Hannibal Jones - 04 - Damaged Goods

by Austin S. Camacho

  “As a matter of fact I did,” Hannibal said, with a nod toward Huge. “I do like to know a little about my clients. And it seems you’ve become a young producer yourself. He’s even got you looking the part.”

  “Couldn’t have my man hanging around here looking like he wasn’t down with the flow,” Huge said. In fact, the changes were small but the look was different. In place of the generic tee shirt he had arrived in, Monte had on a thermal undershirt with the sleeves pushed up. White painter’s pants replaced his denim shorts and a new Wizards cap sat on his head, backwards of course. The big difference to Hannibal’s eye was a pair of suede boots where K-mart sneakers had been. Red laces reached only to his ankles, leaving the top half of each boot hanging open. Behind his smile, Hannibal thought, “You look like a bum. Is that the style?”

  “Hey, what you see ain’t all we got when we went out,” Monte said, dropping into the far corner, pulling forward a real surprise, a stack of paperbacks. “Look at all these. Huge says if I want to be a serious G, I need to get through these. I think I can get them all read before school starts.”

  Now Hannibal was impressed. Among the music oriented volumes he saw The Beat: Go-Go’s Fusion of Funk and Hip-Hop, a book that details the origins of Washington D.C.’s original music form. He also saw Yes I Can by Sammy Davis Jr. and The Autobiography of Malcolm X, both pretty hefty volumes he had read in his youth.

  “You think you can get through all these during the summer?”

  Monte brushed invisible dirt off his shoulder. “Man, Huge says I’m a young Black man on the move, and I can do anything. Don’t you think I can?”

  Hannibal glanced at Huge, feeling that he had misstepped. “Well, of course I do. Huge is right, a man can do anything he puts his mind to. Huge here could be a teacher if he decided that was what he wanted to be.”

  Huge stood up, his arms wide. “Hey thank you man. I take that as a big compliment. And you know, you could be a rapper.”

  Monte burst into high-pitched laughter. “Oh, yeah, I’d like to see that shit.”

  “Language,” Hannibal said.

  “What you saying, Little G?” Huge said. “The man got faith in you. You ain’t got no faith in him?”

  “Well, I get that stuff about doing whatever you put your mind to, but this is different. I mean,” Monte flipped a thumb toward Hannibal, “I mean look at him.”

  “Hey, fellows,” Hannibal started, but Huge cut him off.

  “That’s cold, little G. My man here’s pure street. I can see he’s a soldier. Bet he’s got soul he ain’t showed yet.”

  Hannibal shook his head in frustration. “Huge, you don’t have to…”

  “No way,” Monte said. “He couldn’t even find the beat. You ever hear that crap he listens to?”

  Hannibal had somehow been pushed out of this conversation about him. Trapped between reversing his position on self-determination, disappointing Monte and embarrassing himself, he could only stare with his mouth open when Huge clapped his hands in front of himself, aimed both index fingers at Monte and said, “Double or nothing,” in a challenging tone.

  “Double what?” Monte asked.

  “Hannibal raps, you finish a book every week through the summer, with a report.”

  Hannibal stared down at Monte’s hat, avoiding eye contact, praying that he would not accept the dare. Monte stared back at him, lower jaw jutted out.

  “You’re on, Huge. Sorry Hannibal, but not everybody can do everything.”

  * * * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Hannibal was fighting to breathe deeply. He stood alone in the studio. A microphone, smelling of sweat, hung from the ceiling directly in front of him and large headphones pressed into the sides of his head. Half a dozen young men stood on the other side of the glass wall, including Monte who was clearly having the time of his life. He had taken small cash bets from the others about Hannibal’s hip-hop debut. Hannibal closed his eyes and tried to remember a single rap song, thinking he could simple imitate someone else. Not one came to mind. There was that Will Smith bit from when he was a teenager. Was it Parents Just Don’t Understand? It was hopeless. Raised on American Forces Network in Germany, Hannibal was a rock and roll fan, and in terms of music he was stuck in the seventies. Accepting the embarrassment he reached up to slide off his glasses.

  “No, no, leave them on.” Huge’s voice came from the headphones. “Those shades are part of who you are, and we want to capture that.”

  “Capture what?” Hannibal asked. “Hey, can you hear me?”

  “The mike’s open, brother. Now face the mike but turn to the side. Don’t look over here. Just listen to me.”

  “Huge, I don’t know how to do this,” Hannibal said, but he turned to his right. Music came into his head. Not music exactly, just a beat. It seemed awfully fast.

  “Take off your shirt,” Huge said. As Hannibal pulled his coat off, Huge asked, “Do you listen to any kind of music at all?”

  “Sure. All the time.”

  “Okay, name three or four bands you like,” Huge said. “And put your jacket back on. There you go.”

  Hannibal had never worn a suit coat without a shirt before. It was comfortable. “You don’t know the bands I like.”

  “Don’t bet on it, bro,” Huge said. “I sample from every body. Just run some names.”

  Hannibal thought as the beat slowed a bit. “Let’s see. Aerosmith. ZZ Top. AC/DC. Whitesnake.”

  “Judas Priest?” Huge asked. “Foreigner? REO? Journey?”

  “Yeah,” Hannibal said, a smile stretching his lips. The beat seemed to spread out more, a pre-disco drum line dropped in and the base line strengthened and simplified.

  “Now pick out a driving song,” Huge said. “Something that gets you over the Beltway.” Hannibal’s head began to move back and forth a little, and with his eyes closed he mentally thumbed through his CD collection.

  “So many good tunes,” he said, almost too low to hear.

  “One with a sexy undercurrent. Lots of innuendo. Aerosmith is always good. Or…”

  All of a sudden, Hannibal was mentally singing along to an AC/DC anthem that seemed to sit quite comfortably on top of the beat.

  “Alright, you’re in the car,” Huge’s seductive voice murmured in the headphones. “You’re all alone.” The beat got louder, stronger. “You’re imagining how this song would sound if you just said the words instead of singing them.” Hannibal’s whole body was moving now, and he was aware of being watched but somehow feeling isolated from the audience, invisible.

  “Go ahead. I want to hear what’s in your head.”

  The beat was booming in his head, blasting, the words mixing smoothly with it, and Hannibal just wanted to join in. Not wondering how silly he must sound, he faced the ocean of sound and jumped in.

  “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean,

  She was the best damn woman I’d ever seen,

  She had me sanctified, telling me no lies.

  Cause she was knocking me out with those American thighs.

  She took a lover’s share,

  She had me fighting for air,

  She told me to come but I was already there,

  Cause the walls was shakin’,

  The earth was quakin’

  My mind was achin’

  We weren’t faking, cause…”

  At that point, Huge’s falsetto joined his in the headphones:

  “You shook me all night long, shake it baby, shake it baby, shake it baby.”

  And in the distant background, he could hear Monte say, “Oh my God,” in a pained, plaintive voice.

  -16-

  Thursday

  Hannibal winked at Fay as he stepped out of his car. He didn’t think she recognized him at first, which would have been no surprise. He had not been sure he recognized himself in the mirror that morning. After winning his bet with Monte, Huge had taken some delight in helping Hannibal get into character for his return to Mariah’s place.
Under Huge’s stylish eye he had learned to tie a do-rag, knotted at the back of his head. When he said he was aiming at “low level hustler,” Huge had escorted him to what he described as the low-rent hustler’s boutique: the nearest Wal-Mart.

  Huge recommended a simple white tank style undershirt and dark cargo pants. The pants needed to be hanging lower than Hannibal was comfortable with. Huge’s fashionable compromise was for them to be worn over a pair of swim trunks. He completed the look with a pair of black and white shell toed sneakers. Hannibal was stunned to be able to put the whole “costume” together for about thirty bucks.

  “Am I cool now?” Hannibal had asked.

  “Too cool,” Huge had said, snatching the Oakley’s from Hannibal’s face. “You said low level hustler, right?” Huge replaced Hannibal’s shades with the first pair of black plastic sunglasses he saw on a nearby rack. “Now you got the cheap hustler thing going on.”

  Hannibal was at least happy about the undershirt choice. It was another hot day, mid-eighties even with the ocean breeze coming in from the East. But he didn’t think the weather was what prompted Fay to allow her knees to lazily drift apart while she smiled at him. He figured he must now fit the profile of the men who qualified for her unsubtle flirting. He nodded a quick thank-you for the offer and turned toward Mariah’s stairs.

  Hannibal’s plan was simple. He would introduce himself to Mariah and come up with some excuse for her to introduce him to Mantooth. If he hung around for a while he would either figure out where Mantooth would hide something valuable or learn that he had already cashed in on the Cooper formula. Whether or not Mantooth had already turned the formula into money would determine his next move.

  At the top of the stairs he rapped at the small pane in the top of the door. After the third series of knocks he accepted that no one was home. This was an unexpected wrinkle in his day. Had she been and gone? He could certainly get an update from Fay across the street. He really didn’t want to play games with her, but he might not have any choice.

  Halfway down the stairs Hannibal found himself faced with another visitor about to climb them. He took her in at a glance: pale complexion, platinum blonde hair hanging past shoulder length, big bosom, narrow waist, long legs. She wore spike heels and a short, white denim skirt. In place of a shirt or blouse she wore a yellow bikini top. Lemon yellow, he reflected, and one more article that he would have given no significance a month ago. A braided leather choker encircled her neck.

  The girl paused on the fourth step, looking up at him in surprise. Hannibal did not want to be established as the one who didn’t belong there, so he spoke first.

  “You looking for Mariah?” he asked in stern voice.

  “No,” she said, spinning a key chain on her finger. “I just came back to pick up some stuff.”

  Her Nordic blue eyes held questions, but her words and keys had answered his. “You must be the roommate,” he said, holding out a hand. “They call me Smoke.”

  “Really? I’m Sheryl.” She offered her fingertips for a barely-there handshake. For an awkward moment they shared the staircase. Then Hannibal stepped aside and waved Sheryl forward. She offered a shallow bow and went to the door. When she unlocked the door Hannibal followed her inside. The apartment smelled like dry dog food. Sheryl looked around, surprised but not resistant. Hannibal crossed his arms and leaned back against the door.

  “She’s not here,” Sheryl said, waving a hand at the rest of the apartment. Her swirl-patterned nails extended her fingers by almost an inch.

  “That’s all right,” Hannibal said with a cold smirk. “You’re going to take me to her.” Then he locked her eyes in place with his and would not let them go. He stayed in character and tried to project the attitude he had observed during his chat room visits. After a few seconds he could see tiny tremors in her shoulders. Finally she pointed behind herself without moving her eyes from his.

  “I, um, have to get some stuff.”

  “Then get it and let’s go,” Hannibal said.

  Sheryl’s eyes shifted left and right. Then she darted into the rear of the apartment. Hannibal heard barking and yipping from the unseen room. A dresser or bureau slid across the floor. Then it moved back into place. The dog whined the way small dogs do when an owner rubs them but they know they’ll soon be alone. Then came the hurried click of stiletto heels and Sheryl appeared, carrying a medium sized handbag.

  ‘What’s in there?” Hannibal asked.

  “Stuff,” she said. When he pushed away from the door she added, “It’s for Rod.”

  He opened the door. “I’ll follow you.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Sheryl said, “You might not want to do this.”

  “What, meet Mariah? You afraid she’s not my type?”

  At the bottom of the stairs she stopped and turned. “I know Mariah can be wild, and I bet she gave you a serious come on, but…”

  “But?”

  “Mariah, she’s Rod’s girl.”

  “You mean one of his girls,” Hannibal said. “I bet you are too.”

  “No, no really,” she grabbed his forearm. “Mariah likes to flirt but she’s Rod’s girl and things could get real ugly if another guy shows up looking for her. Ugly for her.”

  Hannibal took Sheryl’s wrist to lift her hand from his arm. He held her arm vertically, squeezing and gritting his teeth against the part he had to play. He increased the pressure until she gasped. His voice dropped into a hoarse, grating whisper.

  “Listen here, bitch. I will get real ugly unless you get in your car and take me to her. Ugly on your ass. You feel me?”

  Sheryl whimpered and gave a series of vigorous nods. Hannibal forced a smile as he released her. She hurried to her car, a white Volkswagen beetle. Hannibal opened the passenger door, waved good-bye to Fay, and settled in next to Sheryl.

  Sheryl was a timid driver, which was all right with Hannibal while they traveled through residential areas. Again he rode through the familiar streets and watched the neighborhoods shift. He could pay more attention to his surroundings now that he wasn’t driving. Children scampered, streetlights changed and before long, well-tended residences became expensive rental properties. During the drive Hannibal fiddled with her radio until he found a hip-hop station. He couldn’t sing along, but Sheryl could watch him bob his head beside her. It would help to establish his character. She didn’t talk during their journey. Hannibal wondered if that was due to fear of him or of Rod’s reaction when they arrived.

  When they reached the two story brick house with the white picket fence Sheryl pulled her Beetle into the driveway. There was off-street parking for three but hers was the only vehicle present. Stepping out of the car, Hannibal noticed how quiet the neighborhood seemed. It felt deserted, but he suspected that experience had taught Mantooth’s neighbors that it was best to stay out of sight. By the time Hannibal walked through the gate, Sheryl had been to the door and was on her way back down the walk.

  “There’s nobody home,” she said, shrugging. “No point hanging around here, right? Let’s go back to my place and party, huh? I got the stuff in my purse.”

  Hannibal was sure that “the stuff” was one of the many illegal substances people used to enhance the “party” experience. But he had no interest in sex right then and even less interest in this girl whom he thought of as Lemon. He was wondering how long it would take him to search what looked like a five-bedroom house. Hannibal had not wanted Rod to see his car, in case he wanted to maintain surveillance on the man later, but now he wondered if he should have driven. As it was there was little chance of a quick getaway if one were called for. He was weighing the risk of getting caught rifling Rod’s place when a movement down the block caught his attention. He whipped around, scanning the street, but didn’t see anyone. Had there been a man back there, peering over the hood of that parked Continental?

  Hannibal had lost that feeling of being followed on the long drive down from Washington, but here it was again. Did Huge send b
ackup? No, not his style. Sarge? He could never have tailed Hannibal without being spotted long before now. Was Rod smart enough to post a lookout?

  Before Hannibal could even process his own thoughts, a Jeep with an inefficient muffler roared around the corner. The vehicle almost tipped over as the driver, a young white kid with bulbous shoulders, whipped it into the driveway. Mariah hopped out of the back with a bag of groceries. In person, Hannibal could plainly see that she was Hawaiian or from some other Pacific Island. A second girl climbed more carefully out of the topless vehicle. The cherry bathing suit barely covered the important parts of a young black girl with smooth creamy skin and straightened hair. She was thicker than Anita in the thighs and hips, but otherwise the same make and model. The driver, a transplanted surfer-dude from the West Coast, stepped down and waved to Sheryl.

  Rod Mantooth walked around from the passenger’s side. His obsidian eyes scanned Hannibal up and down like an x-ray machine. He had a killer smile, the kind you see on torturers in World War II movies. Hannibal stood his ground as Rod moved toward him like an ebb tide. In person, the man was a primal force, raw energy, and suddenly Hannibal understood.

  Rod stopped within three inches of Hannibal, craning his bull neck to stare into Hannibal’s face with a coarse defiance, which his mild words belied.

  “I see Sheryl brought company. And what’s your name, dude?”

  Hannibal stared back, fighting an unexpected urge to back down. Rod must have expected every dog to tuck his tail when they met. If he thought of himself as the alpha male he would suppose the rest of the world saw him that way too. Hannibal knew he had to show his teeth.

  “They call me Smoke. Who the hell are you?”

  Hannibal could feel the other four holding their breath while Rod took stock of him.

  “I’m the dude who owns the house you’re standing in front of, dude. This is my crew.”

  Hannibal nodded and jerked his chin at Mariah. “I come looking for her.”

  “Oh, you know Mariah?” Rod turned toward her, and she reacted. She appeared to feel something, maybe a jolt of fear. If so, her face said it felt good.