To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  D had lost track of his erstwhile client, but clearly Ride hadn't lost track of D. Of course Walli's damn YouTube video hadn't helped. Last time he'd checked, the video of Dr. Funk at Big Danny's wake had around a million views and had made D a viral celebrity in the way of cute cats, awkward dancers, and Asian girls who did makeup. He'd suddenly gotten e-mails from people from his past (ex–D Security staff Mercedes Cruz from New York), aging mentors (retired detective Fly Ty Williams from Atlanta), and ex-lovers (Emily Anekwe, now living in Jamaica). Somehow his family's misfortune had been forgotten amid the interest in Dr. Funk and the oddness of the venue. All the YouTubers had blithely ignored the fact that they were witnessing a family in mourning.

  Or, more precisely, they hadn't identified with his family's pain in any human way. Instead they'd viewed D's tears as just another digital spectacle, no different than the next scene of police brutality or celebrity clothing malfunction (I see you, Lenny Kravitz). D couldn't help but read a few of the comments (What's that big nigga's problem? Burly, all-black-wearing crybaby!) and saw how gleefully he'd been mocked, his grief ripped free of context and made ridiculous. Some "friend" had forwarded D a GIF of his teary eyes as Dr. Funk sang to him, making it seem like he was a parishioner overcome at the old man's altar. He'd become a crying Jordan meme.

  D's solace (or hope) was that it would soon pass and that someone else would become the object of the web's prurient interest. In the twenty-first century you didn't get just fifteen minutes of fame; it was more like one long day of celebrity, as your image rolled around the globe until everyone was, as Jay Z said, on to the next one. His crying face had probably traveled so far by now that aliens were laughing about it on the dark side of the moon.

  The building where Amos Pilgrim had his offices had once been the LA home of Motown Records, where Joe Jackson had managed Michael and young Janet, and the headquarters of the House of Blues, among countless other music businesses. D, who was usually hyperaware of black music history, didn't think about any of this as he slid the green Electra 225 out of the garage on Argyle and took a left on Sunset in the direction of the 101 Freeway.

  Instead he put the address of Willie "Scratch" Williams into his GPS. Williams was the legendary guitarist who'd played on many of Dr. Funk's early-eighties solo singles. Al had made the introduction and the old guitarist had invited him out to his place in the Valley. As he sat in traffic, D got another text, this one from Red Dawg: Big Danny's killer is performing tonight. You wanna come? What a weird combination of words. D texted back, Yeah, then hit the freeway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SCRATCH HAS SOME TAPES

  Any trip out to the San Fernando Valley always brought D back to the movie Chinatown, a 1974 classic that his surrogate uncle, Fly Ty Williams, a now-retired NYC detective, used to play at his apartment in Queens. Chinatown had been the detective's favorite film, a romantic and tragic meditation about a PI swallowed up by an investigation bigger and darker than just a cheating husband. The deeper story in Roman Polanski's film centered on stolen water being used to drive farmers out of the Valley, a plan devised by a nefarious developer to buy up all the land and spawn the region's plague of strip malls. It was a reminder to D that there were multiple levels to every story and what you see isn't always what happened.

  Willie "Scratch" Williams had a little house on a side street in the shadow of the 101. Most of the furniture had been purchased in the eighties, from the wood-paneled den to the plastic-covered sofa. The place stank of old herbs and incense, like an unholy alliance of healthy scents gone wrong. Scratch wore a purple-and-gold Laker's sweat suit circa Magic Johnson era and sandals that revealed tough, hard feet with yellowed, uncut toenails. His fingers were long and calloused with nails that apparently hadn't been cleaned since the Forum's "Showtime" days. His face was leathery and drawn, and his voice was equally worn from nights of too much smoke and drink and the fitful rest of unbridled bitterness.

  "It's about the tapes, isn't it?"

  "Tapes? No, I just want to talk to Dr. Funk. I'm not looking for any tapes."

  "Dr. Funk ain't worth shit anymore. Everybody knows he shot his load. I mean, he shot it so long ago he'd need a fistful of Viagra to get his shit hard. But these tapes? They make him young again."

  "These are sessions you played on?"

  "Hell yeah. Sessions of unreleased songs. Three are pretty finished. A couple half-done but with killer hooks."

  "Sounds cool," D said, hiding his curiosity behind a poker face. "Be sweet to listen to but I have no use for them. I'm trying to find Dr. Funk, not his tapes."

  "I Googled you. You're tight with that Nightingale."

  "You mean Night?"

  "Nigga is moderately talented," Scratch said. "He steals good."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "His song ‘Black Sex' is a straight-up lift of chords from a Curtis Mayfield tune. He took an Al Green verse and a Bootsy Collins hook, put the two together, and called it his melody. Now, you give Nighthawk these tapes and that boy will have a new LP in a week."

  "Give? You're in the charity business, Scratch?"

  The old musician reached under his sofa and pulled out a CD that he flipped in D's direction. "Here's a taste. Two songs. Enough to wet your beak. After Nightfall hears them, come back to me with an offer, though a cowriting credit with Nighttime would be a start."

  "Wouldn't this be stealing from Dr. Funk?"

  Scratch snorted contemptuously. "I worked for that nigga for five years. He got the money and the bitches. I got credits on the back of an album and a check sometimes. Then he threw it all away. Man couldn't handle the white girl. His brain is so fried he should be working for Colonel Sanders. Play these songs for your man Nightlife and maybe we can do something."

  A CD? This trip had certainly been a journey back in time. Old clubs. Old formats. Old music. Old men. Is this my fate? D asked himself. Just to be some kind of curator for the last dreams and lingering beefs of old men dead, lost, or endlessly bitter? What about my life? I've lived most—no, all—of my adult life standing in front of people, a wall of human protection, or moving behind them to clean up their sad, ugly messes.

  Between Big Danny's demise and this crazy hunt for Dr. Funk, D wondered if he'd have any time to himself. Going home wasn't the best option right now. Ever since he'd found himself in a shootout with some corrupt Brooklyn cops, life there had been crazy. The honest members of NYPD blue saw him as notorious. A local rap posse he'd tried to help was giving him the side eye. He'd only just moved back to Brooklyn two years ago and his landlord was already trying to price him out. Sometimes D felt jealous of his mother's fading memory because he was tired of looking back, yet that's all Cali seemed to be offering. Looking back at people, places, and music that latched onto him like scales, making him scratch other people's itches but not his own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  NIGHT IN THE VALLEY

  In a dictionary of soul vocals, the words "Green, Al" would have provided the definition of "singing low." That is, contrary to the stereotype of the shouting, yelling singer, Reverend Green would get close to the mic and lower his volume, forcing the listener to lean in, to really listen to the sweet nuances of his sound. That technique had become a lost art, out of place in an era of sexting penises and booty portraits.

  Yet here was Night, in a Sherman Oaks studio navigating a new slow jam, keeping the music quiet and his voice low, letting it simmer on a hot stove of passion in the style of good Reverend Green. It was a mature, controlled fire Night was bringing. He may not have finished his album by the deadline, but there was tremendous growth in Night's delivery. Life might not be good, but his friend's learning curve was spiraling up.

  "That's beautiful, Night," D said. "Truly beautiful."

  "Yeah," Night replied softly, "it's getting there."

  "You all right?"

  Night spoke haltingly, with a lack of confidence D found alarming. "To be honest, D, I'm not sure
what I have left in me. And you know what? That's fine. I'ma artist. You gotta dig to have something worth giving."

  "I feel you on that," D said, trying to be supportive, but Night sounded tired and a bit incoherent.

  "The part that's fucking me up right now is that the people at the label ain't hearing it."

  "C'mon, man. They didn't hear your last album, but you wound up with a Grammy for best R&B song."

  "You know how in debt I am to that label?" Night countered. "I didn't make a record for like seven, eight years and they advanced me money for two LPs I didn't deliver. I need to sell some Beyoncé numbers just to get even."

  "So what do they want you to do? Go to Sweden and work with Max Martin?"

  "You laughing but it ain't funny. If I let them I'd be on the plane now with a list of the best long-stay hotels in Stockholm."

  "Ne-Yo and Usher went electropop and look what happened to them," D said, putting out a rock-critic vibe. "Made their real fans angry and not one sixteen-year-old downloaded their new shit."

  "That's why I wanted you on board as my manager. You've seen mad motherfuckers crash and burn."

  D was about to reply when Night's eyes shifted toward the control room. "Hey, Sy, how you doing?" he said.

  Sy Sarraf was a lean, olive-skinned Persian with a slim nose, Dolce & Gabbana shades, a purple V-neck T-shirt, and a dangling gold medallion that waved at Night like a sailor docking at his home port. Through the intercom Sy replied, "Happy as always, my friend."

  "Just take a seat," Night said, and Sy reclined on the long brown sofa behind the board. Before D could ask, Night told him, "Sy is my herbalist. I mean, he's legit. He mixes up teas and shit for energy, calmness, and all that. When my throat gets rough he mixes up a mean lemon, honey, and tea thing that soothes it."

  "Herbalist to the LA stars?"

  "We are out in Hollywood, D."

  "No, we are in the fucking hot-ass Valley, Night. That's where we are. Now, this Sy guy. Just herbs, right?"

  "For me, D. That's all I need from him."

  "Okay, let's see what kind of potions he brought you today."

  Night had met Sy at the Equinox on Sunset where the Persian and a couple of homeys were lifting weights. At first Night was a bit suspicious, since that Equinox location had an active gay pickup scene and lots of steroid-enhanced pectoral muscles. But Night saw that Sy was friendly with the scores of tight-bunned, heavily made-up, ab-obsessed women who sashayed through. He was a regular at the Nice Guy, Craig's, and the other trendy Hollywood hangs where the city's moneyed youth partied and awaited a Kardashian-like moment of social media fame. Sy claimed multiple businesses, one of which was supplements. So Night had asked him to stop by the studio with a medley of pills for various ailments. Al was dubious about Night's new friend, but not hostile, so D likewise remained courteous but cautious in greeting him. He'd met a lot of high-end drug dealers in his club security days, and Sy definitely had the pedigree.

  "It's all about energy, isn't it?" Sy said. "We all need the strength, endurance, and power. We know what we have to do and what we want to do. But without the energy there's no intensity and without intensity, what can you really get done? That's what I help people achieve, D."

  Night had clearly bought this line, seeking something medical and magical to get his album over the creative hump.

  After Sy left, D examined several pill bottles and looked up the ingredients on the web, which led him to believe it was all organic—but then, so were the coca leafs in Colombia.

  "I'm not doing drugs, D."

  "Really. I heard you were poppin' Viagra like cough drops."

  Night laughed. "Okay, you got me. I've been known to pop a gentle blue pill."

  "Or two."

  "Yeah," Night admitted. "Or two."

  "But all joking aside, you got to watch what you're taking and watch what Sy is giving you. You can get dependent on anything. It may not be shit from the street, but over-the-counter these days can actually be worse. This stuff he gave you all seems well and good. I just don't wanna see you strung out on oxycodone or some other white-boy opiate. You feel me?"

  "Of course," Night said, but D didn't believe him. He knew addicts could be like vampires. The motherfucking thirst was never too far from their minds. Whether it was sucking blood or a crack pipe, the sun couldn't stop that thirst from rising up. He'd been hired to keep Night stable. He would do his best, but memories of his days babysitting tortured singers made his soul sour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SERENE POWERS IS NO JOKE

  Eva sang with husky sensuality and a coquettish vibrato that blended full-blown woman with nubile teen. This alluring vocal combination was enhanced by black leggings, a velvet jacket with matching bra, and a taut brown midriff. Her hair was a crimson-and-black natural. Her milk-chocolate skin shined under the stage lights and her round eyes were inviting. D now understood why his old client Ride was so enthralled with her, especially while he'd been sitting in an Upstate New York prison cell.

  As D checked the room, he didn't see the huge ex-con among the stylish young Hollywood crowd at the Hotel Café. At six foot seven with large shoulders and the haunted face of a `horror-film victim, Ride stood out everywhere he went, but in this modest, music-loving LA hangout, he'd have been impossible to miss.

  D hung out by the small bar in the back of Hotel Café listening as Eva sang soul covers interspersed with hooks from hip hop hits. It was like Eva and her band—a white guitarist with a brown five o'clock shadow and a short Asian keyboardist/laptop manipulator—were trying to sound like a DJ doing a live remix. D smiled when Eva wailed on a cover of Dr. Funk's "Pleasure," a much-sampled soul jam, when suddenly he felt someone staring.

  If Ronda Rousey was dark brown with a short Halle Berry cut, wore aviator glasses and a beige hoodie, well, this would be her. The woman, who was standing across from the bar, radiated palpable power. Her muscles were at rest but D could sense she was dangerous. He figured he could take her if it came down to it, but it wouldn't be pretty.

  D received a text from Ride: I'm outside. Eva sounds good, right? See ya soon. The crowd, small but very much into the singer, applauded as Eva stepped offstage.

  D replied: Why didn't you come in? I'll be right out.

  When D glanced up from his phone the black Rousey was gone. He paid for his two ginger ales as the next act set up. Eva, her two bandmates, and a couple of friends walked out of a back door that took them onto busy Cahuenga Boulevard.

  As D stepped through the hotel café's front door, which was actually in an alley off Cahuenga, he heard a scream. When he reached the boulevard he saw the black Ronda Rousey kick Ride in the kneecap and drop him to the street with a short left. The big man stumbled backward, his body falling atop several Hollywood stars.

  "Oh no," Eva shouted, "you didn't have to do that!"

  The black Ronda Rousey, looking quite calm, said, "I can't stand seeing a man put his hands on a woman."

  "He wouldn't have hurt me," Eva said.

  "It looked like he was already hurting you," she replied.

  D bent down to see how Ride was doing. Black Rousey, calm and cool, stared at D.

  "Ride, can you get up?"

  "Nawn, D. That bitch fucked up my knee."

  "Ride!" It was Eva. "I can't believe you'd roll up on me like that."

  "Like what? Like you run away from Brooklyn with my money and I wouldn't try to find you?"

  "Who is this guy?" the guitarist asked Eva.

  "Who am I?" Ride said. "I'm her man." He tried to rise up from the ground but groaned before falling back on his ass.

  "Stay down, Ride," D said. "I'll call an ambulance."

  "C'mon, man. You know my pedigree. Get me out of here."

  D braced himself to lift the big man off the ground. Eva stood five feet away, talking with her bandmates, clearly unsure what to do vis-à-vis Ride.

  D watched black Rousey move up the block toward Hollywood Boulevard, seeming pl
eased with herself. She turned, nodded at D, and then kept on going. "Who was that?" he asked.

  "I have no idea," Ride said. "Please get me out of here before five-o comes."

  D put Ride's considerable weight on his shoulder and moved him slowly in the direction of Sunset. He felt Eva take a couple of steps behind them and then stop. Ride had his head down, embarrassed on every level.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later Ride was stretched out on a faux-leather sofa with a bag of ice wrapped around his bare knee. He balanced a Dos Equis on his forehead. A plate of rice and refried beans sat on his chest. "You sure you don't want a beer?" he asked.

  D declined the offer. "You don't feel grabbing a woman by the arm is putting your hands on her?" he asked.

  "Like I said, D, I just wanted to talk to her. But she kept walking. I mean, she knew I would show up."

  "You called her?"

  "Well, she should have been ready, you know."

  A little Latino boy, around seven or so, walked into the room with a bottle of mango juice. "Mi madre wants to know if you'd like this," he said to D, his small, curious eyes surveying the man's all-black ensemble.

  "Tell your mother thanks, but no, I'm leaving in a minute. What's your name again?"

  "Emilio," the kid said.

  "Well, Emilio, I want you to do me a favor."

  Emilio glanced over at Ride to see what he thought. Ride gave him a small nod.

  "Emilio," D continued, "I want you to make sure my friend here stays in the house and doesn't do anything else silly tonight. Can you do that?"