The Rhythm of Blues

by Love Belvin

  I held myself when I realized I was trembling. The September nighttime warmth left me chilled.

  “Pardon me, yo…” I turned and halfway registered Mike Brown. He had brawny guys flanked at his sides. “That’s ya family?”

  I nodded, not knowing what to say. This shit was a nightmare. Was he going to have a beef with me because this all went down in his club?

  He was about to speak again until a deep feminine voice boomed, “You related to Williams, ma’am?” I turned to a short brunette, who in one hand held a piece of paper, while her other was on the holster on her hip.

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s how you can contact us for more information about where he’ll be remanded and about his no bond status.”

  No bond?

  “Could you, at least, tell me what he did that garnered this major seize?”

  She simply answered, “No, ma’am. I cannot.” Then she, too, was gone.

  At that time, Van was being placed into the back of a van. His face was hardened with anger, but he moved peacefully. I swallowed back a painful cry as I watched the van pull off. In the rear, where my uncle was in custody, there were no windows for a final peek. And that’s when I choked on a cry shooting from my belly. I didn’t let it explode, but my eyes glossed over, blurring the last I could see of the van until it turned the corner.

  “This yours, right?” I felt a poke at the back of my arm.

  I turned and saw it was Mike Brown again, handing me my pocketbook. Maybe he wasn’t ready to throw me from the sidewalk over this.

  “Thank you.” My hands trembled as I opened my bag for my phone.

  I had no idea who to call.

  Should I call Sheldon?

  God, I didn’t want to call Sheldon. But I had to do something. Who did I know from work that could help me navigate this?

  “Can I rap to you right quick?” Mike was still there. His burly crew still towering over me.

  Oh, hell!

  I nodded and followed him around the corner, not too far from the entrance of the club, but out of the thickened crowd of nosey onlookers.

  “I see you in some hot water,” Mike scoffed. “Those Marshal boys only come around when shit deep as hell. You the same people of Van’s that told me you write music. Right?”

  I sniffled, wiping my running nose with the back of my arm as I nodded.

  “Aside from all this bullshit,” he pointed around, “you may be in luck. I need some fresh material for an artist I plucked tonight. You’d be interested in working with me?”

  My face folded and tongued tied. This proposal seemed to go along with the surrealism of the day.

  “Ummmm…” I swallowed and sniffled. “I’m sorry…Mike, but this…”

  “My bad. I get it.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a card holder. “Here’s my contact info.” He lifted the card toward the front of the club. “I can help you out with that situation with Van.”

  I took the card. “How so?”

  “Good representation. I’m a businessman, but my humble beginnings was in the streets. Hell, I’m still in these mufuckas. I know when you need A-1 lawyers and when you just need a body with a damn bar license. The homie, Van, gone need a heavy hitter. I keep them on speed dial.”

  My head shook from confusion. I couldn’t understand much of anything. I’d worked for the D.O.C. for some time, but never experienced this side of it.

  I lifted the card in the air. “I…uh.” I couldn’t even look at him, my eyes midway down his body as I struggled for clarity of thought. “Do I call?”

  “No. You come.” Finally, I was able to lift my head. “My office address is up there. You can’t do shit for him until the morning. Meet me at that address and we’ll work out something where you can do some music with me and we’ll get him a good ol’ esquire. A’ight?” He tried for a soothing smile.

  It didn’t work, but I was grateful for the attempt.

  I heard, “Excuse me!” It got closer. “Excuse me. You forgot to pay in there.” I turned to find the guy who served us. His face was as familiar as my first grade teacher at this point.

  “I got it, Bobby.” Mike pulled out a wad of cash, licked his thumb and peeled back a few bills. “Here ya go, my man.” Before I could utter a word of thanks, Mike emphasized, “Tomorrow at nine.” Then he and his bevy of silent men took off.

  I drove into a business park in Maplewood, trying to find Suite 803 among the small office units. The moment I located 799, I knew I was in the right area and pulled into an available parking space.

  Eight fifty-three…

  I had minutes to spare as I cut the engine and grabbed my purse. My phone rang, and immediately I sighed my grief. The damn thing had been ringing all morning as word was getting out about Van. Last night I managed to call MaMa, his mother, to break the news to her. She agreed to call Sheldon, who tried calling me all night. I chose to take his call earlier this morning to officially fill him in. This time, my girlfriend was calling. Word was really spreading.

  “Hello?” I opened the door and stepped out of the car.

  “Oh, my god, Wynter! I’m so sorry,” Mya cried. “I just heard about Van. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thanks.” I tried scanning the suite numbers to be sure I was headed in the right direction. “I don’t think there’s much. Just send positive energy his way.”

  “Well, what happened? Reign said you were there.”

  “Mya, I can’t talk right now. I’m actually on my way into a meeting about this very thing.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Yeah. I’ll call you later, and hopefully with something positive.”

  “Okay. Wynter. You hang in there. I know he’s your right hand.”

  “Thanks.” I hung up the phone, switching the ringer off while I did this.

  I was desperate for a solution, help. I called the Marshals last night and they took my information, telling me someone would call me first thing this morning with more information. I was relieved when the call came through before this Mike Brown meeting. At least I’d have something to give a lawyer. What was shitty as hell was finding out all of his charges. Apparently, it was kidnapping, gun possession, and attempted murder.

  Unreal.

  Unfucking real.

  If Van had told me about these charges last night when I blew him off, it would have been me sitting in a damn cell somewhere for strangling him. How could he have done something so stupid as to have racked up those charges? I was running on empty, having not slept a bit last night, didn’t have an ounce of food this morning but a few sips of coffee. My whole damn body tremored as though I’d consumed a gallon as I opened the door to Suite 803.

  It was small, but colorful. There was a woman sitting at a desk.

  She didn’t smile when she asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mike Brown.”

  She took off her reading glasses. “Who are you?”

  I swallowed back my sass. “Wynter. I have a nine o’clock with him.”

  “Have a seat.” She pulled on her glasses as she ordered, picking up the phone.

  I walked over to the leather sofa next to the door and sat on the edge, nervous energy bouncing around in my empty stomach as I studied the place. The walls were each a different dark color: red, blue, green, and gray. An odd combination for business, but they were lined with plaques and framed pictures of well-known celebrities. Ragee, of course, was in many of them. I didn’t follow him much, but knew he was managed by Mike Brown.

  Ragee was a big name in music and film. His voice was far more mature than the generation currently downloading music at a rapid rate and buying concert tickets, but he managed to maintain their attention with up-tempo music and acting alongside heavy-hitting modern day actors. In a nutshell, Ragee had done well, and apparently with Mike Brown managing his career.

  The door adjacent to the small couch opened; one of the beefy guys from last night waved me in
. Immediately, I identified Mike Brown behind a desk, on the phone. His eyes were on me. The most glaring feature of his I caught was the shiner on his face. I didn’t notice the black eye last night. Maybe it was because I was too preoccupied or the sunglasses he wore. I didn’t know. But this morning, the swelling of a quarter of his face was hard to miss.

  “Uhn-huhn…” he uttered, listening into the phone. “Who else know?” He cocked his head to the side, apparently pleased with whatever the answer was.

  Realizing I was snooping, I diverted my attention to the office décor. It was at a minimum. Louder than the detail of style was the stench of weed melded into the paint on the walls. Over his desk was a RIAA platinum plaque for Young Lord’s production of “Do You?”. This one was specially made because it included a picture of the three men: Young, Ragee, and Mike Brown holding Grammy awards. Around were mounted pictures of Mike with the Notorious B.I.G., Jay Z, Busta Rhymes, Big Daddy Kane, AZ, Talib Kweli, Mos Def, Fabolous, and other well-known rappers. Some shots were candid from corners and stoops, others were at award shows and concerts. It didn’t take me long to grasp they were all Brooklynites. That memorabilia reminded me no matter how shoddy the look of this place, Mike was an accomplished, and possibly powerful man.

  “A’ight,” Mike released a deep breath. “Keep me D on everything. A’ight. One.” He disconnected the call and stood from his sitting position on the desk with a smile. “Well at least you’re on time. For the business I’m tryna do with you, following instructions to the T is key, mama. He traveled around the desk toward my seat in front of it. His eyes slithered over me from my head to my crossed legs. “You heard the news on ya uncle?”

  I nodded my answer, feeling that lightning of pain in my chest from the reminder.

  “Me, too.” He sat in front of me, on the desk. “That call was about him. Attempted murder, robbery, and kidnapping.”

  I swallowed as my eyes shifted away. “I wasn’t told about the robbery.” My tone was defensive.

  “Because they may have missed him and gave it to the other niggas involved. Van got fucked. A bad deal gone shitty. He ain’t even know what all the score was.”

  “How do you know what happened?” A jolt of anger zipped through me. “Do you even know Van like that? He didn’t give me that impression.”

  He chuckled quietly, eyes drawing somewhere behind me. “You asking the wrong questions.”

  “Then help me out.”

  “The right question is what type of lawyer it’s gonna take to beat the charges? Are the charges even tough?”

  “The U.S. Marshals picked him up. I’d say they’re fucking tough enough.”

  Mike shook his head. “Not really in Van’s case. He wasn’t a mastermind or a player in the score. He was just going to make a pickup from his plug while they was in the middle of a job. They kidnapped a nigga and brought him to they hot spot to rob him. When they saw they wasn’t getting nowhere, they shot ‘em up.” Mike shrugged. “So happen Van was re-up’ing at the same fuckin’ time they had the nigga strapped to a chair. He saw Van come in.” He smacked his hands together. “Called his name when they found him in the back of a school and took ‘em to the hospital. Dumb fucks ain’t even make sure the nigga was dead,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Mike stood. “Anyway. The deal is done. The FEDs ran down on all the players and it took them a minute—a day—to find Van. We all know when they did and where he at. Fucked up thing is if he get a public defender, he doing hard FED time. I’m talking about maybe thirty, forty years out this bitch.”

  My breath caught in my chest. But he’d just said Van was an innocent bystander. Maybe not innocent, but definitely not a part of what those other knuckleheads were into.

  “Or,” Mike emphasized, “he can obtain a law shark and fight all them bitch ass charges. Maybe just get a couple of state years for the little package he picked up. Or turn federal witness for them fuckas who caught him up in the middle of they shit.”

  “Van ain’t no snitch!” I gritted.

  No way was he going to wear that tag for the rest of his life. That sounded more dangerous than the first scenario.

  Mike shrugged again. “Bottom line is, I got at least four lawyers on my rolodex that can beat the charges.”

  “In exchange for what?” I demanded.

  Mike turned to me, a wide smile breaking out on his face. “You’re a smart thing. I figured that from what I saw.”

  What he saw?

  “I don’t have time for niceties. I got an uncle in some serious shit, in case you forgot that quickly.”

  “I respect that.” Mike nodded. “For real.” His eyes bore into me as he rubbed his hands together. But this look wasn’t salacious, it was examining. “I need to know how serious you is about getting your uncle outta this bullshit. Because the lawyers I’m talking about…we talking fifteen hun-ed—two G’s a hour. I know Van ain’t got that type of bread. Not picking up the little package he was that day, he don’t. And from what I hear about you, you ain’t pulling that in at ya job either.”

  “What do you know about me and why does this shit feel murky?”

  “Because I’m thorough. And I’m a business man with needs.” He moved toward his desk. “Before I make my transaction, I research the players, sweetheart.”

  Mike pulled a folder from a drawer and tossed it across his desk, toward me.

  Inside was a copy of my school transcripts, birth certificate, driver’s license, home address, professional certifications…a whole gamut of shit. My eyes shot up to him.

  His average height and stubby frame stood still, sporting an accomplished smirk.

  “Ain’t no marriage certificate in there.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because of my proposal. I can get Van outta this shit—or help you get him out; I don’t want nothing to do with that bullshit—if you help me change ya marital status.”

  My face went wild, contorting in disbelief. “You wanna marry me?”

  Oh, fuck no!

  “Don’t look so excited. Hell, no!” He laughed so hard at that. “Me give my name to a woman? Not for nothin’…never happen!”

  My head cocked to the side at the familiarity of those words.

  This guy quoting Jay Z lines while I’m here trying to keep from crying?

  My face fell into my palms. “What the fuck am I doing here?”

  “Before I spit everything, you need to tell me now if marrying a total stranger ain’t never something you’ll agree to. Ain’t no need for me to waste my time or yours.”

  My head jerked back. “Marriage?”

  “I ain’t talking about nothing crazy. No gay shit. And I only work with well-off people, so your lifestyle will definitely be elevated. Nothing long…maybe two to three years of you playing wifey to somebody you ain’t gotta fuck or suck—unless you want to.” I gasped so hard my throat hurt. Mike reacted, too. “Wasn’t nothing in that file about religious convictions either—” Mike’s face fell, forlorn. “—which can be good or bad, now that I think about it.”

  “What?”

  He shook off a thought. “Nothing. Can you answer the question, ma?”

  “My name is Wynter—”

  “Yeah, Blue. As you can see, I know a whole lot. At least enough to try to do business with you. Listen, sweetheart, I’mma business man from the grittiest part of Bedford-Stuyvesant. I done seen more shit than ya pretty head from Garfield could ever think of. I seen niggas get ten years for stealing a ten speed. I seen millionaires make their pregnant mistresses disappear and never got nothing but a formal interrogation with they lawyers sitting right next to them, telling the detectives, ‘My client will not answer that.’ And you know the difference between the two?” I swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my curiosity. “The right lawyer!”

  His wide eyes were on me again, and I couldn’t breathe. He made the solution seem so simple.

  “That’s it. And Van’s case is shitty, but fuckin’
prosecutable because don’t nobody down there give a fuck about his black ass innocently walking in on that shit. They lookin’ for bodies to throw the fuckin’ book at so they can get to the next black ass muthafucka to make a case against. Van’s ass ain’t special to nobody that matters right now but you. Because unless y’all got family somewhere with bank, you can wait for them to find housing for him somewhere out Midwest like they did fuckin…Trent Bailey. Had that nigga locked the fuck up where only people wit’ dough could see him. He could survive that ‘cause he had paper. Van’s ass got…” He pointed to me.

  The first groan croaked from the bottom of my belly.

  My voice cracked when I asked, “What kind of marriage are you talking about?”

  “This one.” I pointed to the picture of me on the yacht at Young and Kennedi’s birthday bash. My in-house photographer was with me at the private event that brought happy memories every time I thought about it or saw pictures like this. I still couldn’t believe the birthday honorees were served boxed Hamburger Helper and a damn salad while we all chowed on lobster, Kobe beef sliders, caviar, imported cheeses, shrimp and grits, and other stuff I couldn’t name. “We got more from then?”

  “Yes, but we want to stay away from recycling backgrounds and ensembles,” my web content manager advised. “One more.” She moved her index finger up the table with an illuminated top layer. “What about these? They didn’t make the cut from the tour shoot.”

  “Raj,” Myisha called from the other side of the room where she was busy in her iPad and phone. I glanced up. “We still haven’t responded to the Carmichael’s invitation to Lisa-Mare’s birthday celebration—in Saint Justin.”

  Only my pastor would have his baby’s birthday party on an exotic island. I also knew the invitation was not extended to many. Ezra was particular and cultured. He strategically chose the people he let into his new life with his family.