"That's what's happening around here?" D didn't mention the graffiti on his grandfather's store.
"Anywhere black folks are, they're on the run in this town," Crowder said. "They could have been hired by a realtor or a neighbor. Make the niggas run and get our homes cheap. Bring the relations in or sell it to Central Americans, since they're the low man on the pole these days."
Crowder was fit for forty-five, with hints of gray in his short Afro. He was friendly for an LA cop (or maybe just chatty). His partner Exley, a younger white cop with brown hair, stood by the patrol car, more interested in checking Instagram on his phone than talking with D or the two perps in his backseat.
"I'm sorry about Big D."
"You knew him?"
"He was around a long time. Met him when I was a rook. Last of the old heads in the hood."
"You think this is related to his murder?"
"I dunno," the black cop said slowly. "I don't get paid to investigate murder—just to pick up the bodies and file reports. But these vatos move in packs. So if this is just a random break-in, you're probably good. Your statement made sense. You'll be a good witness. But if this is related to your granddad's death, then you need to keep your head up. I'll check in with the detective on the case. He may have questions for your visitors."
Aunt Sheryl sat in the kitchen with a glass of apple juice and a burning cigarette. Walli sat across from her, looking nervous if only half awake. She wore a cranberry-colored robe and a black hairnet. He wore a white T-shirt that swallowed up his body.
She was saying, ". . . These rice-and-bean-eating motherfuckers need to get their asses back south of the border."
"This was just two criminals, Ma," Walli volunteered. "Not all Mexicans are like this."
She wasn't impressed by her son's logic. "They hate on black people. Like that's gonna help them. It just makes us hate them. And that's too bad, because I like me some guacamole." It was a bad joke but it amused her son, who needed a distraction. "Glad you didn't let them in the house," she said to D. "Just need to fix the lock on that one there. Daddy would have let them in. He would have let them walk right into this kitchen and shot them with his twelve-gauge. You know we got one if you need it."
"We have two, Ma," Walli said.
"Two shotguns?"
"Two guns," she explained. "A shotgun and a Beretta."
"Where'd he keep them?"
"One's right here," she said as she reached under the table, flicked a latch, and pulled out a shotgun. Aunt Sheryl held it proudly, reminding D of Pam Grier in a blaxploitation flick. "The handgun is upstairs under Big Danny's bed." She sent her son to go get it.
"Why all the guns?"
"Well, two guns ain't a lot out here, D."
"I found another one at his store. That's three. But I guess that's normal for someone in retail in LA. Guns laws are different out here, I guess."
Walli came down with the Beretta and handed it to D, who found a full clip. He smelled the barrel. Recently fired.
"Does Red Dawg borrow these?"
"I don't know," Aunt Sheryl replied. "Why would he?"
"Red has his own guns, D," Walli said. "He, Granddad, and I would go to a range downtown maybe once a month. Maybe we could go soon? I enjoyed it, though that shotgun has a serious kick."
* * *
Thirty minutes, two text messages, and a phone call later, the back door slowly opened. All eyes turned to Red Dawg as he surveyed the busted lock. "Crude but effective," he said before entering. He took a seat at the table and picked up the Beretta, spinning it on a finger, gunslinger-style. "Can you give me some details, D?" After hearing D's story, Red Dawg asked if he got a good look at their tats.
"Not really. I mean, I saw them but they wouldn't have meant shit to me. What about you, Walli?"
"I think they were 18th Street."
Red Dawg slammed his hand on the table.
"Is that the gang that Teo Garcia belongs to?"
"Hell yeah," Red Dawg said triumphantly. "He's definitely affiliated."
"Why does that matter?" Aunt Sheryl asked.
Red Dawg explained his theory of Big Danny's death.
"So you think that fool would have people come kill us too?" she asked, putting out her cigarette and immediately lighting another.
"Maybe," Red Dawg said, "but I'll handle that."
D leaned forward and glanced from Red Dawg to Aunt Sheryl. "Before this goes any further, I think someone had better get real with me. You have a professional hit on Granddad. A real pro job. Not some weak-ass burglary like tonight. I know that Big Danny was doing some shady shit, but I'm wondering how deep this really gets. I don't like living blind, but right now I'm looking and I'm not really seeing. Can someone in this room please help me?"
Aunt Sheryl stood. "Your grandfather was no gangster—if that's what you're saying. He was a black man who stood up and didn't beg. So don't you be talking shit in his house in front of my son. I know your mother raised you better than that."
Red Dawg, being unusually diplomatic, said, "Okay, everybody is a little stressed right about now. Sheryl and Walli, why don't you guys go back upstairs and try to get some sleep. We can't let these fools turn us against each other."
Calmed by Red Dawg's words, Sheryl bade them a terse good night and ushered her reluctant son upstairs. Clearly he was about to miss some real talk at the kitchen table.
"I found a Beretta at the grocery store," D began, "along with this shotgun and another Beretta here at the house. They all licensed?"
"I believe so," Red Dawg said cautiously. "I mean, I ain't seen the paperwork but Big Danny was very by-the-book when it came to guns and shit."
"How many pieces do you have?"
"Enough to feed the needy." He smiled and added, "See, I do know some East Coast rap."
"Okay." D plucked the shotgun from the tabletop, bent down, and placed it back on the gun rack underneath. "Big Danny needed this setup to sell groceries and book acts? The only time I've seen a rig like this was in a couple of crack houses back in the day. Honest people don't hook their shit up like this. And you know that."
Red Dawg hesitated before responding. "After his wife died, Big Danny lived here for a year or so by himself."
"I know that. And?"
"And I don't know what he was doing up in here every night."
"Oh, okay. So my grandfather was meeting with the kind of people he needed to have a shotgun handy for? And you're saying you knew nothing about it?"
Avoiding D's logic, Red Dawg responded: "I told you it was Teo. He was probably threatening Big Danny. So he figured he'd muscle up on that bitch."
D was deeply dubious, but figured he'd gotten all he could out of Red Dawg. "All right, I'm going to sleep. You're welcome to stay here. And please don't play with the Beretta."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
R'KAYDIA'S VISION
"So this is it." R'Kaydia held the door open to a small, dark room with a rickety metal chair in its center and a harsh white overhead light illuminating the dark blotches on the floor. "I keep meaning to clean this room up and make it useful, but I think the aura in there is too nasty to be easily transformed."
D peeked inside but didn't enter. The room was a part of hip hop history he'd heard about but had no interest in experiencing in any way, even as a tourist. He said, "I think this whole place could use an exorcism."
R'Kaydia laughed. "That's why we moved here, D. We're in the business of purifying evil spirits." She closed the door and they walked back over to her glass desk.
D couldn't believe that he was in the old Westwood offices of Death Row Records, the most notorious hip hop label of them all. R'Kaydia's Future Life Communications had moved into Death Row's old offices, turning it into the base for her three-year-old entertainment/digital media enterprise, and she'd just shown off the room Suge allegedly used to "discipline" subordinates.
Now this chic black woman, with her glittering white teeth, trainer-toned shoulders, and
determined gaze, sat comfortably in the space where Knight had once terrorized the rap game. D had a hard time reconciling this disconnect between past and present, especially as he sat in a soft leather-backed chair trying not to stare at her impressive brown legs crossed under the desk.
"I thought moving into the space would give urgency to our mission," R'Kaydia said. "A large part of our business is managing the estates of artists who have passed. We collect royalties for their families, set up foundations, license their music, writings, and image, and make sure that all their digital rights are defended."
D said, "My mother used to love this song by Adrian Dukes, ‘Green Lights.' It was really her anthem when I was a child. I heard it sampled recently in a car commercial. I know Dukes is dead. I've always wondered if his family was benefitting."
R'Kaydia typed on her keyboard. Her eyes surveyed the screen and then "Green Lights" filled the room from hidden speakers. "Vintage," she observed. "D, I will look into it."
"So, you want to help Dr. Funk with his rights?"
"Teddy and I feel his is an underdeveloped legacy. He had an almost unprecedented run of success, followed by an equally long period of silence. In both, there is opportunity. We think we can make him more money than his catalog is earning now and find him new revenue sources. That's the essence of what we do."
"And you and Teddy get a substantial commission on the revenue you generate?"
"Yes," she said quickly, "but let me assure you: we are not just a bunch of scavengers digging through dusty contracts for hidden clauses. The real money will be come from the new revenue streams that we're creating. For example . . ."
R'Kaydia hit a button on her desk and a prism of light appeared atop it, which then morphed into Dr. Funk on the cover of Chaos: Phase I. The two-foot-high hologram looked over at D and said, "What up, bruh?"
"Damn," D said.
R'Kaydia stared at him and smiled. "We have the capability to build a life-sized Dr. Funk, along with his old band. We have a deal with his old label for the masters. Las Vegas casinos are excited about the concept. Dr. Funk could share the stage with Elvis or Tupac or even John Coltrane. We could mix old music with these holograms and create dream lineups. The possibilities are endless, as are the financial opportunities. We can make Dr. Funk a contemporary act as capable of selling tickets as anyone performing in the twenty-first century."
D was duly impressed and a little spooked. He'd seen the Michael Jackson and Tupac holograms and hadn't been sure how he felt. Were these ghost performers a good thing? The technology made it possible, but just cause you can do a thing, does that make it right?
In truth, this Dr. Funk image was a definite leap forward from those earlier holograms. He moved fluidly and his features were truly lifelike. This wasn't the ragged-looking man he'd encountered at the wake. This was Dr. Funk with the aura of an incandescent supernova.
"Wow," D said. "Now I guess I have to help you."
R'Kaydia flashed a sly smile. "I just e-mailed you our offer."
D checked his phone and nodded. "Okay. Mind if I show this to Walter Gibbs?"
"Your call," she said. "But go ahead and forward me your banking information, so we'll be ready to wire you our initial payment when he tells you how good a deal it is. We'll expect a written report every week on your progress in finding Dr. Funk. A list of who you spoke to and a recording, if possible, of your interviews with sources. You have three days before the offer expires. Let's speak soon, D."
As D stood up, Dr. Funk said to him, "Don't let a brother down," and then he winked.
CHAPTER TWENTY
IRRITATING AMOS PILGRIM
The late Dwayne Robinson had been D's friend, mentor, and guide to all things black music. The writer had turned him on to the Delta bluesman Robert Johnson, the saxophone giant John Coltrane, the late Cape Verde songstress Cesária Évora, and crateloads of old-school rap records. Dwayne's instruction wasn't just enrichment for his black-suited student. As a bodyguard to music stars, D found his deeper knowledge of music history made him more popular with clients, transforming him from just a big nameless hunk of brown meat into an actual human being.
Tragically, Dwayne couldn't be called upon anymore, having been viciously stabbed to death a few years back, his murder leading D into the labyrinth of rap's origins as chronicled in Dwayne's unfinished book, The Plot Against Hip Hop. D had found the two men he thought were directly responsible for the killing, though the case always felt somehow unfinished. This was in part because the man who had indirectly instigated the plot was both untried and alive. Maximizing that irony was that for the past couple of years, D had been periodically cashing checks from him.
Amos Pilgrim comanaged D's friend Night, as well as a great many other performers. Decades ago Pilgrim, realizing hip hop's potential for social change, had hired two ex-FBI agents to "direct" the culture as best they could, one in New York, the other in Los Angeles. Things had not gone as planned and he'd lost control of his two operatives, both of whom had gone on to foster chaos in many hip hop cliques.
Many were indicted and a few even died as a result of Amos Pilgrim's agents (perhaps including Biggie and Tupac). That long list contained a woman D had developed feelings for, and who had loved him sweetly, despite his HIV-positive status. So whenever D had to meet with Amos Pilgrim, he barely suppressed his anger. He'd knocked the music manager flat once before, and if Al weren't in the room for this meeting, D would have already leaped across the table and choked him to death. And considering the man's condescending tone, it was still a distinct possibility.
"I'm not offering you charity," Amos said. D sat across a wide black-ivory table with his head titled slightly to the side. Al sat beside Amos's desk, closer to D than Amos, the fingers of one hand drumming lightly on the edge of the desk. "This is a big opportunity, one lots of people in this business would have signed up for in a heartbeat. Yet you are treating this offer like you'd be doing me a favor."
D didn't immediately reply. He just stood up and set his hands on the desk, his fingers squeezing the edge. Finally he said, "I've beat your ass before, Amos."
"Yo!" Al shot up, his arms outstretched, his voice firm and smoky, his white hair combed stiff and immaculate. "I didn't set this meeting up to see whose dick is bigger. This is about Night, and giving an artist we all believe in the support he needs. Far as I'm concerned, you two never have to speak again. D, just help us out with Night. That's all I ask."
D still had his hands on the desk and his eyes on Amos Pilgrim. "So he's back on blow?"
"Worse," Al said. "He may be messing with crystal meth."
D leaned in toward Amos. While maintaining eye contact, the manager slid his chair back. "Damn," D said, "how'd you guys let that happen?"
"I'm a manager," Amos replied, false bravado in his tone, "not a babysitter."
"But isn't that what you'd like me to be?"
"D," Al said softly, "it's my fault. I'm not up to the gig anymore. At least not by myself. Yo, I'm fucking old."
This admission pulled D's attention from Amos to the suddenly frail-looking white man to his right. When Al smiled D's anger dimmed.
"Anyway," Al said, waving at Amos, "fuck him, D."
"Fuck me?"
"Yeah, fuck you. You're just the bank. Look, D, Night is a drug addict. Has been for as long as we've known him, right?"
"He wasn't always," D said, remembering Night's days as a street hustler/boy toy for old women and his Italian madam/pimp in the nineties. Back then Night was addicted to sex and had enough ambition to help him justify selling his body.
"Yeah," Al said, "sometimes getting what you want is the most disappointing thing in the world."
D took his hands off Pilgrim's desk and his body relaxed. "So," he went on, firmly back in the now, "you want me to convince him to enter rehab?"
"Well," Amos said weakly, "if that's what it takes."
D sighed and took a step back, now thinking like a manager. "Got it. You want
him to finish the record first and then go into rehab?"
"D, you know that turning in the album triggers a payment," Amos said. "Even if they reject it eventually, there's a payment for Night. It would be great to use that to get him some help."
"So, finishing the album will help his drug problem, huh? Yeah, right."
Disgusted with Amos Pilgrim and not entirely happy with Al either, D feared the two were simply enablers and ineffectual protectors of a dynamic, fragile man. Their plan was to squeeze whatever music they could out of Night before what was left of his fan base finally stopped caring. D snatched the contract off the desk, gave it a final once-over, and then signed it with one of the expensive pens on Amos's desk.
"Okay, partners," he said, mocking them with every syllable, "I'm down. But I need something—I need some help finding Dr. Funk. I need leads to ex-bandmates, ex-managers, and family. What do you ballers got for me?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A RIDE FROM THE PAST
Heading down the elevator from Amos Pilgrim's office, D got an unexpected and largely unwanted blast from his past. It was a text from a number he didn't recognize. It read: Saw you and your fam on YT. Much respect to your late grandpops. I'm in LA 2. I found Eva. If you're still interested I'm at the Hotel Café tomorrow at 10 p.m. watching her sing. Ride.
He walked through the garage toward his grandfather's Electra 225, thinking about Ride and knowing against his better judgment that he'd be at that club tomorrow at ten. About eighteen months ago, Ride had run into D back in Brownsville, their old Brooklyn neighborhood, where D had been helping a silly kid tend to a self-inflicted gunshot wound (and stopping his friends from posting the accident on social media). Ride had witnessed that act of charity and enlisted the reluctant bodyguard in an effort to locate his ex-girlfriend.
Ride had just exited the New York State correctional system after five years, though his search for Eva was not a sentimental journey. The ex-con had entrusted her with an ill-gotten $15,000, but when he arrived back in Brooklyn, both Eva and the money were gone. A Facebook search suggested that Eva had split for the West Coast, renamed herself Evelyn, and had used Ride's cash to finance her relocation. D had hooked up Ride with a job as a traveling security guard/roadie for Night. It had started well enough, but the big man's obsession with Eva had ultimately made him unreliable. He'd start questioning singers and musicians in Night's orbit about Eva's whereabouts. Being that Ride was a hulking six foot seven, people didn't always take well to his persistence.
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