The Darkest Hearts

by Nelson George

  At the end of Santa Monica Pier, tourists took selfies and photographed sea lions. Buskers covered pop hits with guitars and miniature drum machines. Two sets of hard gray steps faced out toward the Pacific. Sitting on the steps closest to Venice Beach was a small light-skinned woman wearing a black beret, slacks, jacket, and boots. She was petite with a fierce light in her eyes. She spoke with an accent D didn’t recognize.

  “I have information for you, Mr. Hunter,” she began. “It’s about a very naughty man named Samuel Kurtz.” She reached into her coat and handed D a manila envelope. “I can provide you with digital copies later, when I have a secure link ready. I thought this would suffice for now.”

  The papers and photos bore Interpol stamps and detailed Kurtz’s activities as a client partner in several human-trafficking networks that brought women from Africa to Spain and Italy. On business trips, he’d visited brothels in Madrid and Milan to inspect his “merchandise,” a.k.a. poor African women in search of European employment.

  D eyed the small woman with suspicion. “Do you work for Interpol?”

  She smiled. “We have a relationship with certain elements of that organization.”

  Serene cut in: “Helen and her team are not law enforcement. They have a different mission. They repatriate African art from European museums. I helped them when I was in Europe and they agreed to help me and, in the process, you.”

  “I know you are doing Serene a favor,” D said, “but you have no reason to help me.”

  “We support what Serene does for women, and since Kurtz is an exploiter of African women, it makes sense to help you. But one day we might send you a bill.”

  “Figured as much,” D grumbled. “Just for the record: I’m not a thief, Helen.”

  “No thieves here,” she said. “We’re Liberators, Mr. Hunter.”

  * * *

  The stuff they’d given him on Kurtz was fire. Just what he’d hoped for. But these Liberators? He was now in debt to a bunch of Afrocentric zealots who robbed European museums and galleries of dusty masks and rusty statues. He figured that one day this could be a problem. But right now there were more moves to make.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ANOTHER LIFE

  The T-shirts on the shelf were variations of the same slogan. One read, Don’t be self-conscious. Embrace subconscious. Another read, Don’t be self-conscious. Be subconscious. The most popular read, Fuck self-consciousness. Love subconscious. D smiled, then handed the blissed-out blonde behind the counter his credit card for admittance to a talk by the tees’ creator.

  This afternoon, Melanie Drift was appearing at an upscale yoga studio in Pacific Palisades. A variety of products (the tees, a self-published book, a line of scented candles, bracelets, necklaces, etc.) were being hawked alongside the studio’s yoga mats and pants, Sanskrit translations, and prayer beads.

  “The healing path can be such an amazing roller-coaster ride,” she said in an even, soothing tone that felt like hands caressing your face. “Healing and the evolution of consciousness are rarely what or how we think they will be. There is nothing that you need to be afraid of or doubt yourself about. It is all learning and it is all on the healing path. Set and keep your intention. Everything and everyone that comes into your life is there to support your healing and evolution and vice versa. Everything is for your benefit and for the benefit of all when we let go, and remember that it’s always working out when we allow it.

  “When I work on myself and my clients, it’s so key to allow the healing energy, emotions, pain, and thoughts to move through. It can be fun, painful, scary, and blissful, but it doesn’t need to make sense to work and do its job.”

  After Melanie signed books, hugged followers, and spoke warmly to people seeking instruction, she gestured for D to follow her into an empty yoga studio. When D entered, she closed the door behind him and looked him over with a critical eye.

  Using his most charming voice, D said, “Thank you for meeting with me, Melanie.”

  This didn’t impress the spiritual instructor. “You are here because I respect Serene Powers and the work she does. I have no real interest in you and not much respect for the kind of culture you promote. Just so we’re clear.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You’ve read the testimonies we’ve collected about Kurtz’s activities with women—both professionally and at his place in Malibu. Will you help?”

  “We’ll see,” she replied coolly. “Before I make my decision, I just wanted to see you face-to-face. I wasn’t sure if you were a real victim or just a common blackmailer.”

  “Isn’t this really about who he is?” D said, not backing down.

  “Serene told me your story. You’ve had a lot of tragedy in your life. But you know whatever your pain, it doesn’t justify inflicting injury on others. What you want me to do will hurt more than your target. It will hurt his wife, his children, and people you’ll never know.” She was scolding D and he had to take it.

  “If you’re asking if I want revenge, I’d have to say I want justice,” he said softly. “That’s how I see it. Not just for me but for the people he exploits.”

  “He is a destructive force. I know that. I just needed to get a better sense of why you want to destroy him. I have that now.”

  “Well then, I leave it to you.”

  “Mr. Hunter, don’t ever mention this conversation and never attend any of my events again.”

  “Okay. Can you tell me your decision then?”

  “You’ll know my decision by being present in the world.”

  No goodbye. Melanie just opened the studio door and left. D didn’t know what she would do. All he was certain of was that Kurtz’s wife Sylvia was one of the women Melanie consulted via video chat every Tuesday at two p.m., Pacific time. Melanie had a direct connection to the consciousness of a woman who could do serious damage to Kurtz’s life. At least that’s what Serene felt when she’d set up this meeting. But would Melanie Drift share the damaging information about Kurtz with his wife? If so, would that information push her to divorce her husband? D knew it was dirty. But if he was going to damage Kurtz, he was going to use every tool he could.

  On his way out of the yoga studio, D saw Maggie enter with a fit sandy-haired white man. She wore white Birkenstocks, formfitting white yoga pants, and an athletic bra. She looked ready to sweat, open her root chakra, and have great tantric sex. The man with her had a well-groomed Maroon 5 beard and the cocky carriage of a former college quarterback. It was a lovely multiracial vision of Cali love that D wanted to avoid. He turned his back and stuck his head into one of Melanie’s books until he heard Maggie’s voice disappear down the hallway.

  D walked out of the yoga studio into the glare of the California sun.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE CHARADE

  Been a crazy weekend, hasn’t it?” Pilgrim said, referencing the Trump-driven headlines on the newspapers spread before him on the table. The Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Daily News, an iPad, and two cell phones were all scattered on the table—most them featuring images from or headlines about the weekend’s white riot in Charlottesville, Virginia. “All this Trump mess and the crazy people it has inspired.”

  D sat down and replied, “This one would def go on the hard side of the ledger.”

  “I love you that you said ledger, D,” Pilgrim said, suddenly a little lighter. “No one who works for me now has a clue what a ledger book is. If it isn’t on a phone or in a digital file, it means nothing to them. Most of my staff barely know how to hold a pen, much less use one. I don’t know if any of the people I pay could write their own signature if their life depended on it.”

  D noticed that Pilgrim was looking a little healthier. He seemed refreshed, like he’d just come back from a spa weekend with a new liver and freshly scrubbed skin. His eyes were clear and his skin shone. Had it been another day, maybe D would have asked about his “wellness” regime. But D wasn’t in the mood to give the
old man compliments. “I’m not feeling very philosophical, Amos. Sorry.”

  “People aren’t very observant anymore. If it isn’t on a screen, it makes no impact. As you see, I love newspapers. But these screens—damned if they aren’t useful.”

  D reached into the backpack on the seat next to him and pulled out two clear plastic folders. The top of one read, Samuel Kurtz. The other, Amos Pilgrim.

  Pilgrim looked at both folders like they would electrocute him.

  D said, “The material on Kurtz relates to his sexual activities at his Malibu home. It also details his involvement with human trafficking in Europe. You wanna know about your file?”

  Pilgrim folded his arms across his chest. “I read slow.”

  “In that folder are sections of The Plot Against Hip Hop that mention you,” D said, “but not how Dwayne Robinson depicted you. I had it revised by a writer who works for me named Ray Ray.”

  “So this Ray Ray knows what was there originally?”

  “He does,” D said, “but he’s loyal to me.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t make me all that comfortable.”

  “Well I’m comfortable,” D said. “You need to be focused to do something good with that information on Kurtz.”

  “All right. First of all, no need to go public with this,” Pilgrim said. “Maybe eventually we’ll do a leak here or there. But there’s another way to go. A way to break Kurtz’s heart.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m on the board of DIB. Over the next few weeks, watch your screens. Just watch your screens.”

  “That’s vague, but okay, I’m trusting you, Amos. I’ll have the altered book ready in case I have to share it, and I’ll send you the video of Kurtz. I’m gonna give you a shot at doing the right thing.”

  “A wise move,” Pilgrim said. “Don’t do anything else, D. I will handle it.”

  “So, I take it you were the other party investigating Kurtz?”

  “Now that we are truly partners in crime, I guess it’s all right to say yes.”

  “I got some pressure on me, Amos. Some stuff you hopefully know nothing about. Unless you do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The old man tried to look innocent but wasn’t very convincing.

  “All right, tell me about Belinda Bowman. Is she working for Kurtz?”

  “I believe so. I introduced them. He thought she was bright and could be useful. Plus he likes ‘ethnic’ women. But don’t blame her. She’s trying to get ahead just like you are.”

  D shook his head and sighed. “So is Ben Carson, and look how well that’s gone.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  HOW MUCH A DOLLAR COST

  I’m gonna get a place in Marina del Rey, pardner,” Ant said between sips on his Sinsere with cranberry juice. “Get me a condo overlooking the ocean. Gonna get my office set up in Santa Monica over by where Amazon and HBO is. Universal Music is over in that complex too. They offered me a deal but all we need from them is distribution. Gonna get a Cash Money type of deal. Been talking with Birdman. But Lil Daye is already bigger than Lil Wayne ever got, so he can only tell me so much.”

  Ice looked over Ant’s shoulder at two Kim Kardashian clones with fake eyelashes and bone-straight hair who took selfies while batting their eyes. Sitting before them was a healthy bowl of broccoli and salmon, which they ignored in favor of self-promotion. Ice, Ant, and the ladies doing selfies sat on the patio of Tocaya Organica on Sunset Boulevard. Ice brought his gaze back to Ant’s lumpy body and smiled thinly. Wish fulfillment was a motherfucker.

  At Ice’s request, Ant had given him a printed report on everything he knew about D Hunter’s LA activities (addresses, e-mails, habits), so there was no electronic footprint. The report sat on the table next to the bowl of chicken tinga, brown rice, and avocado that Ice was eating. Ant continued rambling about how he was going to conquer Hollywood and that Lil Daye was just the first step in his plan for media domination. He hinted at “serious connections” in Los Angeles. Ant’s self-hype bored Ice, but he was in LA to do a job, so he listened, nodding occasionally while he kept an eye on people entering the restaurant.

  Ice had been unsure how he was going to find out who’d hired him when he arrived in LA via a five-day Amtrak ride across America. Flying was out of the question and he didn’t feel like driving—too many small-town cops, too many speed traps. But when he arrived in his motel on Crenshaw, Pablo had, of all things, faxed Ice a sheet with the phone numbers of the man who’d called him. Pablo and his family were, as Ice had suggested, in the wind. Pablo’s parting gesture of loyalty had been unearthing one last identity.

  Turned out the overweight boaster sitting across from Ice was the contractor, though. Ice didn’t buy that this guy was paying the bills. Hood guys like this usually paid gangbangers to do this work ’cause they were making street-level moves on other street-level players. Ant wouldn’t have had the patience to track Ice down, contact Pablo, and then wire that money. Ant, Ice thought, was a stack-of-hundreds-in-a-paperback kind of dude. Someone was working him.

  “So when I get situated out here, I’ma need a team of hitters,” Ant said. “I got a crew coming in from ATL, but none of them have your pedigree, Ice. I think—”

  “Yo, we got lucky today.” Ice’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Look who’s at the counter ordering.”

  Ant turned around and spied D Hunter. “Shit,” he said.

  “Just sit tight,” Ice said. “You a rider, right?”

  “Whatchu mean?”

  “You know what the fuck I mean.”

  “You ain’t thinking about doing nothing now, are you? Out here on Sunset?”

  “You want it done, right? Well, now you can be part of it. Don’t be scared.”

  “I ain’t scared.”

  “Okay, boss. Wait here.”

  Ant wanted to turn around but kept his eyes focused on his guacamole and chips. Blood rushed through his body. His saliva grew bitter with bile. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer and turned around. No D. No Ice. Just girls taking selfies in the Cali sun. He received a text: Come to the parking lot.

  The lot ran along a slope behind a row of boutiques and bistros. Ant found Ice standing with arms folded next to Ant’s blue Tesla. “Look in the back,” Ice said.

  On the backseat floor he saw D Hunter, handcuffed and duct-taped.

  “What the fuck!” Ant shouted.

  “Lower your voice, homeslice.”

  “What’s he doing in my car?!”

  “Lower your voice and get in,” Ice said evenly.

  “Get in?”

  Ice went to Ant’s passenger door and got in. Ant was dumbstruck. This was not what he had in mind. He pulled out his cell. There was a tapping sound on the driver’s-side window. There was a 9mm Glock aimed at Ant.

  The window rolled down and Ice said, “Get in, boss.”

  Ant looked down at D and shuddered. “Nigga, I’m not comfortable with this. And how’d you get in my car?”

  “Head east, boss,” Ice instructed. “I got a spot picked out to dump the body.”

  Ant’s Tesla made a right onto the Sunset Boulevard traffic crawl. Ant was shook. His mind was racing. “He ain’t dead, is he?”

  “Good as,” Ice said.

  “You knew he was coming?”

  “I did,” Ice said, sounding eerily relaxed. “That’s why I’m me. Put some music on. Not that mumble-rap either. Some real gangsta shit.”

  Dr. Dre’s The Chronic flowed through the speakers as Ant’s Tesla rolled along Hollywood, turning left on Gower, up to Franklin, and going east on Los Feliz Boulevard to Griffith Park.

  Ant was sweating. He was rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he said, “what’s your plan?”

  Ice smiled. “I got somebody meeting me here who’ll take care of the body.”

  “Damn, you really did know he was coming?”

  “Just keep going straight,” Ice said, “and park
next to that white van up ahead.”

  Once inside Griffith Park, they drove up a long road that emptied into a sparsely populated parking lot. A white van was situated at the far end. When the Tesla pulled up, the van’s passenger door opened and a tall, fit woman in a leather jacket, black jeans, and Nike sneakers stepped out. She wore a Donald Trump clown mask adorned with bright orange hair. Despite his anxiety, Ant was fascinated by the way this woman moved. He rolled down his window and said, “Got your package right here, Mr. President.”

  The Trump mask–wearing woman said, “Yes you do,” and stuck a Taser against Ant’s neck. He lit up like a fat brown Christmas tree.

  * * *

  When Ant came to, he was tied up in the rear of the white van, lying on his back, looking up at Trump typing on a smartphone. His mouth was gagged or else he would have cursed her out.

  “Anthony,” the Trump woman said, “you are a human trafficker, a pimp, and a kidnapper. I’m not the law so you won’t need an attorney, but you do need a friend. Unfortunately, I’m not your friend. I am going to ask you a series of questions about your activities in Atlanta, what you planned to do in LA—not your show-biz shit but your real work—and your relationship with Samuel Kurtz. I don’t expect you to cooperate immediately. In fact, I hope you don’t.”

  She moved up to the front of the van, where a large man sat behind the wheel. Ride was an old associate of D’s from Brooklyn who D had helped out of a serious jam involving missing money and a wayward woman. Ride wasn’t afraid to get dirty, but he knew that with this woman around, he was just a driver.

  “This won’t take long,” she told Ride. “He’s a punk. There’s a girl named Dorita who I need to find. He’s gonna help me.”

  “If you’re doing the asking,” Ride responded, “no question.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  THESE WALLS

  Morning light entered through cracks around the covered basement windows. The distant rumble of a truck could be heard. From someone’s car stereo, a seventies funk track filtered down into the dusty room. There were some old keyboards, an ancient 808 drum machine, and an equally vintage mixing board in a corner. This had once been a space for creativity and obsession. It had been Dr. Funk’s studio and place of exile for a decade. Thankfully, he’d finally moved on.