He bent down and squeezed the backpack through the bars and deep under some bushes. Using his cell phone as a flashlight, D made sure the bag was fully covered. Satisfied, he stood up, looked around, and continued west. His new apartment was just a few blocks away. He needed to sleep. Only after that would he turn his attention to the only question that mattered: what the fuck had just happened?
. . . TIL THE COPS COME KNOCKIN’
The next day the NY1 Time Warner cable channel reported that a shoot-out between two New York City policemen and two gunmen ended in the deaths of the two criminals. The official story was that two off-duty officers were walking toward their cars at the end of their shift when they were fired upon by a man from a jeep and one on foot. The off-duty officers returned fire. The two shooters, Aaron Hall and Dalvin DeGrate, had long rap sheets for violent crimes and some association with a branch of an East New York drug gang. There was a recently opened real estate office on Livonia Avenue and police theorized that the gunmen mistook them for employees of that new company and were attempting a robbery. Apparently the owners had recently reported extortion attempts to the local precinct. There was no mention of anyone matching D’s description.
D chewed on his oatmeal laced with almond butter and mulled over the news report. It was going down as a botched robbery attempt in an area known for crime. Manhattan makes it, Brooklyn takes it was still a mantra in some parts of BK. While D’s absence from the report was a momentary relief, it created a host of new worries. That cop seemed to know something about the backpack. Unlikely, yet he had been real interested in the bag when he should have been focused on the kid with the box cutter.
It was one thing to have those now-dead fools chase him and take potshots. It was another for his role in a deadly shoot-out washed clean off the books. That Latino cop would definitely remember his face. Would someone connect the incident at the fight club to this shoot-out?
D sat back on his sofa and took stock of his life. He hadn’t lived in Brooklyn for decades and certainly never expected to again after he’d left like Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever, Alfred Kazin in A Walker in the City, and thousands of other Brooklynites who’d crossed the East River to make their mark. Brooklyn was a place of your roots but not your future, unless you planned on being a cop, crook, civil servant, or candy store owner. Brooklyn had been a place to visit, Manhattan a place to thrive.
But all that had been turned upside down. Post–9/11 Fort Greene, once a site of brownstone house parties, Spike Lee joints, and butter wavy bohemian girls, was now a leafy adjunct to Manhattan—and Clinton Hill was close behind. Do-or-die Bed-Stuy, while still having deep pockets of both black ownership and poverty, was full of white pioneers getting off the C and A trains after work.
Even in the Ville, the never-ran-and-never-will land of D’s youth, there were signs of protogentrification amid the microgangs and stop-and-frisk-obsessed cops. It would be a long time before his beloved (and detested) Brownsville would see serious change, but a lot of locals saw stop-and-frisk as an urban pacification tactic, and D, who knew more about plots against black people than he’d like to, couldn’t totally dismiss the paranoia. Why else would that AKBK Realty office be situated on dark, deserted Livonia Avenue?
D had looked for a place in Fort Greene and Clinton Hill, but couldn’t find anything affordable. Through the manager of a rap group D got a line on a reasonable rental apartment in Prospect Heights, a relatively small patch of real estate surrounded by Bedford-Stuyvesant, Clinton Hill, Park Slope, and Crown Heights. His place was just off Washington Avenue, a few blocks down from Eastern Parkway and three of the borough’s cultural touchstones—the Brooklyn Museum, the Botanic Garden, and Prospect Park. On the northwest edge of Prospect Park, next to Flatbush, was a faux version of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe that D always thought was kinda weak after seeing the real thing a few years back.
In the opposite direction, going east on Eastern Parkway, was Franklin Avenue, which used to be the gateway to Crown Heights but was now home to a mini-Williamsburg with hipster bars, artisanal restaurants, and gourmet grocery stores. These days, if you walked across Eastern Parkway going south you’d be in another world. Hunkered down on the north side of the parkway was a deeply entrenched Hassidic community, folks who hadn’t left when all the other white people in that section of Brooklyn had fled and were still here now when a new wave of white folks were arriving.
The Hassidim had survived the blackout of ’77, the primal racial violence that followed the killing of the black child Gavin Cato by a Jewish man driving a station wagon in ’91, and various small-scale confrontations with police, hipsters, and real estate developers. Despite being perpetrators of racial profiling years before the term had been invented, D respected the Hassidim, viewing them as one of the city’s renegade posses, who looked upon everyone else in the city with a wary skepticism. Vigilantism in defense of your property was, in D’s eyes, not only logical but necessary. That’s what life in New York City had taught him. His D Security company, though now failing, was, in his mind, a secular extension of the way the Hassidim guarded their homesteads in Crown Heights, Williamsburg, and wherever else they wore their black hats.
His new apartment had one bedroom, a bathroom with a big old deep tub, a good-size living room, and a dining area next to a narrow kitchen. A letter his mother had written to him long ago about survival and love was already hung up by the dining table. He was sitting on the blue sofa he’d brought over from his soon-to-be-closed Soho office. He’d also brought over a file cabinet and safe. From his Manhattan apartment on Seventh Avenue in the 20s, he’d moved his pots and pans, the dining room table, and sundry household items. So his new Brooklyn place was a mash-up of both his old office and home.
This prewar building had lots of marble in its lobby and two rickety elevators to serve its seven floors. It was the first time since D had fled Brownsville’s Tilden projects that he was living in a building with elevators and a shared incinerator. He’d vowed back then that he would never again live in a high-rise, which this was not—but the idea of having to share an incinerator with his neighbors irked him, reminding him of countless days stuffing garbage bags down the shoot at 315 Livonia. Sometimes his neighbors wouldn’t shove their bags all the way down back then, so he’d have to push on their garbage as well his family’s mess, a distasteful chore that still made his teeth grind. Hopefully the folks in his new building, who were paying good money for the privilege, would be more conscientious. He knew it would take a minute to get really comfortable in his new home/office. Still, there was one looming decision to make: what to paint the walls?
D got up from his sofa and walked over to the wall behind his flat-screen TV. He sat on the floor next to three cans of black paint, two brushes, and a large bottle of Poland Spring water. In his Manhattan apartment all surfaces had been black. Even the wall plugs and light switches had been painted black by the time he moved out. The sheets on his bed were a dark sepia. Over time he’d added a variety of charcoals. But the core of his self-created cave was “as black as the ace of spades,” as his mother once said dismissively.
Was that what he needed in this return to Brooklyn? He’d only been back two days and shit was jumping off. Black probably wasn’t the move. At least not yet. He took a gulp of Poland Spring, clicked off the TV, took in the sun on this nice early-spring afternoon, and headed out into his new Brooklyn hood.
Welcome home, D thought as he stood there on Washington Avenue. Welcome home.
At that moment, two men in suits emerged from a car double parked on the street. One was big, burly, and white. The other was light brown with a porn-star mustache and an air of superiority that reeked worse than his cologne.
The white one said, “Mr. D Hunter?”
“Yes, officer,” D replied as he sized up them up.
“I’m Detective Otis Mayfield and this is Detective William Robinson.” They did a quick badge flip for D.
“Okay, office
rs,” D said, noting that they didn’t seem ready to arrest him.
“We’d like to talk with you,” Mayfield explained. “Can we come inside?”
“Officers, I was just going to get something to eat. You can join me if you’d like.”
Mayfield and Robinson seemed cool about it. Didn’t come to play hardball, though D knew they would love to have been invited inside. D started walking and they flanked him, with Mayfield doing the talking.
“Welcome back to Brooklyn, Mr. Hunter.”
“Strange to be back,” D said. “Never thought I’d be living here again.”
“Not the same place, is it?”
“Yes and no. New people. High-rise condos. The Nets. But I feel like its core hasn’t changed,” D said. “At least not yet.”
* * *
D sat at a table at the Saint Catherine on Washington and sipped on a large chai latte. Facing him were the two detectives, with Mayfield again asking the questions.
“Yes,” Mayfield said, “Brownsville is still Brownsville.”
“I know.” D’s stomach got tight but he hoped his face hadn’t. Was this about the fight club or Livonia Avenue or both?
“When was the last time you were in Brownsville, Mr. Hunter?”
D decided to start with a lie. “A few days ago. I visited a young man who works for me sometimes. Raymond Robinson. Lives at 360 Livonia Avenue. Apartment 8G with his mother Janelle.”
Mayfield smiled and looked at Robinson. “That’s very forthcoming, Mr. Hunter. When was your last time in Brownsville before that?”
“That was awhile ago. I’d have to see my calendar.”
“If you got Gmail it would be in Google Docs.” Mayfield was trying to sound helpful, D thought, but he detected a note of sarcasm in the detective’s voice. D could also feel some heat radiating off Detective Robinson, but clearly he was biding his time.
“Have you ever done security work for Asya Roc?”
“I’ve worked for A. Roc Productions a few times and, in so doing, had to put in some time with Asya Roc.”
“So,” Mayfield pressed, “the answer is yes?”
“Yes.”
“We have eyewitnesses who put you at an illegal boxing match in Brownsville last night. You were there working for Asya Roc.”
D didn’t say anything. He waited for the other shoe to drop.
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” D said, “as I see you already know. Sorry I wasn’t forthcoming on that. I didn’t wanna get involved or involve my client.”
“So what happened?” Mayfield was talking like they were friends now. “We know you’re not a bad guy. A lot of people in the department and in the entertainment business vouch for you. But protecting these knuckleheads can put good people in bad positions.”
In response D told a detailed but imprecise account of the evening’s events. He explained that Asya had rolled to Brownsville on the way to JFK. When the rapper needed to use the restroom, some minor league gangsta types tried to stick him up. D admitted to punching one robber before pulling the entertainer out of there. The car took Asya to the airport and off he went to England. End of story.
D omitted the guns, being chased around Brownsville by two thugs, and the subsequent shoot-out. He anxiously waited for the two detectives to ask him about Livonia Avenue.
“Someone mentioned a possible gun sale,” Mayfield said. He plopped a mug shot down on the table. “We suspect this guy was the salesman.” It was a photo of Ice.
“I know Ice. I saw him there last night. But I didn’t see any transaction of that kind. In fact, the only thing I saw Ice do was bet on a couple of fights.”
Mayfield looked at him quizzically. “Wasn’t he involved in some sort of altercation?”
“When we came out of the restroom there was a beef among some of the bettors. That’s to be expected. If I’d had my way we would never have even gone in there. Anyway, I got Asya out of that spot as quick as I could. He’ll probably write a rhyme about how he shot his way out, but believe me, I grabbed the little motherfucker by his collar and carried his ass out the door.”
The two detectives laughed. This was good, D thought. But they didn’t say anything about Ice getting shot. Did they know? Would they tell D if they did? Maybe Ice hadn’t gone to a hospital?
“So you went with Mr. Roc to JFK?” Mayfield asked.
This was a big, dangerous lie. He knew Asya and his people wouldn’t cop to buying guns in a restroom. He’d be cool on that. But Asya would have to lie for D. He’d have to rely on that young MC to protect him. The kid would have a nice negotiating chip to give the police if he needed one later—he could toss D on the gun possession charges if he had to. But if D didn’t get in the car to JFK, where was he? He would have been in Brownsville during the time of the Livonia shooting, a much more serious affair. If someone showed those two cops D’s photo he’d soon be answering questions in a small room alongside a lawyer.
As casually as possible D said, “No.” The detectives looked at each other, trying not to act surprised. “I went back inside the fight club and caught a couple more bouts before heading home.”
“Okay,” Mayfield said.
D knew that JFK had cameras everywhere. They could easily go find shots of Asya Roc in the terminal sans his black-clad security guard. So he decided a small lie trumped a big one.
“My spidey sense tells me you aren’t telling the whole truth, Mr. Hunter.” Robinson’s voice was soft, almost feminine, quite a contrast to his large body.
“Well,” D said, “what makes you say that?”
“Any number of reasons. Gun possession by your rapper client could cost him serious time. And you too, if you were there and do not cooperate with us. Something to think about, Mr. Bodyguard. But if Ice was there and you ID him being there with the guns, a lot can be forgiven. A lot.” Robinson slid his card out of jacket pocket and passed it across the table.
“Keep us in mind,” Mayfield said as the two officers stood up.
Robinson added, “Welcome home, D.”
D watched them walk out the door, sighed, and ordered another chai latte.
COUNTRY BOY & CITY GIRL
It was D’s last day in his Soho office. Most of the furniture was gone. The conference room was already empty. The table, the walkie-talkies, their chargers, the lockers filled with blue suits and T-shirts, had already been sent to storage or sold. The room was bare save two metal chairs, a couple of ancient platinum records leaned up against a wall, and a brown box that sat at his feet. Inside were twenty blue buttons with gold Ds shining in the middle. When D Security had record labels as clients, these buttons had graced the lapels of his many employees as a symbol of his company’s professionalism. Now they sat, useless as old tokens, in a box at his feet.
The record business had been contracting since Napster introduced mass downloading at the turn of the century and had fallen off the cliff when iTunes disrupted the game a few years later. D had been forced to close D Security’s Soho office to cut overhead and scale back his staff, using only the most experienced folks, as competition for even the lowest security positions at drugstore gigs had become merciless, much less high-paying corporate jobs, which multinational paramilitary groups were scooping up.
After 9/11, people really wanted security. But now there were so many off-duty cops looking for extra cash that the market was flooded with burly guys licensed to carry firearms. There was a glut of security people who themselves were financially insecure. Moreover, physical security, while useful, had become old-fashioned. Cybersecurity was where the money was. Could you detect and repel hackers? If the answer was no, you were just a big piece of meat in a suit. D barely understood his damn BlackBerry, a device that labeled him as ancient as his Earthlink address. D wasn’t just getting older—something he savored considering his brothers’ early deaths—but was becoming functionally obsolete.
* * *
D was fondling one of his old c
ompany buttons when Edgecombe Lenox entered his office like the ghost of rhythm & blues past. Edge (as he’d been known in music circles) was wearing a three-piece royal-blue pinstriped suit, an egg shell–colored shirt, a floppy white felt hat with a royal-blue ban, a fat periwinkle-blue tie, whisper-thin gold chains, and powder-blue, pointy-toed shoes with thin blue socks. It was an outfit Bobby “Blue” Bland would have sold his soul for. Edge’s gray facial hair had largely been dyed black and shaped into a sinister goatee. He also sported two defiant primo Walt “Clyde” Frazier circa 1973 muttonchop sideburns. A gold blue-faced watch adorned his left wrist and a gold bracelet hung from his right, while his fingers were filled with an assortment of rings, including a sparkling diamond on his left pinky that was bling-bling decades before Lil Wayne was conceived.
D stood up, gazed at this vision of blaxploitation glamour, and said, “Whoa.”
“Good to see you too, young blood.”
Edge’s grip was firm, though his fingers were bony and flesh loose. Seventy-five was D’s best guess of his age.
“When you said you were coming downtown to see me I was surprised, but damn, Edge, I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Life is long, young blood,” Edge said, smiling. There were several teeth missing but the man’s mouth hung proudly open. “Until they toss that dirt on, things just keep on happening.”
D had last seen Edge about two years earlier at the Bronx nursing home that had been the man’s residence for a decade. D had been looking into the murder of his mentor, the music historian Dwayne Robinson, and a possible conspiracy to destroy and/or control hip hop. Edge had provided no material insight into Dwayne’s sad death, but the elder had related tales of paranoid government programs and deadly federal directives that lingered in the younger man’s mind and, to some degree, proved prophetic about the plot against hip hop. Today’s talk was not to be about black blood spilled or anti–civil rights espionage, however, but of music lost that D never knew existed.
To Funk and Die in LA Page 23
