The Darkest Hearts

by Nelson George

  After checking the hotel stationery for the right number, she stopped in front of locker 611. Looking over both shoulders, Serene punched in the code and the locker door popped open. Inside sat a lonely little white package, which she slipped it into her backpack before exiting through glass doors into the wide expanse of Alexanderplatz.

  Like any good tourist, Serene wandered over to the World Clock, a sixteen-foot-high structure of concrete and metal with the names of cities around the globe inscribed around it. You could figure out the time in 148 major cities by looking at it. Between her days in London and this unexpected outing in Berlin, Serene suddenly felt like a citizen of the world. She had never felt like that when she was in the army. Back then everything was a reflection of US values and policy, with her uniform and her weapon defining every interaction wherever she was stationed.

  That night, at Helen’s suggestion, Serene took the U-Bahn over the Kreuzberg, a venerable neighborhood that had bordered the Berlin Wall before it was torn down. In the years since, Kreuzberg had become a popular late-night destination of bars and nightclubs. Serene wandered through the crowds, enjoying not understanding most of what was being said and admiring the tall, sturdy German men who checked her out.

  Even though she had an extremely valuable piece of African history in her backpack, Serene felt relaxed. Unlike her work in the cesspool of human trafficking, there had been no asshole men, sellout women to confront, or damaged victims to comfort. Just open a locker and transport a piece of jewelry. The lack of complex human interactions was quite a respite.

  Serene didn’t get back to her room until three thirty a.m.—six thirty p.m. the previous evening on the West Coast. She called Arthur but he didn’t pick up.

  When she woke that afternoon, Serene found several missed calls on her phone from a number she didn’t recognize. Helen picked up when she called back.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” the older woman said in a shaky voice. “Soa, who was going to meet you today, was arrested yesterday evening in Belgium. So I think you should bring it back to the States with you.”

  “Is that wise?” Serene asked.

  Helen spoke as if she were looking over her shoulder. “Just put it in your carry-on. If asked about it, it’s a piece of costume jewelry you purchased from a Gypsy in Europe.”

  It was a joke of sorts. Helen forced a laugh, but Serene didn’t bite. This was a responsibility she didn’t need or want. A call to Mildred Barnes would be happening very soon.

  “Okay,” Serene said finally. “Do you want me to bring it anywhere in particular?”

  “Take it with you to the Bay Area. I’ll get back to you in a few days. And thank you.”

  “One more thing: Anika. Where is she?”

  “We got her back home,” Helen said. “I’ll send you her phone number in a few days.”

  Serene hung up and then, reluctantly, unwrapped the package. She’d vowed not to take a look at it, not wanting any attachment to something so rare and valuable. But then it was in her hand—a gold medallion with a lion’s visage on one side and a single green jewel on the other. Serene had never been to Africa but had the distinct feeling that this object would one day take her to the Motherland.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SKY WALKER

  D’s office was at 8570 Sunset, right down the block from the West Hollywood Equinox and a short stroll from the sidewalk cafés around Sunset Plaza. He’d thought about getting space at one of the WeWork spaces proliferating in town but they felt too collegiate and made him feel old. A music-publishing firm had recently cut its staff and had two extra offices, a shared conference room, and a reception area, so he rented there.

  D was ensconced in one room with Marcy Mui, who sat at a smaller desk. In the other room was a management vet name Mal Maldron, who’d transitioned from the record business to brand development; and Ray Ray, whom D had known since he was an at-risk kid in Brooklyn, but who’d evolved into a digital music marketing whiz and a wannabe screenwriter.

  D had first encountered Ray Ray and some of his associates at the turn of the century when they were about to set a sleeping homeless man on fire at the Canal Street subway station. After interrupting that activity (and whooping some stupid teenage ass), D had somehow become a mentor to Ray Ray, who, it turned out, lived in the same Brownsville housing project as D’s family. Over the years, D nurtured Ray Ray’s many interests and eventually helped him out when the kid enrolled in USC’s film school. Until he sold his first screenplay or TV pitch, Ray Ray was toiling at D Management, giving his boss a connection to a black youth culture that he found harder to understand with every passing day.

  There was also a desk in the space for D’s old friend Al Brown, road manager extraordinaire, who lived in Florida and advised on all things Night. Walter Gibbs was D’s undercover adviser and he had CAA whispering in his ear as well.

  D’s last New York office had served as home base for D Security, which had specialized in nightclub security. His crew had been NYC-born, streetwise, battle-tested, and fast with their hands. Back then, his staff meetings had been about VIP arrivals, drunks and druggies who were banned (unless they were VIPs), relations with the local precinct, security walk-throughs, and martial arts training. It was thoughtful work with a physical edge. The job was to not let people get hurt, to not hurt people, and, paramount, to not get yourself hurt.

  Despite all the music and sexiness in any high-end club, there was always a chance you could be injured, and that gave every night an energizing edge. D’s current profession, though much more lucrative, provided few potential jolts. Yeah, he could get sued for something silly by someone greedy. But that just wasn’t the rush of possibly getting hurt. This LA team was a haphazard bunch—young and eager, experienced and tired, excited and anxious. It would only be a matter of time before he’d know if they were strong enough as a unit to keep him from drowning in Hollywood’s deep waters.

  Today D sat at the head of the conference table with Marcy, Mal, and Ray Ray scattered around him, and Al on speakerphone from Florida. A whiteboard behind him had a list of topics: Lil Daye, Mama Daye, Night, Dr. Funk, D’s TV series, and new business. D gave updates on the various deals on the table for Lil Daye. McDonald’s wanted him to do a commercial for their new breakfast menu. An energy drink wanted him to endorse a product called “Break of Daye.” A deodorant company wanted Lil and Mama to post a series of Instagram pics of them using the product in their bathroom. “They are all well-paying,” D said, “but none of them sound like what Vitamin Water did for 50 Cent or Cîroc for Diddy.”

  “I think all the ideas that pun on his name are corny,” said Marcy.

  “I agree,” said Mal. “They all sound like those Taco Bell ads that helped Hammer kill his career.”

  “First of all, who’s Hammer?” Ray Ray said, which made D laugh. Always good to have a historically clueless millennial in the house. “Anyway, niggas eat a lot of McDonald’s. His audience would think he was getting paid to support a brand they relate to. Only people who don’t eat at McDonald’s are gonna be mad at that, and those folks aren’t hard-core Lil Daye fans.”

  “Good points, everybody,” D said. “I’ll run them all by Lil Daye and let him know that he needs to be cautious about this pun shit. Too much is def a bad look. But then again, when Daye is your last name, you shouldn’t be shy capitalizing on it.”

  Marcy gestured at the whiteboard. “So,” she said with an edge, “are we managing his wife now too?”

  “Well, we don’t have any management papers on her. Her social media presence is off the chain. Maybe Lil and Mama could become the new Bey and Jay. Sounds like you have a problem with her.”

  “Her reputation is not good,” Marcy said.

  Ray Ray chimed in: “Yeah, I follow all the hip hop gossip sites and everyone down in ATL says she is a royal beeyatch.”

  “She sounds tailor-made for reality TV,” Al said via speakerphone.

  “Listen,” D sai
d, “if someone bites, we’ll figure out a strategy. Right now, all we’ve been asked to do is help shop her to reality shows. She’s already shot a couple of episodes so we won’t have to beg for money. They’ll see what it is and either buy it or not. And don’t worry, Marcy, I won’t have you babysitting Mama.”

  “Thank you,” she responded. “I’m sure if I spent too much time with her, we’d come to blows.”

  “Yo, that would be lit,” Ray Ray said. “A WorldStar exclusive for real.”

  “Okay,” D said, “back to business.”

  The rest of the meeting was less flavorful as Night’s Korean adventures and Dr. Funk’s hologram appearances were old news. Marcy suggested mounting a Rock & Roll Hall of Fame campaign for Dr. Funk and Al thought they should have a separate call about it. The TV production company wanted to schedule a meeting with D to talk through their ideas for a series they were calling Hip Hop Detective (“That title is wack as hell,” Ray Ray commented derisively), which he reluctantly agreed to.

  “Any new business?” D asked finally, hoping to end this necessary but tedious gathering.

  Mal said, “I got an inquiry from an old friend in Paris. He’s looking for an American R&B/hip hop producer to work with a French female singer. It’s a paying trip to Paris for a couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll go,” Ray Ray said with a grin. When everybody laughed at that, he added, “You all know my beats are fire.”

  “We’ve all heard your beats,” Marcy countered with sass. “They won’t be getting you a free trip to France.”

  “I cosign that,” D said. “And on that note, this meeting has come to a close. Mal, let’s get together later and see if we can find someone for that Paris gig.”

  “Night?” Mal said.

  “I’m sure they’ll want someone younger with a trap sound. Let’s see if we can find someone in Lil Daye’s camp we can submit.”

  * * *

  Back in his office, D munched on a kale salad from the Sweetgreen downstairs and looked out across the city. From his window, LA’s late-summer haze obscured Downtown’s office towers. The vista didn’t seem too magical this afternoon with the air thick with fumes. The sun was a blur through the airborne filth. Still, it was a view, one D had imagined having back in Brownsville, where from his family’s apartment window all he could see were elevated subway tracks. That was literally a continent away. Or maybe just a phone call.

  His cell played “Around the Way Girl.” The name Danielle Robinson, the widow of his dead mentor Dwayne, appeared on the screen. With no introduction she said breathlessly, “I just met with a man from the FBI.”

  “Oh damn,” D said with genuine surprise. “Are you okay? What did he want?”

  “He was asking about your relationship to Dwayne. How close you two were and so forth.”

  “You think he’s trying to figure out who killed Dwayne?”

  “I would hope so,” she said. “But he was real cagey. He was very interested in the book Dwayne was writing. He wanted to know why he was writing it, who knew he was writing it, and where he’d kept the manuscript. He was actually nice, but that doesn’t mean I trusted him. D, you ought to be careful. The FBI are not good guys now just because Trump doesn’t like them. They have never been the protector of black people. Dwayne is dead, they can’t take anything away from him. But you have done so well for yourself, D. I don’t want them to pull you down.”

  “I hear you, Danielle. I will be careful.”

  “You have met a lot of people in this world, D,” Danielle said, sounding like a mother. “If you have any favors, use them and prepare yourself. Dwayne used to say the world can change with one phone call, and he was right.”

  D took this in. He was thankful that someone cared. “Danielle, I promise you I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Thank you so much for the heads-up.”

  There were calls he needed to make, meetings he needed to have, people who could be helpful in this troubling scenario. The one who’d be most useful was a man he detested. The devil’s disciples were always well-connected.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GET YOU

  After moving to LA, D had decided to be inside cars as little as possible. He’d rented a penthouse apartment in the Palazzo West complex, which was right across 3rd Street from the Grove outdoor mall and the adjacent Pan Pacific park, which had basketball courts, soccer fields, and baseball diamonds. On his side of 3rd was a Whole Foods and a CVS. In the other direction on La Brea was a twenty-four-hour Ralphs, perfect for late-night pickups.

  So basically D just needed his Lexus for meetings in the Valley. Most of his daily needs were a few steps away. The Palazzo West had a pool (which was usually overrun by kids and pale girls in search of color) and a gym, but D preferred the Equinox a few blocks away on Wilshire. Though he did Uber to work on Sunset, most days he walked home, going down to Fairfax and then taking 3rd to his place.

  It was remarkable how easy the transition had been from east to west. Every now and then, he’d visit his Aunt Sheryl and her son Walli out in Lancaster, but most of his life was lived in the Miracle Mile area of LA. Weekends he spent his time in either DTLA (Downtown LA), where most of the hippest clubs and progressive cultural institutions were located, or Echo Park, where he’d fallen in love with the Echoplex, which booked great NY DJs like Spinna or local star Rashida. Maybe, he thought, if all worked out, he’d buy a place in Echo Park. But for now, he was comfortable in his LA cocoon.

  One part of D’s new lifestyle that he hadn’t relaxed into was the necessity of attending meetings at old Hollywood watering holes. He’d been to these places many times as a bodyguard and was always unpleasantly surprised at how elitist, snobbish, and clueless the people who made movies and TV were. It was an insular world of private schools, awards shows, and overpriced brunches, like the one he was on his way to now.

  The Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny Drive had been a Hollywood power-breakfast spot for decades. Moguls of the silver screen and the analog recording studio had been meeting for early breakfast since the sixties. But just as CDs gave way to downloads, the Four Seasons had ceded much of its aura to Soho House and younger, more tech- and digital-friendly environments. So it was no surprise that Amos Pilgrim had asked D to meet him at eight thirty a.m. at this twentieth-century institution. Back when he was doing security, D had spent many days and nights in the Four Seasons, whisking celebs in and out of hotel rooms they shouldn’t have been in and keeping the media at bay. The Four Seasons’ security was some of the city’s best, but D Security still had to do a lot of work keeping the celebrated from their most clueless impulses.

  The Four Seasons Sunday brunch was famous for its vast supply of food. The weekday breakfast wasn’t as bountiful, but it still made most others in town seem feeble. For years, this had been Amos Pilgrim’s morning meeting location of choice. The businessman was notoriously crafty about the sequencing of his meetings. He knew how to keep enemies apart. He knew when to make sure people at odds could “accidentally” run into each other, and he would make sure two people who needed to know each other would cross paths. D figured there wasn’t a breath Amos took that wasn’t strategic, so he was curious who’d be sharing the man’s booth when he arrived.

  Amos was in his usual spot near the front of the dining room with his customary French toast, sunny-side-up eggs, and coffee in place. He was wearing an expensive-looking yellow zip-up sweater and a blue-faced Rolex. But, D thought, his eyes looked redder, the bags under them bigger, and his skin was dull. Time was taking its toll on this crafty man.

  Across the table was a dark-brown beauty with short natural hair and the cheekbones of a model. She wore a sensible beige dress, an expensive gold watch, and bracelets. She was obviously a woman of class and means, though her brown skin made her seem ageless.

  “D,” Amos said as he approached the table, “I’m just finishing up here. Why don’t you grab a plate at the buffet and then come back.”

  “No,” the woman said
firmly, “don’t chase Mr. Hunter away like that.”

  “Oh,” D said, flattered that she knew who he was, “that’s all right, miss.”

  “Forgive my manners,” Amos said. “D Hunter, this is Belinda Bowman.”

  She stood up to shake his hand and D was quite impressed with her curvy figure, which he hoped he had taken in without looking too predatory.

  “I guess you might as well sit down,” Amos said, though D was quite sure this introduction had always been his plan.

  Belinda Bowman was an attorney who represented a gang of recording artists and actors, including a few of the featured players in Black Panther. Amos had met her fresh out of Howard University School of Law and had advised her in negotiating the politics of the Century City law firm where she worked. It quickly became clear to D that Miss Bowman’s brown eyes were aimed at handling his future deals. She knew all about his Lil Daye deal and his other moves.

  D had been using an LA law firm Walter Gibbs recommended and he was satisfied with them, though he hadn’t yet made a personal connection with any of the partners. Moreover, Gibbs was seemingly an important client there, making D wonder whether any side deals were being cut. Amos wouldn’t have made this “accidental” hookup happen if Belinda Bowman wasn’t good. (Amos didn’t believe in rewarding black mediocrity.)

  “Do you handle any of Amos’s business?” D asked.

  She said, “My firm does, so I get to dip my fingers into his affairs.”

  “If I let her, she’d renegotiate every damn thing I do,” Amos said. “But she’s built up a nice client list of her own. She doesn’t really need an old man’s business.”

  Belinda shook her head. “Right. Like you aren’t still doing business all over town.” Then she reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card, handing it to D. “One way or another, I’m sure we’ll do business.” She gave Amos a kiss on the cheek and shook D’s hands vigorously before leaving.