The Accidental Hunter

by Nelson George

  Just a block from the waterfront, they came to a big, brown-brick warehouse. In front of a green door, Night and Tandi sat blindfolded with blue bandannas tight around their heads. They were handcuffed to each other and to a door handle. D’s driver stopped in front of the pair and, without any urging, D hopped off and went over to his friend. He pulled off the bandanna and asked the obvious questions. As Night said he was all right, D noted that his eyes were red and glazed, like those of a man who’d been toking some hellaciously strong chronic. Tandi possessed the same Buddha-blessed look with her blindfold off. When D turned around, he saw that the lady in black was holding a Desert Eagle automatic. “The money,” she said crisply.

  “The key,” he replied.

  The lime-green biker reached into his jacket and pulled out a small key. D took the Nike bag from around his neck and walked it over to the lady in black. He tried to peer under her visor. If Night and Tandi had not been behind him, D would have snatched the helmet right off her head and punched her lights out. Instead, he noticed she wore a white turtleneck, which covered her skin. D thought she was black, but her voice could just as easily have been that of a white girl who’d grown up around black folks.

  She grabbed the bag out of his hands, looked inside, and did a quick count. Once satisfied, she nodded to her teammate, and the lime-green driver tossed the keys up in the air. By the time they’d come down and D had turned to free Night and Tandi, the engines of the kidnappers’ bikes were roaring. They took off in opposite directions. D’s eyes followed the lime-green driver down the street. He smiled. I think I know you, motherfucker, D thought. I bet it’s you.

  * * *

  That evening, the light disappeared softly over Manhattan. From Night’s apartment in Trump Plaza, Central Park spread out green and fluffy with the beige and gray stone structures of Fifth Avenue rising behind it like thick candles on a lovely, dark, lime-flavored cake. D gazed out at this gorgeous scene but couldn’t really appreciate it. It wasn’t simply that he’d stood there before (he had, and often), but that the sight was no diversion from the shouting going on behind him.

  “D, man,” Night pleaded, “come over here and talk some sense to Ivy!”

  On either end of a cushy vanilla-colored couch sat Ivy, in black velour Sean Jean warm-ups, and Night, in a number 34 Boston Celtics white and green basketball jersey and black shorts. Ivy was rolling a fat Phillie Blunt as Night gestured and spoke.

  “Tell him we need to call the police and let them know how this went down. We can’t let them get away with this.”

  “And what makes you think the cops would catch them?” Ivy said. He licked the tobacco leaf lovingly, rolled it around in his palm, and passed it over to his client. “Sure,” Ivy continued, “if we brought in the FBI, maybe they could run these kids down. But I believe if word got out that you had been snatched, it would set off a whole chain reaction of copycat jacks. Nobody has any original ideas anymore. You do something foul; five other people wanna get in at the same party. You jack a beat; somebody jacks the same beat. You snatch a child; somebody else snatches a child. If that started happening in show business, it could get out of hand quick, fast, and in a hurry.”

  Night puffed on the Phillie, reflecting on Ivy’s words. He wasn’t convinced of the man’s logic, but then Ivy was THE MAN—he had years of experience and Night had only been in this game a minute. He didn’t necessarily want to butt heads with the guy who’d put him on. D sat down quietly on the love seat across from the couch, observing his old friend and current employer, trying to balance his integrity with his financial need.

  “C’mon, D, what you think, dog?”

  “Ivy,” D asked, “did you have any indication that this might happen?”

  “Of course,” Ivy said dismissively. “I get messages all the time that a bunch of motorcyclists are gonna kidnap one of my acts.”

  D, ignoring Ivy’s sarcasm, pressed on: “You’re telling me your office doesn’t receive any threats against your acts?”

  “No,” he replied, “I’m not telling you that. There are a lot of crazies out there, D. You probably know that better than I do.”

  “So you ignore them?”

  “Listen,” Ivy said, “we shouldn’t have this conversation in front of Night.”

  “And why’s that?” Night wondered.

  “I don’t want you getting paranoid. You need to be focused on singing and performing and being a sex symbol. That’s a full-time job, as you’ve discovered.”

  “So these guys get away with snatching my ass and damn near blowing out my eardrums?”

  “No. We will eventually bring this to the attention of the police. But if it gets out there too early, as police investigations involving celebrities always do, it disrupts what we’re building. You are a star, not a victim, and I don’t want the media viewing you that way.”

  Night agreed with that, nodding as he pulled harder on the blunt. He held on to the joint, studied it in his hands a moment, and then sucked again. He didn’t offer a hit to either of his companions.

  “Besides,” Ivy said, “I have a better idea.”

  Night’s cell played the melody to Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” and he picked it up from under his bare feet. “Hey,” he greeted, and from the tone of his voice it was clear Tandi was on the line. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, then stood and retired to his bedroom with the cell to his ear and the Phillie in his other hand.

  “You’re holding back, Ivy,” D said once Night was out of earshot.

  “A little,” Ivy admitted. “I’d gotten a couple of calls on my cell that caught my attention, and they caught my attention because they had my cell number.” He paused, measuring D a moment. “You still think there’s some connection between this guy who hangs out at Emily’s Tea Party and the guy you rode with?”

  “Yeah, there was just something about how he carried himself. The shape of his body. I watch people all the time to see who will and won’t cause trouble, and he struck me as trouble. I’ve already let all my people know that if he shows up at any place we do security to let me know.”

  “Okay,” Ivy said, leaning forward. “I got a proposition for you. I want you to provide some bodyguards for Night. They’ll be on twenty-four-hour call.”

  “Definitely doable.”

  “And I want you to go look for that guy. Obviously, keep your eye out at clubs, but maybe check out any bike clubs.”

  “I’m not a detective, Ivy. That’s a different job.”

  “Shit, your name is Hunter,” he said, laughing. “Don’t be reluctant. A businessman knows when it’s time to expand his services and his portfolio.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars in cash—off the books, tax free—to just go around and ask questions.” Ivy began rolling another Phillie. “You can use your team to do that, but I have a special cake gig for you, D.”

  “Cake gig?”

  “Yeah, nothing but icing and vanilla flavor.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “It’s just hanging out with a sweet young lady for a couple of months.” Ivy turned his attention to wrapping the marijuana inside the Phillie tobacco and then rolling it between his palms.

  “I’m not a babysitter, Ivy.”

  “Don’t worry, D, she doesn’t wear diapers. It just looks like she does.” The manager lit the Phillie, took a hit, and leaned back with a smile.

  “Green lights as far as the eye can see!” Night sang as he walked back into the room. “The whole time those motherfuckers just played that song twenty-four-seven—pumping it into the room they held me in. Don’t know what it was supposed to mean, but I’m sure it meant something.” Night started singing again as he plopped back down onto the sofa.

  “I remember it from when I was a kid,” D said. “My mother used to listen to it all the time. ‘Green Lights’ by Adrian Dukes. It was probably her favorite song.” He turned to the suddenly silent Ivy. “You used
to manage Adrian Dukes. Do you think there’s some connection?”

  “Forget it,” Ivy advised. “It was some old cut they got off some Rhino compilation. They picked out some old shit just to fuck with Night.” He sat up and passed the Phillie to D. “It’s a stupid joke, that’s all.” D took a hit and then passed the Phillie to Night.

  “Green lights,” Night sang. “Green motherfucking lights.” Then he took another hit and laid his head back.

  * * *

  After leaving Night’s apartment, D went downtown to his office to begin preparing for D Security’s move into bodyguard work and private investigation. It was an organic shift, one D had wanted to do in a year or so when the company was on firmer financial footing. Yet here was an opportunity, a sad one since it was caused by a friend’s misfortune, but one he’d be a fool not to take advantage of. After talking with Jeff about deployment and looking through his papers to judge the insurance and legal ramifications, D exited 580 Broadway while debating whether to get something to eat or cab it up to his apartment. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice at first when two white males in Today’s Man suits exited a car and flashed badges.

  “What’s this about?” D shouted as he was cuffed and stuffed into the backseat.

  Detective Bernard Bernstein, a rotund man with a puffy, pink face, spoke to D in a high-pitched bureaucratic voice: “A friend in Brooklyn wants to see you. He knows you’ve been busy, so he figured you’d appreciate a lift.”

  Now D got it and asked casually, “Do I really need the cuffs?”

  “Well,” Bernstein replied, “it’ll make us look good when we bring you in.”

  “Come on,” D said.

  “Sorry,” Bernstein said back, “but to be honest, he told us to cuff you.”

  D rolled his eyes and tried to make himself comfortable on the hard seat. He put his head on his chest and dozed off and didn’t really wake up until he was seated inside the detectives’ room in a police precinct in Brownsville, Brooklyn. D cooled his heels by watching bored cops, fearful parents, and the sullen poses of teenagers fronting lethal minds.

  “Come with me.” Bernstein lifted D out of the chair and moved him along as a butcher does a rack of beef. Inside an office, looking comfortable behind a battered metal desk, with a pipe in one hand, a phone in the other, and Jesus on the cross on the wall behind him, Detective Tyrone Williams, a.k.a. Fly Ty, glared at D, who returned the favor. The detective motioned with his head and Bernstein deposited D in a metal straight-backed chair.

  Bernstein uncuffed D and exited wordlessly as Williams said into the phone, “No, I haven’t yet interrogated the witness, but I will soon.” A pause. “Oh, yes, he’ll cooperate.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll get back to you presently.” Williams shook his woolly walnut head as he hung up. “Now, why did you tell me to beep you all those many months ago,” he began roughly, “when, young man, you had no intention of ever returning my pages?”

  “I got busy,” D said with attitude. “When did you get your own office?”

  “See?” the detective continued in his same tough tone. “The things you learn when you communicate with your relatives.”

  D corrected him: “We’re not blood, Fly Ty.”

  He corrected D: “One, your mother made me your godfather. Two, don’t call me that again. It’s Detective or Tyrone and nothing else or I’ll lock up your all-black-wearing ass.”

  D countered, “You suggested becoming my godfather. It wasn’t even her idea.”

  Williams put a fresh match to his pipe and came back with his all-purpose reply: “Jesus Christ brought us together, Dervin.”

  “It’s D, Fly Ty.”

  “D. Okay,” he said, grinning.

  Bernstein opened the door. “Excuse me, Detective. We think we got the perp in the Tapley shooting. Anderson is with him in interview room C.”

  “Tell him to start without me.” Williams stood up. His belly, once flat and firm, now round and ample, pressed against his white shirt and tasteful blue-and-gold-speckled tie. Not as slick as he used to be, D mused, but still better put together than his coworkers. When Williams sat on the front of the desk, D noticed his Italian loafers. D half smiled, remembering how Fly Ty’s good taste always made his overbearing nature easier to take.

  “Dervin Hunter, you are running away from your past. I understand that better than anybody except you and your mother. I even respect it ’cause you’ve been so successful in doing it. A lot of people try and can’t. To a degree, you’ve managed to do it. I guess my role in your life is to bring you back to it every now and then.”

  “Your role?” D snorted. “Listen, I never asked you for shit. You started coming over. You reached out to me and I took what I could use. But my life is my life.”

  “To a degree, you’re right. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I promised your mother a long time ago I’d watch out for you.” Williams spoke, as always, quite earnestly, but D was determined not to be swayed.

  So D said, “Please, man,” and turned to gaze out of the room’s dirt-smudged window. Through it he could see the Tilden projects a few blocks away.

  “Okay,” Fly Ty agreed. “You’re a grown man. My promise probably means nothing to you right now.”

  “Good guess, money.”

  Williams had been interrogating arrogant young men for years, so D’s attitude meant nothing to him. It just led him to shift gears. “So let’s talk about why you’re here.” He leaned back and grabbed a police report, which he then offered to D.

  There was one eyewitness account of a fleet of motorcycles surrounding a Jeep on the Belt Parkway about a week ago. There were several reports about the bikes in Union Square, the mad dash through the Village and SoHo, and the journey over the Williamsburg Bridge. Makes, models, and a couple of license plate numbers were recorded. Most telling for D, there was a color photo, apparently taken by an innocent bystander with a disposable camera, of D holding on for dear life to the waist of the biker in lime green.

  “I believe that’s you, Dervin.”

  “Could be,” D replied. “I’m not sure.”

  “You two sure do look comfortable.” Williams chuckled at his own joke. “All this material came my way because the original crime, whatever it was, apparently happened in Brooklyn and, apparently, ended in Brooklyn. It looks to me like someone was kidnapped and that you, Dervin, delivered the ransom money. I’m not sure who was kidnapped, but considering your associations, I figure it was someone in the entertainment business.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Detective,” D said, giving Fly Ty some slight respect for his instincts and investigative skills.

  Williams pulled another file off his desk. He took the first out of D’s hands and replaced it with the second. “Somehow, I believe Ivy Greenwich is involved.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at the file.”

  This file wasn’t as full. It contained reports of incidents of reported threats against various recording acts—all of whom were somehow associated with Ivy. There was even a missing person’s report filed by Tandi Lincoln’s father. He’d later called in to report her return—with no explanation. D read them over quickly and said, “None of this seems to involve Ivy.”

  “On the contrary, Dervin, they all do. Yet neither he nor his office has contacted the police about any of this activity. We learned about all this via the artists themselves, their families, or friends. Looks to me like he’s trying to avoid a real investigation of any of this. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think anything, Fly Ty. I barely know Ivy. I know that Night just came home from a road trip and I assumed Tandi was with him. That’s it. That’s all I can say.”

  Williams stared at him a moment and then removed the file from D’s hand. “Okay,” he said. “Be that way now. But you’ll come to me soon. I know that and so do you.” He sat back behind his desk and lit his pipe. “So what about your mother getting married?”r />
  “It’s her life.”

  “You know this cat?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you want me to look into him? I could.”

  D got up out of the chair and put his hands on Williams’s desk. “You had your chance.” He leaned in and looked the graying man in the eyes. “It didn’t work out. Maybe, at the time, it couldn’t work out. Buy yourself a tux—I know it’ll be a nice one—and come to the wedding. That’s all you need to do.”

  “Dervin, I’ve known you since you were a child. I know how you think. You think this marriage is a joke, just like—”

  D’s laugh made him stop.

  “What?”

  “This,” D responded, “is not about you. It’s about my mother being happy. End of story. Whatever feelings you have for my mother or about her marriage, don’t throw them on me.” There was no way he was going to give Fly Ty the satisfaction of knowing he, too, felt uneasy about his mother’s marriage. It would have made the detective feel good, something D tried to avoid at all costs. “You had your chance back in the day, Fly Ty. Move the fuck on.”

  Williams stood and got right into the younger, bigger man’s face without a trace of fear. “Boy, I will put my foot so far up your ass I’ll be walking on your lips, so watch what you say to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” D said calmly. “I do.”

  D turned to leave. From behind him Fly Ty said, “God bless you, Dervin,” as harshly as that phrase can sound.

  Outside Precinct 77, Dervin found himself back on the streets of Brownsville, a place he had once called home. Twenty-first-century Brownsville was in much better shape than the neighborhood that had molded him. Sure, tall, ugly apartment-style public housing and many decayed, ill-managed tenements from World War II still dominated the area. Public housing, a.k.a. “the projects,” were still hemorrhoids on the ass of mankind—ghettos in the sky that crushed the spirits of generations of poor folk. The genius idea of blowing up dilapidated projects, something that had been happening around the country since the eighties, had not yet been accepted in New York.