The Darkest Hearts

by Nelson George

  The twists and turns in Lil Daye’s love life were, thankfully, far less complex. D had already gotten interest from VH1, Lifetime, and Andy Cohen over at Bravo regarding a possible reality show for Mama Daye. Her social media profile was robust and she seemed sassy enough to become the next Cardi B. It wasn’t D’s cup of culture, but Love & Hip Hop had been on since 2011 and you could monetize like crazy off that exposure.

  As for that Dorita, he’d passed that e-mail on to Lil Daye and would wait for his feedback. D wanted to be a manager, not a fixer. He was no Michael Cohen. He could protect people, but cutting deals with mistresses was not why he’d become a talent manager. Perhaps he was being too precious. If he wanted to make big money in this game, it would be hard to keep his hands clean. He’d wait a few more days before checking in with Lil Daye to see how he’d played it.

  Besides, he had his own dirt. Somewhere across the country, in his hometown next to the Atlantic, there was an FBI agent asking questions about the biggest mistake of his life. The past is never gone. Revenge exposes your morality. Youth haunts middle age like the devil rules hell. With his mind focused on those thoughts, all the good vibes on that bench melted away.

  D was about to walk over to the promenade when his Samsung buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, and after having picked up Ice’s call in Atlanta, he planned to stick to his don’t-answer-unknown-numbers policy. If they really want me, D thought, they will let me know. Ten seconds later, a text popped up:

  Mr. Hunter, Samuel Kurtz of Diversified International Brands would love to meet with you in Los Angeles this week. My name is Ingrid Britton. Please call me so we can set up the meeting. Good day.

  D did a quick Google search and found that DIB was a multinational corporation with extensive holdings in luxury brands and spirits. Kurtz himself was a billionaire. He sounded like a man D should be calling back. But before he moved on to new business, a call to his past was in order.

  After they’d gotten beyond greetings, D asked Serene Powers, “Where exactly are you these days, my friend?”

  “I’m back home now,” she responded with a bounce in her voice. “Just got back the other day, actually. I was in Europe for about ten days.”

  “Bet it wasn’t a vacation.”

  “I did see some sights, but you know me, D. There’s a lot to do.”

  “How’s the boyfriend?”

  “He’s made me a big welcome-home feast. You should come up here and take some lessons from him. A man who cooks is a valuable commodity, D. It would really up your game.”

  “I have survived on oatmeal, protein shakes, and takeout for decades,” he said. “It’s a winning formula.”

  Serene laughed. “If you say so.”

  “You know about the accusations against Walter Gibbs?”

  “Oh, I didn’t miss that. You guys are still in business, aren’t you?”

  “He’s been advising me on my deals since I got into artist management. But he’s been a friend for years. You know, since the days of the bap and the boom.”

  “So you wanna know if he’s on my list?”

  D heard the tease in her voice and tried not to get angry. “I read all the stuff in the papers. I talked to him. But I trust you and your sources more than newspapers—and even more than him, I guess.”

  “Let’s put it this way—he is not a priority for me,” Serene said smoothly. “These days, I focus on traffickers. Big, bad, stinking fish. But if I were still interested in record-business people like Dr. Funk, I’m sure I would have encountered Gibbs.”

  “So you believe it’s all true?”

  “I can’t speak to the truth of every accuser,” Serene said. “I’m very aware that not every woman who wears a red hood really saw a wolf. But he was flagrant in using his power to abuse women psychologically, if not physically. These days, thankfully, there’s a price to pay. When I started doing this work a few years ago, powerful men got away with whatever they wanted. Not so right now. So if you’re calling for absolution for Walter Gibbs, you called the wrong woman.”

  “I wasn’t,” D said. “Or maybe I was a little. I know your heart and your commitment. So I believe you. With other people, I can try to punch holes in what they say. I know if I punch you, I’m gonna get hit back.”

  They both laughed at that truth.

  “Listen,” she said, “I hear the hurt in your voice. But it’s not your burden, D.”

  “Well I’m not sure about that, but I do have something else I feel guilty about, and this I had a direct impact on.”

  “What am I, your priest?”

  “No, though you do look good in black,” he said. “I wanna hire you to go down to Atlanta and check on a woman for me.”

  “I just got back from Europe, D. Unlike you, I have a love life.”

  “Let me just kick the ballistics and see what you think.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BAD AND BOUJEE

  Two black men sat in a black Cadillac ATS Sedan under a streetlight in College Park, Georgia, an 80 percent African American town just beyond the Atlanta city limits. From outside the car, the men’s faces were obscured by waves of smoke and weirdly illuminated by the red flames on the tips of their respective blunts (they weren’t the types to share) and the glow of the dashboard radio. A Migos Spotify playlist was pumping. If Rasheeda Jackson had looked their way while exiting the East Point MARTA rail station, she might have thought the two men were wearing shifting reddish-green masks.

  But Rasheeda didn’t look because her eyes and ears were filled with content from her phone—music from 2 Chainz and a Snapchat makeup tutorial from her girlfriend Kandi. Rasheeda didn’t really need the help—she was flawless, from her glowing bronze cheeks to her tapered eyebrows—but it never hurt to clock the competition.

  When the Caddy pulled up next to her as she walked along East Main Street, Rasheeda didn’t blink, slow down, or stumble. Men had been hollering at her from cars since she was twelve. She’d been embarrassed by the attention at thirteen, flattered by it at fifteen, and now, newly seventeen (though her fake ID said twenty-one), it was just boring. So Rasheeda wasn’t even paying attention when a man hopped out of the passenger side and came toward her with his big hands outstretched. By the time Rasheeda felt his presence, he was standing a foot away.

  “Boo!” said Gucci G.

  Rasheeda jumped and then hit the man with a playful smack on his broad chest. “Gucci, you shouldn’t play like that.”

  “Scared yo ass, huh?” he said through his gold fronts. “I know you down to make some money, sis.”

  “So you here waitin’ on me? I must be something special.”

  “You out here fishin’ for a compliment, huh? What you want me to say? We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t lit. Now, you want this money or not?”

  Rasheeda smiled coyly and then joined Gucci G and Devon in the Caddy sedan and drove off.

  Serene Powers swung her Audi out of its parking space and followed the trio into Atlanta’s world of sex for sale.

  Serene had been on Gucci G for two days, watching him pick up girls and transport clients from hotels, motels, and the airport. But so far she hadn’t found a link to Dorita or a connection to Lil Daye. Dorita’s coworkers at Verizon hadn’t heard from her since she e-mailed in her resignation. Her mother told folks that Dorita had gone on vacation to Florida with a “boyfriend,” though she actually hadn’t heard from her in two weeks.

  Serene was wearing black Lululemon yoga pants, black boots, a black Raiders hoodie, a black baseball cap, and dark-green shades. On the seat next to her was a black backpack full of lethal items.

  When the Caddy stopped at a town house in the Atlanta suburb of John’s Creek, Rasheeda and Gucci G got out the car but didn’t head to the front door, instead going around the side of the large house. Serene followed them with the zoom function on her iPhone. Gucci G soon came back to the Caddy, which then drove off. This was the place; Serene was sure of it. She turned off the track
er she’d placed on Gucci G’s ride, pulled out her laptop, and typed in the address.

  With some searching around, Serene found the floor plan for the house and then checked the time: in twenty minutes it would be dark.

  A Toyota Camry pulled up in front of the house. A skinny white man who spent too much time bent over at his job walked up to the front door and pressed the buzzer. After some conversation through the intercom, the door opened and a woman—fifties, short, and light-skinned—stuck her hand out and asked for ID. After looking it and him over, the woman let him in and then glanced left and right before closing the door.

  A few minutes later, a baby-blue BMX pulled up in front of the house, depositing a short Asian man in a dark suit and glasses, who gazed at his phone before pressing the front-door buzzer and engaging with the same woman.

  It was the third visitor who really got Serene’s attention. A red-and-white Escalade pulled up and parked in the driveway. A large balding black man walked up to the front door smoking a cigar and wearing a Lil Daye T-shirt. He tapped his phone, the door opened, and he entered.

  According to the photos D had forwarded to Serene, this was Antonie Newton Davis, a.k.a. Ant, Lil Daye’s business partner and, based on information from her anti–human trafficking contacts, an investor in various sex-based enterprises in ATL. People said he’d been a pimp, but Ant had never been arrested for it, or if he had, it was when he’d been underage so the records were sealed. What wasn’t clear was whether the sex trade had given him the earnings to support Lil Daye’s career, or if it was his music money that had allowed him to dabble in the sex trade. But ultimately those niceties didn’t matter to Serene.

  If Ant was making money off the exploitation of women, he was a villain.

  Serene saw that there were bars on the ground-floor windows, but the second-floor windows just had reinforced glass. There were security cameras by the front and back doors, but none on the upstairs windows. She figured they’d have silent alarms on the windows, but not linked to a security company. She doubted any of the folks at this brothel could really fight. Probably one or two big, slow guys like Ant. There would be guns; it was Atlanta. However, would they risk the sound of gunfire? If they were stupid they would, and likely they were stupid. The key would be to find Dorita quickly (if she was inside). Everything would flow from that. The longer Serene was in there, the riskier it would be.

  She moved to the side of the house, climbed up on the ledge to a first-floor window, reached up to hook ropes around the bars, and then pulled herself up so that she could see into a second-floor bedroom. No one was in there.

  There were absolutely smarter and quieter ways to go about entry, but Serene’s patience had worn out. She placed a tiny explosive device on the glass, swung her body below the window, and clicked an app on her phone. The glass blew. Thirty seconds later, Serene was in the second-floor bedroom. She listened. Lumbering feet on the stairs. She got low by the side door as the doorknob turned. The door flung open. A big man stormed in. His breath stopped when Serene’s foot slammed into his sternum. His arms flew up; his legs buckled. His clothes smelled of takeout Chinese. He clutched his heart. His breath smelled nasty. Serene scooped up the Beretta on the floor and shoved it into her jacket.

  She descended the staircase one slow step at a time.

  “Dougie,” the madam called, “are you okay?’

  “No, Dougie isn’t okay. He needs a doctor!” She could see the madam holding a .22 with her eyes shifting from the staircase to the back door.

  “I’ll shoot!” the woman said.

  “I have Dougie’s gun and a bulletproof vest on,” Serene replied. “If you wanna do it, we can do it, but it’s your life.”

  A door slammed as the madam, who had Anji tattooed on her right arm, considered her next move. Ant’s car could be heard pulling out of the driveway.

  “Your boss is gone,” Serene said.

  “He ain’t my boss!” Anji shouted.

  “He waited till I kicked Dougie’s ass before he ran. Only a boss would have left you in danger.”

  “He’s gonna call people. You need to leave.”

  “I intend to. I just wanna show you a photo. I’m looking for a girl.”

  Anti snorted. “You could have just buzzed,” she said.

  “I’m coming down the steps. You don’t shoot at me, I won’t kill you.”

  Serene extended the photo out toward Anji’s face. When the madam stuck her neck out a little to look at it, Serene swung her left leg around, knocking Anji and her gun to the floor. Serene scooped up the weapon and then jumped on the madam, pinning her arms to the floor.

  “You know the safety was still on?”

  “Fuck you, bitch!” the woman spat.

  “I’m gonna show you this picture and please don’t lie. As you see, I’ll hit a woman as quickly as I’ll hit a man.”

  From down the hall a voice yelled, “What’s going on, Anji?!”

  Serene pushed both her knees into the madam’s elbows. “Tell them to come out, Anji.”

  Reluctantly, Anji did as she was told. Following the opening and closing of doors, there was fumbling of clothes and then embarrassed male faces as they escaped the house. Anji, Rasheeda, and two other young black women named Sales and Dymond stood in the living room. Each looked at the photo of Dorita, but only Rasheeda flashed recognition in her eyes.

  “So you know her?” Serene asked.

  “I never said that,” Rasheeda snapped.

  “Don’t say shit.” This was Anji. Serene reached over and backhanded the madam with her gun. The woman dropped to the floor, clutched her cheek, and moaned.

  “So,” Serene said, “when’s the last time you saw Dorita?”

  Rasheeda was having a hard time focusing as her gaze locked on the fallen Anji.

  “Don’t look at her. Look at me.”

  “Two weeks ago. At a party.”

  “Was she with Lil Daye?”

  “No.”

  “Was Ant there?”

  Rasheeda evidently decided this was too much cooperation and said, “Who?”

  Bad decision. Serene punched her in the stomach. The young woman keeled over in pain.

  “Okay, catch your breath. I don’t wanna have to do that again. But—”

  “Yeah, she was with Ant,” Rasheeda said. “But that’s all I know.”

  “No Lil Daye, right?”

  “No.”

  “Shut up, bitch!” Anji barked from the floor.

  Serene walked over and kicked her right between her breasts. The lady pimp’s groans filled the room.

  “Okay, ladies,” Serene said, “who wants to go with me? I figure working conditions here just got much worse.” The three young women traded looks but none of them moved. “Your call.”

  Serene walked out the front door and, to her surprise, spied an Atlanta PD patrol car turning onto the block. One of the neighbors must have called about the exploding window. The patrol car stopped at a house down the block as Serene got in her car.

  She wasn’t sure if the police had seen her so Serene didn’t start her engine. The two patrolmen—a white male and a black female—walked up the block and, using flashlights, spotted broken glass outside the brothel. Things got more interesting when two cars roared onto the block and pulled into the brothel’s driveway. With guns drawn, Ant and three beefy cronies dashed onto the front lawn. The two police officers pulled their weapons. A shouting match ensued between the law and Ant. Soon, Anji stuck her head out the door and began yelling too.

  Serene wished she could stay, but the timing was perfect to get the hell away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THAT’S WHAT I LIKE

  Din Tai Fung, a chain of exceptional dumpling spots, was dipping its toe in the Los Angeles market after many successful years in Taiwan. D had eaten at its flagship restaurant in Shanghai and had been knocked out by its tasty prawn, veggie, and pork specialties. When he’d discovered there was one located in an Arcadia str
ip mall, he’d made several pilgrimages out to that largely Chinese area of the Valley and was not disappointed.

  When D found out that Kurtz’s office was located in Century City, he was overjoyed. Din Tai Fung had just taken over a large space in the renovated Westfield Mall, literally one long block away from the area’s twin towers. He didn’t know what Kurtz wanted or if there was really a deal to be made, but he was damn sure he was getting his dumpling game on. After a couple of plates of dumplings, any deal would just be the spicy sauce on his meal.

  D brought along Marcy Mui, the young Chinese-Korean woman who was working as his assistant while developing her own management portfolio under D Management’s banner. She’d been recommended by Sun Hee Pak, a big K-Town businesswoman whose daughter, Michelle, D had loved and lost. But Mrs. Pak, never one to toss away a potential biz partner or client, remained cordial with D. So when he needed someone to go with Night on his early trips to Korea, Mrs. Pak recommended Marcy to him. Marcy had an undergrad degree in business administration, was planning to attend USC’s law school, and was working as D’s liaison with the Korean music business for his deals involving Night.

  “I read Kurtz’s profile in Forbes,” Marcy said to D as they got ready to head over.

  “And?”

  “Seems to be moderate on every issue. He’s donated to both Dems and Republicans. For a big corporate dude, he’s surprisingly neutral politically.”

  “You seem skeptical,” D said.

  “Nobody with that much money lacks a political agenda. Not these days.”