Red Dawg finished his Tecate and then belched. "Lecture time is over, D. I gotta go out and pick up a shipment of shoes. I'm a businessman." He stood up, reached over for D's beer, and finished it.
D stood up too and said, "Don't do anything without letting me know."
"We'll see." Red Dawg turned his back and walked toward the front of the store.
* * *
A few minutes later, D pushed open the door to Big Danny's grocery store and stood in the doorway as daylight illuminated a dusty newspaper rack with old copies of the Los Angeles Times.
"Lemme go turn off the alarm," Walli said and pushed past D, who stood there mesmerized.
After a moment the lights came on and Walli appeared behind the counter. D walked toward him, past racks of cosmetics, cereal boxes, and toothpaste.
"I threw out or gave away as many of the perishables as I could, but it's been a hot summer," Walli said. "There are probably a couple of critters in here by now."
"You want to throw away some more stuff now?" D asked.
"It would be great if you wanna help."
D took off his jacket and dropped it on the counter. Glancing behind the counter, he saw a small chair propped against the wall. "He kept that chair, huh?"
"Yeah," Walli said. "I used to sit there."
"So did I." D went down an aisle and opened a carton of trash bags and pulled out a big black one. He sighed, walked back around the room, and asked Walli, "Where do we start?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
DR. FUNK MAKES A GROOVE
Dr. Funk walked over to the TR-808 drum machine in the corner and flipped it on. He hadn't played it in a couple of months and was worried that it might not work. The rhythm device was damn near as old as he was, he thought. Well, maybe not quite that old. Still, you never knew when the insides would rust and the lights would stop flashing on.
But the TR-808 came to life, just as it had over countless sessions since 1983. Back then he'd been seduced by it when he heard it on Run-DMC's "Sucker MCs" and the Soulsonic Force's "Planet Rock." After those records, he had put his LinnDrum in a corner despite what Prince was doing with it. Dr. Funk had been messing with the Linn as the culture shifted—he'd even had a minor hit with it. But the LinnDrum felt too cold and metallic to him. That little bastard from the frozen north had figured out how to get interesting flavors from it. Still, most tracks made with the Linn sounded like they'd been baked in a microwave. By comparison, the 808 tracks still felt as fresh as homemade biscuits, while all those Linn records from the eighties sounded as dated as blue contacts on black girls.
Dr. Funk pressed buttons and turned knobs, trying to figure out if he could imitate the movement of a big-hipped Mexican woman he'd spotted at a Ralphs. She'd pushed a shopping cart through the produce section with her right hand while balancing a small girl on her left hip. The cart's forward motion—its rubber wheels against the floor—and the weight of the little girl created two syncopations in Mamasita's walk, generating counterrhythms in her hips that intrigued Dr. Funk (as did her body-hugging Lululemon aqua stretch pants).
In his mind Dr. Funk heard "Planet Rock" mixed with a mariachi band. He wasn't even sure if that combination could be achieved. Which, of course, was the main reason to try. He rigged his Mac to interface with his 808, so he got the real 808 sound and not a secondhand version of it. He refused to make records designed to be heard on earbuds—all tinny and high end with bass that lacked personality and commitment.
Once he had a drum pattern he liked, Dr. Funk pulled out his Fender bass and listened for spaces where he could lock into the groove. Hip hop had been built on block-rocking beats, but Dr. Funk was a groove man, addicted to building layers of rhythm. Anything less than that and a song just felt naked.
Dr. Funk messed around with the Fender for about fifteen minutes, creating a placeholder bass line he could live with. He laid it down and then looped it. Next he hobbled over to where his keyboards were stacked—Yahama, Korg, Oberheim, all tools from his era of musicmaking. He'd had these instruments so long the keyboards had yellowed and a few keys stuck if pressed too hard. A couple of backstage passes from nineties tours were pasted here and there, the stickers frayed at the corners and the adhesive worn.
Though these symbols of long-ago tours were multicolored and damn near psychedelic in style, Dr. Funk barely noticed them anymore. Hadn't in years. The stickers had become invisible to him, totems from when he worshipped at his own temple. Now he had renounced that Satan and rebuked himself, and all that mattered these days was the music. Just let it flow, he thought. Be the current and not the boat and you'll always travel well. You'll eventually reach shore, but the destination should remain a delicious mystery.
Dr. Funk messed with a mariachi melody he'd heard once in a Mexican restaurant and then dropped in some flattened thirds that clashed with it but still sounded kind of cool. He told himself he was marrying something corny and traditional with some jazz shit, like Miles on Sketches of Spain.
That bastard Miles was always so free, Dr. Funk thought. Whenever they'd met, Miles would always make him feel like he was playing around in comparison, just making songs that fit between soda pop radio commercials. Sure, Miles messed around with funk—but at the end of the day, he kept a space between himself and anything too simpleminded. Even when they got high together, Miles never let Dr. Funk think that he was at his level.
Now this groove was starting to sound like something. It wasn't a song yet, but a serious groove could drive a song. At this point in the old days, Dr. Funk would have brought in some top sidemen, like Greg Phillinganes or Jeff Porcaro or Eddie "Bongo" Brown, and would have had them join in, using their fingers to extend his brain. Try this. Try that. No, slower. In G. In E. No, F-sharp. Maybe D.
Sometimes these session cats thought they were songwriting. They weren't; they were just better at their individual instruments than he was. They had extraordinary facility and great feel. But they had no more ownership of Dr. Funk's songs than his 808 or mini Moog. This reality led to some misunderstandings, especially with band members. There are always serpents in the garden, he thought. That bastard Scratch had some of his music. Original tracks too.
But Scratch couldn't do anything with those songs. He could play—yeah, that fool could play the guitar. But he couldn't write a good song if it was Judgment Day and a solid melody would keep his ass out of hell.
Still, when Dr. Funk slumped back in his chair and listened to the drums, the bass, and the keys he'd laid down, he yearned for a fresh set of ears in his dungeon studio. It would have been good to play the track for Ollie Brown or Harvey Mason. Even when they made an I'm-not-feeling-it face, it was still helpful. Dr. Funk would read their expressions and know what to discard and what to save.
Shit, I wouldn't even need them if I had the right woman, he thought. Not for sex. It was about sensuality and how the music moved them. Not some fake-ass twerkin' that any silly chick could do. It was how their bodies moved naturally. Whether it was a hip roll or the way she held her hand when she spun around or how much she sweated or whether she was willing to sweat at all when the rhythm hit her. The greatest percussion player in the world was a woman entranced by a groove.
Dr. Funk hadn't had a woman like that in years. In a decade maybe. No, longer—much longer. At a certain point in his life he was having sex not for genuine pleasure but because it was expected. Women thought that's all he wanted. They performed for him and they expected—demanded—he do the same. He was just another notch on their bra straps, a wild story to tell girlfriends, and a cherished memory from the days of their girlish figures.
It made Dr. Funk angry to think back on it. He remembered nights he couldn't get it up. Yeah, he ate pussy like a champ, but that usually wasn't enough. They wanted Dr. Funk inside them and his tongue wouldn't do the job. It all just became too much work. Women wanted to brag that they'd fucked him or gossip later that he couldn't. Sometimes he'd lashed out, and these memories shamed him. H
e'd hit at least one woman. He'd waved a gun at another. Tossed a half-naked woman into a hotel hallway without her shoes.
He used to blame it on the coke and the drink. But he knew he'd been violent several times stone-cold sober, a fact that made him shiver. He shook his head and squinted as if a bright light was hitting his irises. He remembered. He was embarrassed. He was afraid. Who was I? Who am I now? Somebody knew. A brother. A father. A friend. Somebody knew. Somebody who might want to hurt him. He deserved some payback. He knew it. He expected it, really.
Still, he wasn't gonna invite vengeance. It would have to find his ass. Yeah, vengeance would have to GPS him. He wasn't gonna stand around waiting for it by the door.
Dr. Funk found himself playing a riff that was Eddie Palmieri by way of James Cleveland on the electric piano. He loved trying to make mash-ups of different styles. It helped him shift from the past to the present, from bad behavior to good music. He slowed the tempo and the riff became less derivative and more its own thing. Dr. Funk added this new piano piece to the groove, fitting it snugly between the 808, the Fender, and all the other sounds he'd compiled. Suddenly he had a song.
Dr. Funk played it back. He smiled, then frowned. In another era, back when his hair was black, his eyes were innocent, and his teeth were straight, this combination of notes would have translated into money. Greenbacks. Royalties. Record deals.
Dr. Funk kept things old school. He attached a CD drive to his Mac and burned a copy of this new song onto a blank disc. He held it in his hand and savored the tangibility of it. A CD was really just a container. Just like LPs, 45s, cassettes, eight tracks, 78s, and all that. It wasn't music. Music was intangible, of course. But Dr. Funk loved the containers. That way he could hold music in his hand, like it was eggs or bacon or chicken. Something you bought at a store. Something essential. Something that could feed you. A meal.
Dr. Funk walked over to his "refrigerator," an old metal trunk with a gold-plated lock. He opened it with a key on a chain around his neck and slipped this CD in with the hundreds of meals—maybe a thousand—that he kept inside. Prince had his vault; Dr. Funk had his trunk. Someday, maybe, he'd go in and prepare a feast from all the songs—finished, half-finished, sketched—inside here.
But now Dr. Funk was tired. He walked over to the cot that served as his bed. He'd sleep for a couple of hours and then take an Uber up to Hollywood. He'd play for the tourists over by Ripley's Believe It or Not. Those folks were never lacking for change.
CHAPTER NINE
DINNER WITH AUNT SHERYL
Aunt Sheryl's face was yellow like fall leaves and dotted with freckles, especially around her broad nose. Her eyes were dark and piercing and never as happy as they wanted to be. Her mouth conveyed a faint air of disappointment except on the rare occasions she smiled. Her hair was naturally brown, with dyed-red streaks, and she typically wore it pulled back with an Indian Remy ponytail that she swung coquettishly for her own amusement. Unlike many Cali natives Aunt Sheryl didn't favor tight-fitting clothes, preferring loose, flowing two-piece outfits or brightly colored dresses. Her nails and toes were always immaculate and featured colors not found in nature.
At one point in her thirties Aunt Sheryl put on some pounds, but approaching fifty she'd fixed her diet, danced religiously to Billy Banks workout tapes, and did hot yoga, determined to "get one last good lover before my shit dries up." D remembered one late-night call where she inquired whether he'd loan her money for liposuction, which D reacted to as if it were a Chris Rock punch line.
Still, Aunt Sheryl looked better than she had in years and, from what D had seen on Facebook, had been dating regularly. If Aunt Sheryl wasn't the hottest MILF in LA, she was definitely the one making the most of what she had.
Back in the day she'd treated D with love, practicing her child-rearing skills as she hoped for a little boy of her own. Tonight she served D and Walli salmon, brown rice, and broccoli, a healthy meal very different from the soul food feasts of D's LA memory.
However, the quality of her cooking was the only soothing thing about Aunt Sheryl on this night. She was tense and out of sorts. They hadn't spoken about who might have shot her father yet, which D figured was the source of her discomfort. After Walli said grace and D told a few show-business stories, his aunt mentioned the family attorney had given her a heads-up on her father's will.
"Oh," D said, "anything surprise you?"
"Plenty. When's the last time you spoke to him, D?"
"Not since I was last out here in February."
His cousin piped up: "You took him out to Mr. Chow's and that jazz show. He told me he really had a good time."
"I did too. We went to the Catalina Jazz Club. It's on Sunset if you ever want to check it out."
"What did you two talk about?" Aunt Sheryl's voice had an edge.
"Talk about?" D said. "A lot of things. I know we talked about you and your son. He seemed concerned about you, but that wasn't new."
Sheryl sat fuming. Walli's eyes said he knew what was up but it wasn't for him to say.
"What's going on, Aunt Sheryl? You're acting like I stole something from you."
She got up from the table and abruptly left the room.
"What's this about?" D asked Walli.
"It's about the house. She thought it would just be hers. Uncle Fred isn't around so she thought she would have it. But Granddad gave you half."
"Half? I don't deserve that."
D got up and sprinted up the stairs to her room. The door was locked. "Aunt Sheryl? Aunt Sheryl, can we talk?" He heard her moving around the room and finally the door slowly opened. "I knew nothing about this," he said. "I would never have agreed to this. Never."
"My father was so old-fashioned he was fucking silly," she replied bitterly. "He didn't have confidence in me. Didn't think I could handle our family business. So instead of giving me the house and everything, he gave you half. I just wanted to know if you knew that before coming out here."
"Like I said, Aunt Sheryl, I didn't. I don't want this house. I live in New York. You can do anything you want with it. You have nothing to worry about from me."
She shook her head. "My father had a lot of different faces."
"Yeah, he was a bossy old man."
"That was just part of it. There was a lot to him. A lot."
"Is that why he was killed?"
"I think so. I really do."
D embraced his aunt. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you or Walli."
"Okay, that's nice to say. But how are you going to do that in New York?"
As they embraced, D realized he didn't really have an answer.
CHAPTER TEN
A YOUTUBE WAKE
The last time D had been inside Heaven's Gate was just after the turn of the century, when a group of ace 1970s and '80s session musicians gathered to jam. David Williams, Wah Wah Watson, and Phil Upchurch were the guitarists. Stevie Wonder's favorite bassist, Nathan East, held down the bottom, along with Jheri-curled drum legend James Gadson and versatile percussionist Paulinho da Costa. Greg Philliganes and Steve Porcaro of Toto were on the keys. The Waters sisters, who seemed to have sung background on every LA recording of the eighties, stepped forward to lead songs as varied as the Dazz Band's "Let It Whip," Shalamar's "The Second Time Around," the Brothers Johnson's "I'll Be Good To You," to Quincy Jones and James Ingram's "100 Ways." Q, of course, was in the house, sitting with a blond tenderoni. Rumor was that Michael would be attending, but only Jermaine and Tito actually showed up.
The night had been, as far as D knew, a send-off for Big Danny. He was selling the place to two young black entrepreneurs who boasted of Hollywood connections and Ivy League pedigrees. Big Danny was teary-eyed that night, though people thought he was relieved to have the club off his hands.
Well, the two young entrepreneurs never did reopen the place. Word was that they had fallen out over a woman. Another rumor had it that one of the duo's cash wasn't as real as that of his partner. Either way,
Heaven's Gate stayed shuttered and, after that night, Big Danny never spoke about it again. D figured he'd gotten some cash and walked away clean. But did Big Danny still own 51 percent of Heaven's Gate as the detective had said? D wouldn't be clear on that until a formal reading of the will.
So it was strange to be back inside the club on this solemn occasion. The candles Aunt Sheryl had placed around the room didn't camouflage the dank smell of spilled drinks. Nor could the floral arrangements beautify a place unfit for daylight. Still, according to Big Danny's attorney and Aunt Sheryl, this is where he wanted his wake held, so there was his coffin, just below the bandstand, a golden-yellow overhead spotlight beaming down upon him.
D sat on the aisle, with Walli between himself and Aunt Sheryl, as he watched people come up and pay their last respects to Daniel Hunter. Sheryl had dressed the body in a silver sharkskin suit, matching raw silk tie, a charcoal shirt, and black Gators. He was to be buried as Big Danny, nightclub owner, not Daniel Hunter, South Central retailer.
D wore a white shirt and one of his dozen black suits—his usual attire since mourning dead family members had almost become his vocation. Sitting before his grandfather's coffin, D wondered if it was time to add color to his wardrobe. His grandfather would never have wanted to be buried in black, so why should D continue to live in it?
He was mulling this when a slightly stooped black man in a brown one-piece ski jumpsuit, blue Cal baseball cap, and a curly blond wig walked past him toward the coffin. He glanced over at Sheryl who whispered, "Yeah, that's Dr. Funk. He and Daddy have been good friends forever."
"Who's Dr. Funk?" Walli asked.
To Funk and Die in LA Page 4
