But the night before, in this spot, a nasty bit of business had been conducted. The floor was moist with spilled water, which was collecting in puddles where the ground was uneven. Two large, empty water bottles rested against a wall. A rat made an appearance, looked around, and decided there was nothing here for him. Serene sighed and then nodded to the huge man standing with his arms folded in the shadows. “We’re through here,” she said. “You can go. Thank you.”
Ride said, “Anything for you, sexy. Let me know when you wanna leave that cook in SF. I’m ready.” His smile was almost bashful. Then he came over and hugged Serene, squeezing a little too hard before letting go. “You sure you don’t need any help with this?” He gestured over to Ant tied to a metal chair.
Serene shook her head, patted the big man affectionately on his chest, and watched him exit up the staircase. A splash of sunlight filled the basement, illuminating Ant’s unconscious, wet body. Then the room was dark again.
Ant’s clothes were drenched and his mouth bloody. He’d shit and pissed too, so he stank. Serene knew this kind of interrogation was imperfect, but she needed answers fast. Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned everything she wanted to. No, Lil Daye wasn’t involved with Ant’s illicit sex business. Yes, he’d been brought in by Sam Kurtz to hire Ice and put a hit on D. Yes, he’d pressured Lil Daye into staying attached to DIB at Kurtz’s instruction.
Most important to Serene, no, he didn’t know where Dorita was now. Serene had asked a number of times in several unpleasant ways. Ant’s story was that they’d sold her to some people from NOLA and that she had probably been transported by some dudes he knew to Louisiana. Ant protested that he was just protecting his friend from a blackmailer. That didn’t justify shit to Serene. But after an ugly night, she believed she’d gotten everything she could out of Ant. So she emptied the last of the water barrels into a sink and left the drenched Ant tied to the chair.
It was midday in LA. The morning haze had burned away and the sun hung over the city high and hot. Serene went over to the white van and pulled out a yoga mat that she placed on a patch of grass. She removed her dark wet top and bared her upper body to the daylight. Stretching her muscles, Serene went into child’s pose and breathed deeply. She got up and did a warrior pose, which felt particularly liberating since it pumped blood into her legs and opened her chest. She felt alive again after the night with Ant.
Inside the van, she put on a yellow and light-blue sundress and sandals, transforming from an avenger to a lady ready for mimosas and brunch. Unfortunately, there was still some necessary housekeeping.
“He passed her on to some crew from New Orleans who moved her down there,” she said into her phone. “I believe him.”
“Fine,” Mildred Barnes said, quite pissy. “You wasted our time on a project that will yield you little useful intel.”
“Helping D was something I needed to do,” she spat back.
She got no sympathy from Mildred. “I have chosen individuals for you that help to maximize our resources by targeting major human-trafficking networks. That’s what I employ you to do. But you run off on personal projects that have nothing to do with our larger mission. I did not recruit you so you could pick up every low-level pimp you encountered, whether it be in London or LA. As distasteful as these people are, this man today was not a big fish and you burned one of our safe houses in the process.”
“You ready to take a breath?” Serene asked. “Okay. I’m gonna leave this fool here. I assume you can handle cleaning this up and moving him out. I think maybe I need to take a break. I’ll call you when I’m ready to come back. Okay?” It wasn’t really a question. She just clicked off.
She and Mildred Barnes shared the same goal, but Serene was no puppet and Mildred increasingly sought control of her actions. Her boyfriend deserved her time and attention. Her MMA career deserved more focus. More work with the Liberators would be fun.
Serene walked away from the van and Dr. Funk’s studio out onto Crenshaw Boulevard. It was one of the city’s historic streets and the longtime heartbeat of the African American community. She stood in front of what had once been the Heaven’s Gate, a club owned by D’s grandfather Daniel. That had been a different LA. The city and Crenshaw’s black community were shrinking by the day. A sign on the old music venue read, Future Home of CVS.
I wonder if D knows about this, she thought.
There was a Starbucks nearby. Once she’d downed some caffeine, she’d call D Hunter. Just a few more things to do before she left town.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
COME DOWN
Samuel Kurtz stood on his deck overlooking the Pacific Ocean and sipped on Sinsere laced with gin. It had become his favorite drink. The sales of Sinsere had been climbing steadily throughout the summer and fall. Hip hop hadn’t failed him. It truly moved product like few other advertising platforms.
Other than that, life had lately been a jumble of bad news. His wife had filed for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. After one teary-eyed call, she refused to speak to him, calling him a monster and suggesting he was a human trafficker. So far, his team had managed to keep the filing out of the public eye, but it could turn ugly.
Unfortunately, some DIB board of directors members had gotten wind of it; after having total control of the members for decades, there was a mutiny brewing. Kurtz had enlisted his friend, and board member, Amos Pilgrim to calm the restless. Pilgrim had suggested bringing on some new members, maybe a woman, to present a progressive female-empowering face to the world. That would be important if the divorce hit the Internet.
Kurtz sensed that someone was orchestrating his difficulties. But who? The president had suggested it was a Democratic/FBI/Comey plot driven by the same forces behind Mueller’s unending, un-American Russian probe.
Kurtz had his own FBI sources and that theory seemed like fake news. Not a sentiment he shared with #45 since contradictory facts just made his friend red-faced.
He’d get a handle on everything. He always did. He had the resources. He had the money. He had the power. He’d get his wife back. He’d get the board under control. He had friends and his friends had friends. He’d sort it all out or they would. That’s how it always worked.
All that pettiness could be ignored tonight. It was a party night, the biggest he’d enjoyed in Malibu in years. He needed cheering up, and lots of nubile young women were the right medicine. #MeToo be damned, he thought. I can make dreams come true. Whether you paid for a fuck or dinner or a condo, whether you got married or not, sex was always transactional. As long as he could do things for women, they came running. That was just human nature. It was primal and would never change.
Kurtz was determined to have Maggie tonight. That long-legged mixed chick who had been acting so special, so removed, so above it all, was going to bend to his will. It was time for her to play his game. She’d more or less agreed to it on the phone. Not only that, she was bringing a friend.
* * *
Kurtz was sitting at the head of his dining table chatting with a movie executive when Maggie and another woman entered. Maggie was, as always, luminous, but her friend stopped Kurtz short. Black latex catsuit, open-toed ankle boots, and hair slicked back in a Sade-like ponytail. She was brown and tall and walked with a runway stride. Kurtz swooned. After all that time waiting on Maggie, he could hardly see her now.
The young woman said, “My name is Dorita,” which Kurtz found a disappointing name for a regal presence. He had the dinner table seating changed, moving the Hollywood executive so that Maggie and Dorita sat on either side. Dorita’s life story proved intriguing: she was a stylist for celebrity shoots in Paris, London, New York, you name it. More enticing was that Maggie had apparently prepped her regarding Kurtz’s unique taste in “entertainment,” and she seemed remarkably enthusiastic about an encounter. Kurtz watched her eat a meal of lentils, broccoli, and brown rice, which would make his particular pleasure especially pungent.
After dessert, K
urtz stood by the window, watching the purple, blue, and burgundy sky fade over the Pacific with a couple of male dinner guests when Maggie sauntered over, whispering, “My friend would like to see you privately, if that’s all right.” Kurtz turned and saw Dorita, her neck and chest bare to him as a virgin to a vampire. Maggie was a meal for another night.
Kurtz took Dorita’s hand, guiding her out of the dining room, upstairs, and down the long hallway to his playroom. The air smelled of lavender. The ocean crashed against the shore below. The room’s lights were blue as a Miles Davis solo. Kurtz turned toward Dorita and leered. Dorita punched him in the jaw.
Kurtz found himself handcuffed spread-eagle on his bed under his plexiglass playpen. He could have lived with this except that Dorita was not high above him on the plexiglass.
Dorita was squatting right over him with her catsuit off and her body naked. Her smartphone was mounted on a tripod next to the bed. Kurtz tried to scream for security but a pillowcase was jammed in his mouth.
“You don’t know who the real Dorita is,” the woman said. “I haven’t been able to find her. So until I do, let this be a reminder: your shit stinks.”
Kurtz had no idea what she was talking about, which made this even crazier. As he kicked and tugged at his restraints, Dorita (a.k.a. Serene Powers) released her bowels on Kurtz’s belly, chest, and face. He squirmed and thrashed and flailed, but this rich man was powerless to prevent this digitally recorded humiliation.
Afterward, Serene cleaned herself off in the bathroom and then slid her tripod and camera into a purse.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, smirking. “You’ll hear from me.”
Back downstairs, Serene clinked glasses with Maggie as they shared champagne and then strolled out into the Malibu night toward their waiting town car. They watched the video and laughed loudly before uploading the footage to D Hunter.
He texted right back, Thanks for this.
Then Serene directed the driver to LAX. Time to go home.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
FOR SALE? (INTERLUDE)
The text was from a number D didn’t recognize. In it was a link and the words, This will be of interest. D didn’t click on the link. It was likely spam. He was about to erase it when a text from R’Kaydia popped up. It read, Good news, and had the same link.
It was a press release from DIB corporate communications.
Samuel L. Kurtz is stepping down as CEO and chairman of Diversified International Brands effective immediately. Board members Richard R. Antioch and Amos H. Pilgrim will assume the mantle of cochairs in the interim period until a new permanent chairman is installed. R’Kaydia Lelilia Jenkins, owner of Future Life Communications and an innovator in performance content delivery, has joined the board to fill the gap created by Kurtz’s exit.
Whoa!
He’d hoped to hear that Kurtz was out, but Amos as cochairman and R’Kaydia on the board was a crazy twist. D called the number of the unknown texter and a female voice answered.
“Mr. Hunter, so good to hear from you. My name is Catherine Anderson. I’m a special assistant to Chairman Amos Pilgrim of DIB. He would love to schedule a meeting with you for later this week. How is Thursday morning at—”
“The Four Seasons.”
“Yes. Shall we say eight thirty a.m.?”
* * *
When D arrived, R’Kaydia was sipping tea and tapping on her iPad at Amos Pilgrim’s usual table. After sharing a polite hug, D sat down and glanced around the room for the waiter/MC, but he wasn’t on the floor.
D said solemnly, “It’s not like Amos to be late.”
“Well,” R’Kaydia said, “Amos had been planning his retirement. Now he’s the chairman of a multinational global beverage enterprise and fielding calls from around the world from very concerned stockholders, suppliers, and executives. Turns out Kurtz wasn’t very popular, but no one likes instability. He’ll be here soon but I can brief you on his offer.”
“Wow,” D said, very amused, “you will make a fine corporate executive.”
Her voice became a harsh whisper: “I don’t know what you did, D. I probably don’t want to know.”
“You don’t.”
“But DIB is going to offer you a consulting gig. Probably worth several hundred thousand to you personally and a lot more to your management company. Amos knows you got messed up by Lil Daye and his crew. Kurtz too, I’m sure. I have to admit, it’s worked out well for me.”
“I’m thankful for that,” D said. “You are breaking the glass ceiling with this, R’Kay.”
“Which is why I was probably a little tight when you walked up. I have this feeling—I know it’s a true feeling—that lots of people are watching me now.”
“They are. They definitely are. You’ll be fine. Now, I’m gonna go.”
R’Kaydia didn’t know what to make of this. “I’m sure Amos will be along shortly. You know he never misses breakfast here, D.”
“I know,” D said, deadly serious, “but I’m gonna go in a minute. I want you to give him this message: I know you used me. It took me awhile to figure it out. It was Amos who got Conrad to look into Mayer’s murder as a way to draw me out. He’d had Dwayne Robinson’s manuscript the whole time. He got me to move on Kurtz. If Kurtz got to me first, he’d have gotten me out of the way. I’d never be a threat to him again. I’m not sure if he was behind Gibbs getting hit with MeToo charges, but didn’t he advise you to reach out to me about partnering up?”
“Yes. But I would have wanted to anyway. D, this train of thought is crazy.”
“I don’t think so. He knew about Ice and hired him to kill me.”
The usually composed R’Kaydia looked wide-eyed at D. “Do you know how insane you sound right now?”
“Not insane, R’Kaydia,” he said sadly. “Just got my eyes open and my mind right. I helped Amos pull down Kurtz for him. Helped you get on the board. I’m happy for you, really. But I’m not through with Amos. Tell him that.”
R’Kaydia was bewildered as D walked out of the Four Seasons. She had no idea what he was talking about. Before she called Amos, she needed to do some research of her own.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
MARCY ME
D got a massage at a Chinese spot in Sunset Plaza that Maggie had recommended, but the ninety-minute session hadn’t stilled his anxiety. It would take more than a small Chinese woman’s firm hands to remove all the tension embedded in his muscles. With his mind swirling, D decided to walk home, passing the Standard Hotel (which had once been his early ’00s home away from home), and the DGA building, then made a right on Fairfax heading south. Until you hit Melrose, where there was a high school and hip street-fashion district, Fairfax wasn’t architecturally interesting. This was perfect for D. He could zone out as he walked, since the street was the blankest of slates.
Crossing Santa Monica, Fairfax sloped downhill into bland obscurity—buildings and businesses no one looked twice at. D was doing his walking meditation when he felt a presence from his past. He knew not to make any sudden moves. Out on the street was a blue Audi slowly cruising a few steps behind him. The passenger-side window rolled down. The smooth-faced man behind the wheel asked, “You know a good place for lunch?”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Ice was raving about the chicken tikka masala, particularly the sauce, which he was happily scooping up. D knew they had to meet, but the hit man’s unexpected presence had him shook—even as Ice gleefully took a spoonful of D’s lentils.
“This is a good hookup, D. Thought you’d have me eating at a strictly vegan place.”
Badmaash on Fairfax had become D’s local hangout, a place that balanced excellent Indian with an all–hip hop playlist. The staff was friendly, so they’d remember who D was with if his body was found bound and gagged in Pan Pacific Park tomorrow. Jay-Z’s “Marcy Me” filled the restaurant. Ice sat back in his chair. “Damn good food,” he said, “and damn good Jay. No wonder you like it here.”
/> Ice had shaved his beard and head, now looking like a twenty-pounds-lighter Ving Rhames. His diamond earring was back. This was the face of Brownsville Ice, though his retiree movements remained. He’d lost his disguise but not the loose normalcy that had given his disguise credibility. On close inspection, Ice was either in transition from normalcy back to crime, or stuck like overlapping reflections in a fun-house mirror.
They hadn’t spoken much after Serene stuffed Ant in that van. Ice and D had taken separate cars, parked in different lots, and left at different times. D had been carrying an envelope on him ever since, not knowing when or where Ice would appear. Now he unzipped his backpack and passed over the payment.
“Gracias,” Ice said with a smile. “So do you know who was behind that clown Ant?”
“I spoke to Serene.”
“That bad bitch? Whoa, I know she got the answer out of dude.”
“I don’t want to tell you. I’ll handle it myself,” D said.
“What’s that mean? I know you ain’t puttin’ in work at this late date.”
“I don’t want to have any more bodies haunting me, Ice. You can understand that.”
“I can, but I won’t,” Ice said with his head lowered, his eyes slits. “That motherfucker kind of scared me, D. Made me insecure. I’m too old to be insecure. I got their money but I want their head. You need to give me a name.”
“Not head. Heads. Based on what Serene got from Ant and what I’ve figured out, Kurtz and Pilgrim both hired you, then later had a falling-out. Pilgrim flipped on Kurtz, blackmailing him with the help of another friend of mine. Point is, I want to handle this in a legal and open way.”
The Darkest Hearts Page 19
