The Accidental Hunter

by Nelson George

  * * *

  “Drive careful but fast or I’ll blow your fat Irish head all over the windshield.”

  “No problem, madam. No problem.”

  They’d glided past two police cars unnoticed. Eamon was behind the wheel of his Pink Tuna taxi with a female passenger. Just another night in Montauk. What the police didn’t notice as they sped toward Ditch Plains was that Eamon’s right arm was bleeding steadily onto his pants, or that the woman in the backseat held an expensive weapon against the back of his head, or that the mangled body of her biker boyfriend lay squeezed into the rear of the station wagon. No reason to pay attention to Eamon. A motorcycle gang was wreaking havoc by the beach and the police were on the case.

  * * *

  “What are we gonna do when we get back to New York?”

  “You’re gonna be a pop star and I’m gonna run a security company. Not a damn thing’s changed.”

  “You think I’m that cold.”

  “Bridgette, you’re not cold. You’re not heartless. You’re nothing hard. But I am a realist. So are you. I’m not ready to be a Chris Judd and I don’t believe you’re looking for one.”

  They were now back on Highway 27, right by the old cemetery, the gray pond, and the windmill that introduced one to the main drag of East Hampton. There were a few cars on the road. The Hampton Jitney crossed in front of them, heading into town. The Jitney was going right and D went left. His legs were weary and his back sore. But he kept on pumping. He couldn’t hear the sound of motorcycles and that was all that mattered.

  “D,” she said in his ear, “I think I love you.”

  “Come on, Bridgette, we have a nice vibe. That’s all. We’ve been in an unnatural situation. Once all this gets back to normal, you’ll see. We’ll both see this for what it is.”

  Bridgette knew he was right but she didn’t have another way of defining her feelings for D. If it wasn’t love, what was it? He’d protected her, revealed himself, and made love to her on the beach. That was about as much love as she’d ever experienced in her young life. Sure the situation was “unnatural,” but so was her life.

  D made a right at the big, beautiful white house at the bend of Highway 27 into East Hampton. He loved this house. It looked enchanted, like the place you moved into and lived happily ever after in. He often fantasized about knocking on the white house’s front door and making the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse. D pedaled past the house, under the thick trees that hung over the road, past the bowling alley on his left, past the street that led to Russell Simmons’s summer home (D had provided security for a fundraiser there), and, finally, up to the right turn that led to East Hampton Airport. D heard a loud engine. Instead of looking behind, he looked up and watched a helicopter begin its slow descent.

  The East Hampton Airport was a small airstrip designed for the private planes and the helicopters that ferried the rich and shameless from the city to their summer homes in less than thirty minutes. D was rounding into the parking lot when he heard gunfire. He threw himself, the bike, and Bridgette to the ground. But the bullets weren’t headed their way. A window on the helicopter exploded and a Pink Tuna taxi was coming up the street with a woman firing out the passenger-side window. D scooped Bridgette into his arms and began running toward the landing strip.

  The helicopter floated in the air, halfway between escape and landing. D spied two people gesturing in the cockpit. He kept running. A bullet whizzed by. He kept running. Bridgette felt weightless in his arms. The helicopter came down and landed. Dust and wind clouded D’s eyes. Bridgette screamed as D fell to the ground. A bullet stung his left leg. Fly Ty jumped out of the helicopter, his police-issue revolver blazing. Bridgette scrambled to her feet and ran toward the helicopter. D rose to one knee. Fly Ty fired again, giving D some cover. D got to his feet, ran toward the helicopter, and launched himself in. Fly Ty fired again and again. The Pink Tuna taxi went in reverse. Fly Ty got in and closed the door. The helicopter elevated. Bridgette took off her shirt and shoved it against D’s wound. Another bullet from the ground penetrated the helicopter, which wobbled but didn’t fall.

  D said to his friend, “Sometimes I love you like old-school R&B.”

  “Well,” Fly Ty responded, “sometimes you have good taste.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jeff Fuchs sat on the right side of the table. Mercedez was on the left. They sat looking at each other, not smiling but not hostile either. They could hear D in the other room talking loudly on the phone. They couldn’t make out the words but the anger was obvious. Finally D went silent. A few moments later the conference room door opened and the owner and founder of D Security walked in. If you didn’t know a nine-millimeter bullet had cut through his body just above the left hip, you’d think maybe D was a little tired, perhaps a little depressed. Not injured actually—just a bit cranky.

  “I’m not fucking with those Source motherfuckers ever again,” he announced to his two employees. “Life is way too short for this.” D sat down in his usual place at the head of the table, his brown face red and his eyes mean. “They’re making it impossible for us to do a good job. It’s like the whole damn event is organized to ruin our reputation.”

  “I hear you,” Mercedez said, trying to be supportive.

  “Fuck you, D.” Jeff wasn’t having it. “Stop fucking with us. Stop it.”

  “Okay,” D said with a small smile.

  “What’s going on?” Mercedez was lost.

  “D has been spending a lot of time with that old detective, so he’s in cop mode. He’s really talking about us but not saying it. Isn’t that right, D?”

  “Well, that’s very psychological of you, Jeff. I don’t know that I’m that sneaky. I am mad at The Source’s management. And I am mad at both of you.”

  “Well, bring it, then.”

  “Okay. You have been using Emily’s Tea Party to skim money for yourselves. People order champagne but get X or coke instead. Been doing it for months. Emily reviewed the tapes and caught you kicking it with the offending floor manager on several occasions. And if I can stumble into it, so can the cops. Isn’t that right, Mercedez?”

  “I guess so, but I’m not in it,” she said petulantly.

  “Yeah, you missed that one?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Jeff didn’t put you down with that, did he?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Well, you had your own thing,” he said, “so it was no biggie.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you’ve been double-dipping too,” D replied aggressively. “But your shit really stinks.”

  “I didn’t do anything too wrong.”

  “You got down with someone in Bridgette’s camp—Ivy, Rodney, maybe the old security guard Hubert, maybe even Jen. And whoever that was slid info to the kidnappers about Bridgette’s movements. You must know that by now.”

  Mercedez didn’t speak. She looked toward Jeff for guidance, but he stared right past her toward the wall. He was exposed too, though his loyalty still remained with D.

  “Jen didn’t trust you.” Mercedez spoke haltingly. “And she really didn’t trust Ivy. She was trying to get busy with Rodney and finally did get with him, so he fed her suspicions. We—you—were hired by Ivy, so—” She stopped suddenly and sighed. “It don’t matter what I say now. I know I was wrong. I made some extra money but it didn’t turn out right. That’s what happened.”

  “So you took those pictures to help Jen break up Rodney’s marriage?”

  “Yes.” She looked sad and contrite, but D wasn’t finished with her.

  “Is that why you started doing my man here?” he said, gesturing toward Jeff.

  “You have no right to ask me that.”

  Jeff looked at her now, hoping to hear something good, but her indignant reply made his heart sink.

  “Maybe you’re right,” D said, “but since you betrayed me, I’m just trying to see where you draw the line.”<
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  Finally Jeff spoke up: “Don’t do this, D. She was high. I was high. I thought it would be something but it never became any more than what it was.” Mercedez didn’t correct him, so Jeff went on being gallant. “I was under a lot of pressure, D. I was running a lot of things for D Security while you were sweating—oh, excuse me—protecting your own client.”

  “Okay,” D said with great finality. He was feeling a little guilty himself at that moment. “I hear you, Jeff. I really do. I think we all have expressed ourselves. We all know how we feel about each other.” When Mercedez stood up, D asked, “Where you going?”

  “I’m leaving. I mean, I’m fired, right?”

  “Sit down, Mercedez. You’re not leaving unless you quit. Do you quit?”

  Mercedez looked at Jeff. He nodded and forced a smile. Mercedez sat back down.

  D peered at her and leaned forward. “You are a valuable member of this organization. I mean that. You’re resourceful and smart. But since you’re staying with D Security, you owe us your loyalty and as much of the truth as you can give. Jeff and I need to know everything you know about Jen and this situation.”

  “What about Jeff?” she asked. “I’m not the only person to have done something wrong at this table.”

  D never took his eyes off Mercedez as he said, “I have no need to threaten Jeff Fuchs. I’m just gonna punish him in the way that will hurt the most.”

  Jeff glanced at his old friend and said, “I understand.”

  “I knew you would. Now, Mercedez, walk me through the whole thing.”

  * * *

  When the young doorman Kirk saw D and Jeff exit a cab and move toward him, he snapped to attention like a soldier, his chest out and his head stiffly erect. There would be no confusion this evening. “Hey, how are you guys tonight?” he asked in a very subservient tone. D grunted a greeting. Jeff patted Kirk’s shoulder as he followed their mutual employer into Emily’s Tea Party.

  The spot wasn’t as hot as it had been even weeks before. A slew of large, old-school superdiscos in Chelsea were siphoning off some of the club’s clientele. A bit of the falloff was due to the boredom that overcomes most New York vampire dens eighteen months or so after they open. Lots of new-generation Eurotrash filled the banquettes, buying champagne and speaking English in a variety of foreign accents.

  Emily sat in a booth surrounded by three men of color, including the well-dressed, dreadlocked black man, Pierre Mbuwe, who D had encountered her with before. She had her arm around his shoulders. They looked cozy. D walked over and said, “I need to speak to you.”

  “Really? Since when do you need to talk to me?”

  “It’s business,” D said.

  “Why is he here?” Emily pointed at Jeff, who stood a few steps behind D.

  “Because he has something to give you.”

  “An apology? That I don’t need or want.”

  “No,” D said evenly. “Something much more tangible. Now we’re going to the manager’s office. I think you’d benefit from joining us.”

  Emily turned and gave her dreadlocked companion a deep French kiss. When she unlocked lips with him, D was halfway to the manager’s office. By the time Emily entered the office, Jeff had finished laying out a small stack of hundred-dollar bills on the desk. Jeff sighed and stepped away from the money.

  She asked D, “What’s that?”

  “Your money,” D answered. “Four thousand. It’s how much Jeff estimates he earned with his little scam.”

  “That’s all?” Emily looked at Jeff skeptically.

  “Apparently,” D said, “the operation was in its early stages when I noticed.”

  Emily picked up the money and counted it slowly. Without looking up she asked, “So when do you report him to the police?”

  “I’m not going to. I’m hoping this money will keep you from doing so as well.”

  Emily smiled, mean and self-satisfied. “I could get Eminem here in a lot of trouble, D.”

  Jeff really wanted to step to her but he’d made a promise to D, and he knew he had to keep it. So Jeff stood nailed to the spot, biting his tongue so hard it almost bled.

  “I know, Emily,” D said. He moved closer to her and she met his brown eyes. “But please don’t. Along with this gesture of goodwill, D Security will provide you with two free months of security.”

  “Five months starting tonight and another five grand.”

  “Three months starting next month and no cash.”

  “Plus, I never wanna see Jeff at any party I ever do.”

  “Three months. No Jeff. No money. Any other restitution will be in kind, services only. That’s the deal.”

  Emily squeezed the money in her right hand, then slapped it against her left. “D, you must love this man a great deal to endanger your business like this.”

  “He’s my dog, Emily.”

  “Did you ever love me like that, D?”

  “I care about you, Emily, and I always will.”

  She didn’t even get pissed at his answer. She hadn’t expected anything deeper. Still, she couldn’t help asking. She then said, “I heard you were shot.”

  “I was, but the bullet went right through. I was lucky.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine. Must have hit you square in the heart. That’s why there was no damage.”

  * * *

  Back outside Emily’s Tea Party, Jeff lit a cigarette and stared at his silent friend. “You’re like Michael Corleone right now.”

  “Yeah,” D half smiled. “Settling all family business.”

  “Yeah. And you’re being so cold about it.”

  “I’m not cold,” D said firmly. “I’m just trying to do what’s right. I’m not into revenge. Revenge is the death of the world. If you just try to make things right, everybody wins.”

  “Getting philosophical and shit to boot. Damn, Yoda, what’s next?”

  “We need to do this Source Awards thing. Get this mess out of our lives. Make sure we get our money—”

  “Amen.”

  “And then bring in some new business so we can keep the doors open.” D paused a beat. “Legally.”

  Jeff nodded and thanked God that D was his friend.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Source Awards hadn’t been back in New York since the infamous broadcast where Suge Knight dissed Puffy (a.k.a. Sean Combs a.k.a. P. Diddy) and Snoop Dogg wondered from the podium, “East Coast got no love for Snoop Dogg?” It was a signature event in the silly spectacle that some labeled the “East Coast/West Coast Rap Wars,” and others “a waste of valuable newsprint,” and a wise few “just some dumb shit.” All D knew was that the “war” had forced a potentially lucrative business opportunity for his security company out of town. And certainly it hadn’t gotten any safer, as the mini-riot at the Hollywood awards show a few years back had illustrated.

  So the Academy Awards of hip hop was back in the culture’s birthplace. Hip hop hooray, D thought, as he stood outside the Beacon Theatre watching the early arrivals line up behind barricades and gather in front of the will-call window. Down the block a bunch of scalpers plied their trade. The early-evening sky was low and the air heavy. D pulled up the collar on his black leather jacket and surveyed the area for undercover cops. They were around all right, but D was having a hard time identifying them. It wasn’t like the old days when he’d sit in the patrol car with Fly Ty and listen to the young cop describe the ins and outs of surveillance. Fly Ty would bitch about how NYPD had “all these white guys in white socks and Yankee caps hanging around Brownsville and Bed-Stuy sticking out like sore thumbs.” Now the force deployed brothers in Fubu tracksuits and Timberland boots to blend in like neon lights in Times Square.

  D was heading toward 75th Street and the backstage entrance when his cell buzzed. Fly Ty was on the line, sounding as excited as D had heard him in quite a while. “The place in Brooklyn was full of bikes and equipment and old records by Adrian Dukes.”

  “Did you find them?”


  “We have Roderick Dukes, or what’s left of him. He’s lost a lot of blood and broken a lot of bones. He’s critical at Downstate right now.”

  “How about Areea?”

  “No sign of her. We’ve rounded up a few of the drivers. Some are real bangers. Most are thrill seekers who only knew a bit of what was going down. No one seems to know where she lives—only that she ran a motorcycle dealership on Long Island. We checked and that spot is padlocked. Suzuki says she’s been on suspension for several months for questionable transactions. She’s on the run, D. Probably riding one of those Jap bikes straight to Cali and into the sunset.”

  “She’s here,” D replied, and gazed around at the growing crowd. “She’s a very determined woman. She’s not leaving town without getting something done, believe that.”

  “You might be right. The event is well covered by the hip hop cop squad. They have your back and they know what she looks like.” Through the phone Detective Williams yawned.

  “You’re not coming up here?”

  “Hell no. I’m going home to get my rest. I’m old. Besides, I have to go pick out the right suit for your mother’s wedding.”

  D clicked off and sighed. Three young men came toward him, two dressed in crimson Atlanta Hawks sports jackets and the third in a navy-blue Nascar jacket festooned with the logos of corporate sponsors. That young man walked with a cane.

  “Hey, D,” Ray Ray said, “thanks for the tickets.” He came over and gave his employer a hug. The red-garbed Coo and Tone stood back, nodding at D but clearly uncomfortable with (and a little jealous of) Ray Ray’s relationship with him. “I’m doing all right,” he told D. “I was just wondering if you had a place for me when I’m ready.”

  “Absolutely, Ray Ray. And if your friends are interested, maybe something for them too.”

  “We’ll get back to you,” Coo said, sneering.

  “Fine,” D countered.

  “You buggin’. You know that?” Ray Ray said to his feisty homie.