“That all sounds great, Cassidy. By the way, doesn’t a Detective Rivera work for you?”
“Detective Rivera has done security for us as we moved through the neighborhood. You see where our office is. We are right in the heart of it, so having Rivera around has been helpful. That shooting you might have read about happened right outside this door and Rivera was involved in that, keeping this office from being vandalized.”
“Did he really?” D worked hard to suppress his amusement.
“You see we’ve been threatened. People have e-mailed us saying they are going to shoot me and my employees if I don’t hire this person or that or don’t pay a ‘tax’ for working in Brownsville. So having someone as formidable as Rivera makes sense.”
“Cassidy, you’ve offered me a role of some kind in a business that seems to have some very vague goals and you currently employ one of the most corrupt policemen in this community. Now that suggests to me one of two things: you are either using him to strong-arm or intimidate people, or you are totally clueless about Rivera’s methods. Either one of those things disturbs me.”
“Do you have any proof about Rivera’s corruption?”
“You are the third organization to do work in Brownsville in recent years that has hired Rivera as a security consultant.”
“He comes highly recommended—”
“By the precinct captain.”
“Yes.”
“Those other ventures received similar threats when they moved into the area.” D reached inside his jacket and pulled out two folded sheets of paper. “I bet the language in these other e-mails is very similar to those you received.”
Ronson took the pages and looked them over. “These just sound like they were written by ignorant kids,” he said.
“Rivera is in business with lots of young knuckleheads.”
“This is hard for me to believe.”
“You see the forwarding e-mail address on those pages. FlyTy@gmail? That’s retired New York City detective Tyrone Williams, who spent fifteen or so years walking these streets. He can provide you with more details about Rivera’s stellar career.”
“Rivera has one of the highest conviction rates of any detective in Brooklyn,” Ronson said. “I’ve seen paperwork that proves this. Your friend may simply be jealous.”
D stood and headed toward the door. “Check your e-mail. There you’ll find a link to a Vimeo page which contains footage of Rivera moving around Brownsville. I think you’ll see him differently. And if not, it’ll be handled eventually.”
“It sounds like I may have come across as naïve to you.” Ronson stood up too. “I believe in what we’re doing. We don’t have a master plan. We are collecting real estate with an eye toward being adaptable and not imposing our will.”
“Get back to me after you’ve really checked on Rivera, and when I say checked, I don’t mean talking to his precinct captain again. Talk to some of those kids in the white T-shirts running around here with their pants off their ass. They’ll let you know who Rivera is. They might even tell you a few things about yourself. I’d check around this office for storage lockers or loose floorboards. I think you have some automatic weapons hidden in here.”
“You’re kidding me.” Ronson was starting to lose his composure.
“I wish I was,” D said. “We’ll talk soon, partner.”
SHIT, DAMN, MOTHERFUCKER
D was in his apartment watching flying dunks and long-range threes on NBA.com while sipping on a green juice when his BlackBerry rang. It was Ray Ray’s mother. Surely that meant bad news.
“What’s going on, Janelle?”
“I wanted you to know that Ray Ray got picked up by the police.”
“On what charge?”
“It was some of that stop-and-frisk shit,” she said angrily. “They got him right in front of our building.”
“Was Rivera involved?”
“That bastard’s got his hands up in this for sure,” she declared. “I know that.”
“Ray Ray told me you two used to date.”
“Like that’s some of your business.”
It sounded like D had crossed a line. He tried to jump back. “Okay, so how much bail money you need?”
“I got it covered. You ain’t the only nigga I know.” She wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “You wanna help me, D?”
“Of course. I can come meet you right now.”
“No, stay the fuck wherever you are. You can help me by never, ever getting my son involved in any of your shit again.”
“I didn’t ask him to follow Rivera, Janelle.”
“That boy really loves you, D. You tell him something’s wrong in your world and he tries to help. So you may not have wanted him to do anything, but he did it because of you.”
“I hate to say this, but I think it’s also about you and Rivera. Whatever happened between you two, your son didn’t like it.”
“Fuck you, D.”
“Have him call when he gets out,” he said, but wasn’t sure she heard it before she clicked off.
He tried Ray Ray’s phone but just left a message. Now restless and suddenly hungry, D got dressed and walked down Flatbush Avenue to a tiny Spanish food spot near Seventh Avenue. He was eating roasted chicken, red beans and rice, and sweet plantains when a lanky black kid in a flat cap and the falling-off-ass pants uniform of the borough entered and came his way. D grabbed his knife and was prepared to jam it into the young man’s chest if he made a threatening move.
“D Hunter,” he said warily, “you don’t know me but we need to talk.”
“Why do we need to do that?”
“Cause I know everything, yo,” the kid said anxiously, “and I could use your help.”
“That’s a lot of words. Let’s start with one at a time. What’s everything?”
“Why Ice had guns in that bag at the fight club.”
D realized it was the kid who Ice had dissed that night. The one who looked like his Mini-Me.
“Is that everything? Doesn’t seem like it should affect my meal.”
“I was there when that writer friend of yours got murked.”
“What?”
“Skinny man with a gray beard. He caught it down in Soho. Can we talk now?”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Freezy.”
“Freezy? Not Lil’ Freezy?”
“Can I sit down?”
“Go ahead, Freezy. My friend’s murder: prove you were there.”
He was clearly Ice’s blood, through he had none of his father’s intensity. There was a lot of weasel in his eyes, a nervous energy that suggested someone who lived for angles.
“Your friend, he fought hard. He actually got away from us—got around the corner. There was a gym there and these trainers came out, so we ran back to the car. And something you didn’t know: it was the driver who jumped out the car, took my knife. His was the killing blow.”
“What was the driver’s name?”
“Alan Mayer.” The name was actually Eric, but for D it was close enough.
“What did he look like?”
“White man. Older than you by a lot. Had a salt-and-pepper beard. Short. Army vibe. Dressed correct.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“He had a lot of guns. You need some steel, he’d hook you up. Said he knew everyone in the rap game. Used to show us photos—Russell Simmons and people like that.”
D gripped his fork tightly, contemplated jamming it down the kid’s throat. “If you know that Dwayne Robinson was my friend and you helped kill him, why the fuck would I help you? Also, did Ice know you were gonna kill Dwayne?”
“You wanna go somewhere else to talk about this?”
“Here and now, Lil’ Freezy. What did your father know?”
“He didn’t know I was gonna do that. I didn’t know either until we went to Manhattan. When I got in Mayer’s car I thought we were just gonna buy some guns. He handed us a roll of bills and some k
nives and told us to stick that man. He told me he’d give me an Uzi. It was beautiful, yo. But I didn’t know how to load it properly, and when I figured that shit out I saw that the white motherfucker sold me the wrong bullets.”
“Nigga, I could kill you right now.” His hand on the fork started shaking.
“I understand that, yo.” Freezy stared at D’s hand. “I get it. I just need some contacts and some help getting out of town.”
“Why the fuck should I help you?”
“I know that Ice murked Mayer and I know you were there, and I could tie you to it. Right now it’s a cold case. You feel me, yo? That said, I don’t wanna do that. I really don’t give a fuck about that white motherfucker and his bullshit. Truth is, I’m scared.”
“Of Rivera?”
“Of him and all the shit that’s going on. People treat me like I’m stupid, but I pay attention. Rivera and Mayer used to do business together. Well, really, Rivera taxed him for selling guns in Brownsville. After Mayer was murked, Rivera got Ice to take that shit over.”
D’s grip on the fork loosened. He was taking it in, wondering if he could trust the slimy young man before him.
“Ice told me he had the guns that day as a favor.”
“It was for me.”
“Yeah? Was he doing it for Rivera or for you?”
“For me, but he knew Rivera was involved. Thing is, Rivera is trying to cash out, get into buildings and shit. Real estate development, yo.”
“A real gangsta.”
“What?”
“Go on.”
“So they were gonna get Ice vic’ed. Guess Rivera was through with him.”
“How do you know all this?” D asked.
“I worked for the cop. I’m Ice’s seed. I keep my ears open, yo.”
“So you’re a killer and a liar and you betray your father. I should trust you, yo?”
“I can tell you what Rivera has planned for you at Night’s show at Betsy Head Park.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yo.”
“So what do you want for that info?”
“Like I said, I’m getting out of Brooklyn. I’m gonna end up in jail or dead or some shit like that if I stay in this piece. I need a letter from you for my PO that I’m working for your company and will be traveling with the tour doing security for Night. When he calls, you can confirm that shit. I need to get out of town and I wanna do it clean.”
D looked at Freezy like he was as crazy as his name. “Security? No way. I wouldn’t hire you to do security if you gained fifty pounds and five inches. But you could be a roadie, a gofer. That could work.”
“Whatever, yo. As long as you give me that paper and stand behind it, we’re good.”
“Me and you—we’ll never be good,” D said sourly.
“Okay. All right. Just hear what I have to say.”
Reluctantly, D listened. Then he made his own plans.
THE ROOT
It was a beautiful day in Brownsville. The sun shone, the air was sweet. At Betsy Head Park families set up barbecue grills and there was much trash talk about who’s homemade sauce had more flava. Women wearing platform sandals and their best weaves (that imported Indian hair was shining like new money) hovered near the temporary stage. The Ville’s over-sixty residents came armed with fold-up chairs, creating an oasis of twentieth-century civility.
DJ D-Nice filled the air with old-school classics (Maze with Frankie Beverly on “Before I Let Go,” the Blackbyrds’ “Rockcreek Park,” Earth, Wind & Fire’s “That’s the Way of the World,” the Whispers’ “Rock Steady,” etc.) that were sure to make black folks smile, sip their sweet drinks (some laced with alcohol), and do the two-step. A white community-relations patrolwoman talked to little kids as they got their faces painted. There were whites scattered through the crowd, people undaunted by Brownsville’s bloody reputation, resting on blankets, nibbling on goat cheese.
D stood on the side of the stage gazing out at the Betsy Head field and smiling. Here was a spirit of love. It’s how you imagined your neighborhood could be: a place where everyone gathers and feels part of something.
D’s cell buzzed. The text read, 5 minutes away. He walked down the metal steps into the backstage area, which was basically three motor homes, a craft services table, and some deck chairs behind a few police barricades. A black Denali rolled onto the field and deposited Al and Night, along with Ride, who was on duty as Night’s personal bodyguard.
“Okay,” D said to Ride, “you know what to do.”
“I do. You crazy, you know?”
“That was confirmed way back when. Whatever you do, stay with Night. That’s your only job today, Ride. I can handle mine.”
“Thank you, D.”
“Do the job, impress Al, and good things can come out of this for you, including a trip to LA.”
Night came over with Al. Ignoring the screams of some older women from behind the police barricades, Night said to D, “So this is your hood?”
“It’s where I grew up. Don’t know if I could really claim it now.”
“Gonna give them a good show nevertheless. I like the hood love vibe out here.”
Back in the trailer, Night, who was already in his stage gear, did yoga to limber up as Al spoke with tardy band members on his cell. Peering out the window, D could see Brownsville filling up the field and hear D-Nice spreading sonic love. Despite the low rumbling in his stomach, D was still smiling. It was going to be a good day for Brownsville. Of that fact he was sure. He wasn’t so sure how it would work out for himself.
When there was a knock on the door, Ride opened it to find Cassidy Ronson and Faith Newman standing there.
D said, “They’re good,” and Ride bid them entry. The presence of the wannabe real estate mogul and the certifiable dot-com billionaire slightly transformed the room’s relaxed mood to one of light wariness.
Faith kissed D’s cheek and then moved quickly toward Night, who came out of a tree pose to hug her warmly.
“So,” Night said, “you gonna sing with me today?”
“Really? I’d be honored.”
“Just some background vocals. I wanna see if you can hang in the hood.”
Faith giggled. While this ebony-and-ivory bonding was going on, a different version was being played out by D and Ronson.
“It’s good to see you, D,” Ronson said.
“Congrats on the show,” D replied. “This is gonna be a great day in the hood and a good look for your company.”
“Well, I wanted you to know that Detective Rivera is no longer in the employ of AKBK.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You were right about him. In fact, it was worse than you said. His reputation is abysmal. Just letting him go is bringing a lot of good will our way.”
“Good for you.”
“D, would you like to help monetize that good will?”
“This is not the time or place for that conversation.”
By now, a crowd of several thousand had gathered for the return of the soul messiah. A handful of folks wore T-shirts bearing the image of Night’s butt from his famous video. Two very cute white girls sat on blankets holding up a Bring on the Night placard. In fact, since D had entered Night’s trailer, the number of white faces in the crowd had increased, drawn by the rarity of the singer’s free public appearance and the same pioneering spirit that made gentrification possible.
D glanced over at Faith, who was doting on Night, and he knew right then that even Brownsville, forsaken by the city for a century, could change. The realization hit him hard and reverberated through his soul. He’d listened to Ronson’s pitch and the rhetoric about public planning and none of it had led him to believe that Brownsville could change.
But looking out at the crowd awaiting Night, D was suddenly convinced. It could happen. It would happen.
“Okay,” Al said to Night, “let’s do this.”
D and Ride led Night and his band across the grass to the stag
e’s metal stairs. As “One Nation under a Groove” flowed groovaliciously from the speakers, elders and hotties alike stood and cheered Night’s arrival.
“Congrats,” D said to Al as they both stood in the wings watching Night, his arms raised, bask in the love.
“Couldn’t have done it without your help,” Al said.
“Listen, Al, chances are I won’t be here at the end of the show.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ll get word to you.”
“Huh?”
Without answering, D walked down the steps. Al watched him for a moment and then turned back toward the stage as Night began to sing. He wondered what was up with his friend, but this wasn’t the time for curiosity. Night cut Al a look and they both smiled. It was finally gonna be all right.
* * *
During Night’s third song, a bluesy tune called “Keep It Going,” Rivera walked up very casually to D with a small smug smile. D knew that face wasn’t good for him, and a moment later he felt the hard round edge of a silencer against his back. He didn’t turn around. Whoever it was, it didn’t matter—he was just a tool anyway.
“Come with me,” Rivera said.
BAD HABITS
“There aren’t a lot of things that really get me angry. I don’t care if my wife fucks the mailman. I mean I haven’t touched her in five, six years anyway, so if she can get it, God bless her, you know? I don’t get mad when some hood rat tries to pull my cap. He’s probably stupid and more likely to shoot his dick off or fuck up his finger in the recoil than hit me. So none of those normal-type things really irritate me. I mean I’ve been robbed before. No one likes to be robbed. I’m a damn cop so you know it’s kinda embarrassing. But, end of the day, some fool gets a couple hundred dollars and some credit cards, it really is nothing when you look at your whole life. Besides, it always comes around. I usually see that guy again. But when someone steals your future? Well, that is very, very hard to take casually. You think I want to retire on a cop’s pension? I had an exact strategy. An escape hatch where there was real money on the other side. Now I’m not quite sure where my future lies. That really, really bothers me.”
The Lost Treasures of R&B Page 14
