In a month, it felt like D Management had gone from Motown to Death Row. The next staff meeting was tense.
“We’re losing clients,” Mal said. “It feels like someone is out to get us.”
“Or,” D said, “out to get me, and you guys are suffering because of it.”
“Who would do that? Sounds like a conspiracy theory. Maybe we just aren’t doing a good enough job.”
“If that’s the case, then again, it would be about me,” D said. “Maybe I’m in over my head. Still, it feels like someone is def pushing me under.” D told his team about Kurtz’s true political leanings, his conversation with Lil Daye about the videotape, and the MC firing him, and that he thought Kurtz was behind D Management’s current troubles.
Marcy looked around the room at her coworkers and asked, “Shouldn’t we go public with what we know about Kurtz?”
D said, “I could. But aren’t we in business? We aren’t CNN or the Times. We could leak it. Someone would air it. It would get all across the Internet. But what do we gain from that? Fox News starts huffing and puffing. People begin trying to trace it back to us. Right now we have a low-level quiet battle going on. If this goes public—I dunno how we win. We should be doing business, not be at war with a major corporation.”
“So what’s your plan?” It was Ray Ray.
“Let’s try to find new business,” D replied. “Let’s rebuild our roster. Let’s talk again to the agencies. We must have some goodwill out there.”
Ray Ray said, “That’s it?”
“No. But what I will do on offense is not something I’m gonna share right now. When it happens, you’ll be the first to know.”
Mal said, “Sounds like you don’t trust us.”
“I trust you all,” D responded. “But everything smart isn’t done in sunlight.”
After the meeting ended, Marcy lingered in D’s office. “Are you thinking of closing up the place?” she asked.
“Real talk: I’m thinking I cost us hundreds of thousands of dollars in billing,” D said, shaking his head. “The artist I advised didn’t care that the guy I got him in business with is a possible Klan member. For Lil Daye, this was never really about hip hop—hip hop was a girl he kissed to get her Daddy’s money. He’ll toss that woman aside in a heartbeat. I was just a motherfucking tool or, if I’m really talking truth, some bitch he met on the road.”
Marcy wasn’t impressed. “Nice monologue, D. Like the pimply elements. But you didn’t answer my question.”
“My answer: not this week.”
Marcy said, “That answer sucks.”
* * *
As the sense that D Management was in trouble grew more public, D received a medley of calls from friends and advisers.
“So,” Dr. Funk said, “you must be getting kinda lonely.”
D laughed at Dr. Funk’s tone, like he was amazed that anyone would leave D alone. “I’ve def had more sociable moments. How are you doing, my friend?”
“Thanks to you, I’m okay. Just wanted to let you know I ain’t leaving you. Against my wishes, you brought me back, and I’m still mad at you, so you gots to stay my manager.”
This made D smile. The crazy old man had called to cheer him up and D loved him for it.
“Has anyone called you about leaving my company?”
Dr. Funk whistled. “Ohh boy. Some millennial-type woman called me bad-mouthing you and talking a lot of digital ying-yang. When they decide to move on you, D, it comes from all damn angles.”
“You remember her name?”
“Bowman. Strange name for a sista, if you ask me.”
Belinda Bowman. The attorney he’d met with Pilgrim. Was he behind this? Felt too obvious, but maybe?
Dr. Funk knew a lot about being ridiculed. He’d gone from pop icon to punch line in the eighties. He’d spent much of the twenty-first century busking on LA street corners and living in the basement of an abandoned building behind a closed nightclub. D had found him, fought Serene Powers over him (taking an L in the process), and had come to love this once-lost genius.
“When I started to have my problems, it seemed like everybody who ever thought I was an asshole got together and made a pact to spread the word. Remember how I was when you met me? That was the end point of a long-ass journey down. I wasn’t in my right mind when it started and then that drug thing I got into didn’t help. I couldn’t stop falling. So, D, you continue working out like you do, eat good, and don’t settle for easy pussy.”
Next, he heard from R’Kaydia.
“So,” D asked her, “what are you hearing?”
“What am I not hearing? Word is you’re toxic, D. The white boys at the agencies are talking bad about you—bad judgment, in over your head, side deals against your clients’ wishes, vague talk of economic malfeasance. You’re a black man in Hollywood so it don’t take much to ruin your rep. You saw how quick your boy Gibbs went down.”
“You talking bad about me too, R’Kaydia? I’d understand if you did. Self-preservation is the LA golden rule.”
“It’s the rule, whether you call it gold, silver, or platinum. Officially, our business relationship is on pause. That means I’m honoring our existing contracts but initiating no new business.”
“Okay.”
“But,” R’Kaydia said with genuine warmth, “you know we have a special relationship, D. You know that.”
“Well, it’s good to hear you say that but I don’t know much right now. You got a life raft to offer?”
“As you know, Kurtz owns a piece of my company and I consult for DIB. I’m gonna see if I can get some intel on what’s going on there. Something you can use.”
“Thank you, R’Kaydia.”
“How are you for money?”
“I’ve been poor before. I’ve been in debt before. But never in a place that’s warm. I’ll survive. Lots of nightclubs in LA need experienced doormen.”
Then Al called.
“Okay, explain this to me again,” he said.
“I told my client what I found out,” D said, “and he told his man Ant, and I figure they called Kurtz and decided I was trying to get in the way of their money. I could go public. Put the info on the Net or feed it to some aggressive blogger or the New York Times. But in the era of Trump, would that bring down Kurtz or make him a Fox News/White House hero? Lil Daye stayed with DIB, I think, because Ant wouldn’t let him leave, and I believe Kurtz has Ant in his back pocket. Kindred spirits. Public disclosure would put Lil Daye in a bind and cause a whole shitstorm, and I’m not sure who would get splattered. Did I expect Kurtz would get the entire Hollywood establishment to turn on me? I was naive. So here I am. Call me a fool.”
“Fool,” Al replied, then laughed.
“Thanks, Al. Just what I needed.”
“I’m like LAPD. Protect and serve.”
“More like pollute and swerve,” D said. “So you’ve heard me yak. How are you?”
“Your hologram business has seriously augmented my retirement fund. That makes my health good by default. I can offer up some support clichés if you like.”
“Feel free.”
“It’s always darkest before the dawn. There’s no place to go but up. A punch in the face is a small sacrifice for victory.”
“Punch in the face? I’ve never heard that one.”
“I’m older and wiser than you, so I’ve heard decades more bullshit,” Al said, and laughed again.
“I bet. By the way, Al, I love you. Thought I’d toss that your way.”
“Feel the same about you, D. Stay up and let me know how I can help.”
The WhatsApp connection to Costa Rica was so sharp that D heard birds in the background as Walter Gibbs spoke.
“Nigga, you should just come down here.”
“Nawn. I feel like I need to be here and figure this out.”
“Ain’t nothing to figure out,” Gibbs said. “You should have kept that shit to yourself. If it came out, you could have just claimed to be blind
sided. That kid wasn’t walking away from that bag over principle. All these kids talk woke, but they ain’t. Come down here. I’ll set you up in a spot. You can sit there and talk with the monkeys. Much nicer than the people you know in LA.”
“So that’s your advice?”
“In that town, the old-white-boy network is deep. They got each others’ back, front, and ass. The ones who got MeToo’d are still getting checks. They just took their name off shit, but dollars are still flowing. Don’t get that twisted. Now, if I was still up there, maybe I could help, but nigga, I’m in a rain forest every day talking to cockatoos and picking cacao off of trees.”
“Well, Gibbs, I’m glad you’re happy.”
“D, if this had happened fifteen or even ten years ago, I’d have been straight-up suicidal. But I’m at a different point in my life. No matter what they think in LA or New York, the world spins on and most people on the planet don’t give a damn what happens there. D, you always wanted to look out for people, but these motherfuckers can’t see past their own noses. I know I couldn’t.”
“You weren’t as bad as most, Gibbs.”
“I know who I am better than anybody. Anyway, you know Ice is your real problem. Better to be aboveground than under it. He might think ’cause you’re vulnerable that to cap your ass is his best move.”
“The thought has occurred.”
“Just let me know, D,” Gibbs said. “The monkeys are waiting.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
FOCUS
There was a moment during vinyasa when D felt his breath elevate him, so that the ache in his left knee, the tension in his lower right buttock, the sweat dripping into his eyes dissipated and he was connected to something beyond himself, the room, and the world.
This elevated feeling didn’t last—it was summer-breeze fleeting. Still, it pleased D deeply and he wondered if this was a mild version of samadhi, the elusive moment of transcendence yogis chased eternally.
In shavasana, D lay down but his mind raced. His subconscious unleashed itself. Gigabytes, terabytes, jpegs, MP3s, opinions, dreams, and sorrows flooded him. His subconscious put them in an alignment D could never have consciously created. At the end of most hot yoga classes, D wiped the sweat off his face and gazed around the room, admiring the lithe bodies of women clustered at the front. But today, he didn’t see them. He saw photos on a vision board linked by red threads that suggested a way to proceed. D had to take control. He had to use all he’d learned from all the lawyers, agents, and gangstas. Meditation time was over.
* * *
D was a situational vegan. He knew it was healthy. He knew many good-looking women loved vegan food. But taste-wise, fake chicken really didn’t do much for him. Gracias Madre, which was a vegan Mexican spot with high ceilings and a wide outdoor dining area, was as flavorful as vegan got. At least, that’s what D’s taste buds had decided. It seemed to be the best place to invite Maggie; they hadn’t spoken since he’d left for New York. They’d texted a bit but he’d avoided talking to her, and now he had to, and not for reasons she’d like.
She entered wearing black jeans, black Converse, and a short leather jacket over a Wonder Woman T-shirt. She gave him a short, impersonal hug and then sat down, looking him over like a hanging judge.
“You ghosted me, D.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I apologize. I’ve been dealing with a lot of personal and professional demons. Business has been bad. My personal stuff worse. I really needed to deal with them.”
“I thought friends relied on friends. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe we aren’t real friends yet, ’cause no real friends of mine would have ghosted me like that.”
“I know. We had a great connection and I tossed that away. Not consciously. Life got crazy.”
“Okay,” Maggie said, softening. “What’s up with you now?”
“I’m working on getting my life back together, and I need your help to do it.”
“Really? After leaving me standing and looking like a fool at that Nas show, you want to ask me a favor?”
“Yes. It’s about Kurtz.” D related a truncated version of Robinson’s book, Lil Daye’s reaction, and the potential danger he was in.
Maggie didn’t ask any questions and looked seriously uncomfortable. “Kurtz,” she said slowly, “is a nasty man to have on your ass. I like you, D, but if you invited me here to help you do something against Kurtz, I’m not sure if I can or even want to.”
D never thought he had much game when it came to women, but he knew he’d need to summon what little he had to get Maggie to aid him. “All I need from you are the names of two girls who may have made deposits on Kurtz’s toy room. In fact, no need for real names. Just gimme their Instagram handles. That’s all.”
Maggie shook her head and looked away before responding. “I’ll need more than vegan Mexican and some chickpeas to do that for you.”
“What do you use? PayPal? Venmo?”
“Venmo. Are you really gonna pay me?”
“Five Gs for two Instagram addresses. Sound good?”
“Seven,” she shot back.
“So how about now we go dutch for dinner?”
“Funny boy,” she said. “But I don’t need your money, D, and I’m insulted you even suggested it. I was just joking. But I see you think I’m about money.”
“If I offended you, I’m so sorry. I apologize.”
“If you think you’re better than Kurtz, don’t. He offered me money too. Actually, it was a car.”
“Money for—”
“Information on you.”
It turned out that Kurtz (or people who worked for him) had been monitoring her social media and had seen images of them together. He’d offered her a sports car if she’d give him updates on D’s movements, things he talked about, and details on who he was meeting with.
“Shit,” D said.
“But you’re good. I turned him down. Not that I really owe you any loyalty, but that man is creepy. Creepier than you know.”
“Please tell me whatever you can.”
Ten minutes, two mojitos, and dual action on their respective smartphones later, Maggie said, “Take a look at your Instagram.”
Flame23 and FitFranny were different ethnicities—Flame was Japanese and Franny was Jamaican—but both shared the same toned shoulders, six-pack abs, doll-like smiles, and long raven hair.
“I won’t use your name, Maggie,” he assured her. “In fact, I won’t be the one contacting them. So don’t worry about being connected.”
“D, you know good and well there’s something to worry about. I’ll tell you why: he owns a brothel.”
Maggie gave him the address, which D googled. A posh residence with gates surrounding it on a beautiful street in Beverly Hills.
“How do you know about this?”
“I know,” she said firmly, and sipped on her third mojito.
D decided not to push her further. She was already telling him a lot. He didn’t feel he knew her well enough to keep probing. He liked Maggie a great deal but knew that with this conversation, they were closing the doors between them.
“If you’re gonna take Kurtz down, then take him down for the right reasons. Not just for your ego or whatever business war you have with him. Hurting him will help friends of mine. That’s why I’ma help you.”
“Okay,” D said. “Now let’s have some more mojitos.”
CHAPTER FORTY
TILL IT’S DONE
D sat looking at highlights of the 1994 NBA Finals, trying to will in a couple more of John Starks’s jump shots in game seven. No luck. The Knicks would lose again, a bitter memory from D’s past that he revisited occasionally like he was taking revenge on himself.
Two calls were about to come in that would alter his mood. The first was from Marcy Mui. Word was that her résumé was floating around town and it was only a matter of time before he’d receive her resignation from D Management. D looked at the name on his screen and wondered if this was a goodbye
call.
“I have something to tell you, D,” she said.
“If you have a great offer, you have to do what’s right for you,” he replied.
“What? I’m not leaving, D. But I did just get offered a job. I turned it down, but that’s why I’m calling you. It was from the attorney Belinda Bowman.”
D was surprised. “To join her law firm?”
“Her new management company.”
“Whoa,” he said. “That kinda makes sense with all the calls she’s been making.”
“She’s signed Lil Daye.”
“What?!”
“There’s more: apparently Amos Pilgrim is backing her company. He’s a silent partner.”
“Hmmm. He’s her mentor. With his backing and her hustle, they might have something.”
“I thought you were tight with him,” Marcy said.
“We know each other well, but tight? We ain’t tight.”
D was wondering if he could find a YouTube clip of some other horrible New York sports moment when Serene’s name popped up on his smartphone. Be good to me, D prayed.
“Come meet me, D. Out by the pier in Santa Monica.”
D frowned. “I’m not big on the ocean right now, Serene. I guess we could play skittle ball at the arcade.”
He could almost hear Serene shaking her head. “I’m not inviting you to play games,” she said. “I have the help you asked for, so get your ass out here.”
* * *
Forty minutes later, D and Serene walked down the crowded pier, passing the mostly Mexican American and Asian families that strolled slowly and crowded around food and souvenir stands that leaned against the metal fences that separated folks from the Pacific Ocean.
“How are you?”
“Considering bodyguard work,” he said with a tight smile. “If not, there’s always working the door at the Hotel Café.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Serene said, “if you do what’s really necessary. That’s why I called you. I thought you’d be interested once I passed on this info.”
The Darkest Hearts Page 17