands. While the market in America was being deluged with MCs “singing” via auto-tune, Koreans still wanted real singers and heard the older melodies and production sounds with fresh ears. For the last year, Night had been shuttling between LA and Seoul on a monthly basis and had even cut a track with PSY, Mr. “Gangnam Style.”
D’s powers of resurrection had been even more impressive with the once-reclusive Dr. Funk. Dr. Funk had once been a giant star, but since the mideighties he’d become a soul diminished by drugs and mental illness. D had been very successful in mining the man’s impressive catalog. He’d licensed classic songs, remake rights, and a couple of newer compositions to two Netflix shows, a Hulu special, and a national campaign for butter. Equally lucrative were special hologram shows for major corporations he’d developed with R’Kaydia. A hologram of Dr. Funk and his band, the Love Patrol, had gone on tour, performing songs from the classic Chaos: Phase I LP.
The highlight of these shows was when the real seventysomething Dr. Funk came onstage and did a duet with the eighties hologram of himself. It always brought down the house and got high six-figure paydays from Hewlett-Packard, Walmart, and Staples. (On the DL, a quarter of any new income Dr. Funk generated went to a fund to benefit victims of sexual violence, via a deal D had negotiated with one-time foe turned friend Serene Powers.)
After moving to LA, D had gone a bit Hollywood. He sold his life rights to a production company for a project called The Accidental Hunter, which centered around the time he’d saved white teen idol Bridgette Hayes from getting kidnapped by a motorcycle gang. There had also been a short-lived, awkward romance between the bodyguard and the singer that helped stoke interest in the project. Would it be a feature film or a miniseries? Could it be a franchise? Maybe make it a musical like The Greatest Showman? Maybe a procedural like S.W.A.T. with a different celebrity protected each week? Think of the cameos!
There were a dizzying, disorienting number of meetings in the film and TV game. D had gotten used to spitballin’ meet-ups that resulted in nothing but spit. Maybe because the production company felt guilty, they’d made D a consulting producer on a comedy about a road manager, his first television credit.
The one thing he did absolutely like about film and TV people is that they got up early and spent most of their weekends reading. After years of late nights and afternoon wake-up calls, D was cool with a world where people actually showed up for breakfast meetings, where reading was a tool, not a luxury. Middle age was imminent and there was nothing more mortifying than being the old head in the cypher.
Yet here he was in Atlanta, listening to bits and pieces of various current hits, trying to suss out the competition and, on a personal level, refine his sense of what was and wasn’t “lit.” One night at a South Beach nightclub, the Brooklyn MC Asya Roc, an old client of D’s, had shared a banquet with Lil Daye. Apparently, a big topic of conversation with millennial MCs was who among the older generation could be trusted in business. Aysa Roc told Lil Daye the true story of how D had prevented him from getting jacked at an underground boxing club and how the bodyguard had even inspired several records with stories from his days growing up in buck-wild Brownsville.
When Lil Daye sought a rep in LA, he wanted someone who was connected to film as well as music; an African American who understood the streets. D fit the bill perfectly. Now he was furiously playin
g catch-up on trap. Lil Daye didn’t need D to manage the details of his recording career (the young man was very self-sufficient in that area) but he needed a trustworthy guide to the suit-and-tie folks.
D was still listening to Rap Caviar when a familiar number popped up on his smartphone.
“Yo D,” Night said, “how’s ATL treating you?”
“I’m good. Enjoying the hospitality, but I do miss LA, NY, and every other big city.”
“ATL not cosmopolitan enough for you?”
“It’s got its charms,” D said, “but I’ve never loved landlocked cities.”
“Nigga, you can’t even swim.”
They both cracked up at this.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t like looking at water.”
Again they laughed, chuckling like old men on a park bench.
“Where are you at?” D asked. “Back from Seoul?”
“I’m good over there for now,” Night said. “Did the tracks with Brown Eyed Girls and now I’m back in LA working on my stuff with some talented kids. Young dudes, but they can really play. Got some church in them too. I also got Thundercat on a track and I may sing on his next joint.”
“Remember,” D said, “I’m the one who turned you on to the scene out there in LA. Don’t act like you just discovered the players in Cali.”
“Which is why I wanna play you some of what I’m working on.”
This excited D. “My e-mail is ready and waiting.”
“No, my man,” Night said. “This is music that needs to be heard face to ear. It’s analog music. Shouldn’t be compressed. It’s got big nuts. Needs some room.”
“You sounding cocky, Night. I like it.”
“I’m not gassing you, D. It’s good.”
“You wanna come down here to Atlanta? I can fly you down. Won’t even charge it against the money your ass owes me.”
“Fuck you,” Night said. “Sounding like a damn manager now. When you come back to LA, I’ll play what I’ve been working on and you will be impressed.”
“Word?”
“Word up, old school.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NO CHURCH IN THE WILD
Ice bought two burners at Lenox Square and then picked up his order of faux chicken, peas and rice, and fried bananas from the nearby vegan spot. Armed with the electronics and sustenance he desired, the former hit man went up to his apartment, put his feet up on the glass coffee table, and turned on SportsCenter, keeping the sound off. The old-school clock on his wall read 6:25 p.m. so he had a few minutes to chow down before his weekly ritual.
Ice had gone vegan a year ago when his stomach started aching and a cute young woman in his acting class suggested he change his diet. The relationship hadn’t gone far—he was both too old and too mysterious for her—but Ice was a star in class. There were layers of unspoken pain in him and even a gift for comedy. He suspected that trauma and humor were two sides of a coin. He’d inflicted enough pain to understand that people under pressure had an unending capacity for the ridiculous.
His acting classes had served a very practical role in his undercover life. It would never be enough to add hair, glasses, and weight. To truly disappear, Ice felt he had to change how he moved. That gangsta walk had been useful in Brownsville, East New York, and the other BK hoods he’d once stalked. Under the Southern sun, he needed to relax his body and warm up that physical armor so that he moved like a nine-to-five retiree. In the acting classes he dove into the role-playing exercises, moving as a cat, a dog, or any other animal that helped him erase his swagger and replace it with something that made his steps as anonymous as a broke-down bus driver. He’d always thought nine-to-five folks walked like kicked dogs. Now he embraced that puppy wobble, hoping to move like a middle-aged man at a multiplex matinee.
At 6:30 p.m. Ice texted a 917 area code with the words Can you talk? After a few moments the reply was Yes. Ice called.
A woman in her thirties answered and asked, “How are you, Big Poppa?”
“I’m okay N’Dya. Some drama though.”
“Old or new?”
“Old. That’s the only kind I have these days,” Ice said with resignation. “How is Tiana?”
“Had a cold today so we kept her out of school.”
“She there?”
“Doing homework. I don’t wanna pull her away.”
“I understand,” he said, but any time talking with his granddaughter felt like a blessing. Trying to hide his disappointment he asked, “You need anything?”
“All the time,” N’Dya said, and they both laughed. “What about you?”
“Can you check in on Kima?”
“Why you wanna know about that bitch all of a sudden?”
This was an old beef between the two women and Ice hated to bring Kima up, but he needed some eyes on his ex.
“Please,” he said, “just check in on her. Need to know if she has any old drama too. Feel me?”
“Whatever,” his daughter said with a sigh. “You know what I think about her triflin’ ass.”
Ice glanced at his clock: 6:47 p.m. “Gotta go. Me and you, N’Dya.”
“Love you, Big Poppa.”
Ice texted a 718 area code, writing, Can we talk? He watched LeBron James bulldoze a couple of Nets on his way to the hoop while he awaited a reply. That there were now NBA games in Brooklyn just subway stops from his old hood was a source of irritation. It was an injustice that he had to sit with the Atlanta Hawks’ sorry-ass fans to watch ball when he and his old crew should have been courtside at the Barclays Center.
The second burner buzzed and the text read, Get at me. The phone rang five times before it was answered.
“Nigga, what’s your goddamn problem? You knew it was me.”
“I’m sorry,” Pablo said, “I was just in the bathroom.”
“I didn’t call about your bowel movements. Keep that info to yourself. Now whatcha know?”
“There’s a dude named C Dawg,” Pablo said, his Puerto Rican accent a balm to Ice’s ears, though what the man said was damned irritating. “Could be with the feds. He’s back in East New York. He says he just got home. Based on his questions and what he knows and what business he’s doing, I got my eye on him.”
“Any of our people know his pedigree?”
“Another questionable nigga from Brevoort by the name of Fade says he does. Now, Fade says this C Dawg was related to Tracy.”
“If my name comes out of this nigga’s mouth, you need to handle him.”
“Fade or C Dawg?”
“Shit, both if need be, but Fade ’cause he connects Tracy to us.”
“I’m following up,” said Pablo.
“How’s business?”
“We got everything in order. Some real estate developers have been asking about that building you got on Pennsylvania Avenue. White folks trying to come over here, bro. You can check with me on Friday. Same time.”
“Nigga, I’ll reach out just like I always do. Don’t set no dates or deadlines for me.”
“I’m just saying it could be real money.”
“Be ready with details next week.” Ice hung up, stomped the two burners with his feet, and tossed the pieces in the garbage.
CHAPTER SIX
CARRIED AWAY
The delivery van was white and dingy with no distinctive markings. It was clearly being badly used by the villains leasing it. Serene had been trailing it as it wound its way through moneyed Knightsbridge on a journey out to Dalston. There was a tracking device on the van so she didn’t need to be very close, but she wanted to be there when it stopped so that smooth motherfucker behind the wheel could feel her fist. She’d tracked Serge Schockweilder since he’d left the Chiltern Firehouse, a posh spot full of bold-faced names. But now Schockweilder was on a seedier mission and Serene was tracking his ass in a Mercedes.
The van was stopped at a red light when the back door popped open and a woman stumbled out in a thin, shiny, blue dress with matching shoes. She was ligh
t brown, beautiful, and obviously scared. She turned her head like a trapped animal unsure of which way to go. Schockweilder stormed out of the driver’s-side door shouting, “Get back in the van!” From her car Serene saw another white man inside the van whose pants were down, shirt was off, body beet red.
The girl ran unsteadily toward an alley with Schockweilder coming after her. She fell after just a few steps and he grabbed her by her shoulder. “You little fucking cunt!” he yelled, jerking her to her feet, before he suddenly let go. The girl looked up and saw a blur of feet and hands cave in his stomach and bloody his right ear. She heard a cracking sound when a foot impacted his nose. His tailored suit was suddenly covered in blood. He tumbled to the ground. Then a woman’s hand reached down to her and said softly, “Let’s go, baby.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LIFE’S A BITCH
D liked Atlanta but really wanted to love it. In fact, he felt damn near disloyal for not fully embracing the ATL. It was where Dr. King had learned lessons that would help him reshape America. Generations of the black middle-class had been nurtured at Morehouse, Spelman, and the other HBCUs of the city. Despite being smack dab in the redneck state of Georgia, Atlanta had blossomed as a mecca where black elected officials ruled and black entrepreneurs could thrive. The best thirty minutes on television were named after the city and its stories reflected the centrality of Atlanta to African American identity.
And yet, for D, this sprawling metropolis never inspired deep love. It was a landlocked city and D found it quietly disturbing to gaze out his forty-third-floor hotel window and know there was no shore nearby, not even a river or a lake. More profoundly, Atlanta was a city that worked to mask the fact that it was nestled in the Deep South. It had remade itself into an international city, developing businesses as well as cultural and social institutions that befit a global destination. There were quality restaurants and museums. CNN was founded there, beaming news and nonsense across the world 24/7/365. A healthy percentage of all the visual content on screens in the US (and the world) was shot there, much of it in a studio owned by a black man named Tyler Perry. No doubt it was truly Hollywood South.
The Darkest Hearts Page 3
