“I see you’re having a good time,” he greeted.
“Thanks to you,” she said sweetly.
Amina introduced her friend Courteney, who looked even better up close: a light-skinned beauty with her braided hair, very snug blouse, and leather pants over some arresting curves. Courteney shook D’s hand and then Amina said, “And you must know this man.”
“Amos Pilgrim,” D responded. “It’s my pleasure.”
Pilgrim, a record business legend, one of the heroes of Dwayne Robinson’s The Relentless Beat, stood next to Courteney, swaying old–black man style, self-conscious about his age but absolutely happy to be there. Short and dark brown, Amos wore a Rolex with enough diamonds to make Kanye jealous and a well-tailored, casually expensive tan shirt, brown slacks, and leather loafers.
“Hey, my brother,” the man said, and took D’s right hand into both of his.
“So D,” Amina said, “we’re going to the Rose Bar for a drink. Please come join us.”
“I have some housekeeping to do, but give me an hour and I’ll roll by.”
She gave D kiss on the cheek. He took in her perfume, hoping some attached to his suit. Except for the Miami performers and their various entourages, most of the acts had already left the building, off to the official after-party and various soirées around town.
As the audience filed out of the building, D and his team locked down the backstage and various dressing rooms, which were scattered in the basement, the eighth floor, and in tour vans parked on 35th Street. Some artists, big dawgz like Timbaland, had never even entered their assigned spaces, rolling in just before taping, lingering a bit backstage, and then SUVing away as soon as their section of the show had taped.
In contrast, many of the less-heralded acts had grabbed water bottles, gobbled down every bag of Doritos, and even swiped a towel or two from the restrooms. For some of the artists on HHH, this was their first national TV appearance and/or first time getting any significant New York City shine, so as far as they were concerned, everything was up for grabs. By the time the team had completed its rounds, D was among the many with a contact high from the variety of herb, chronic, sticky icky (and any other name for marijuana one could employ) that floated through the now empty spaces.
It was more like two hours when D finally arrived at the Rose, a Lexington Avenue hotel bar, which had become an instant Manhattan hot spot when it opened in the early 2000s. The heat on it had cooled, as things do in NYC nightlife, but there were still enough boldface names in the room to fill half of Page Six. The doorman had once worked for D, so getting in for this black noncelebrity was no hassle.
Though there was no smoking inside, there was a hazy, smoky quality to the room’s light. D peered through it, seeing models, Euro-trash, and trustafarians aplenty. Over on one of the Rose Bar’s minisofas sat Amos and Courteney, while Amina perched on a stool sipping champagne. Aside from a couple of tall, dark, short-haired models, they were the only black folks in the room. D settled down with them, a bit wary of Amos’s reaction since older rich men were never keen on having young, muscular types around when they were getting their cougar on.
But Amos was relaxed and laid back, seriously kicking game to Courteney, who he was impressing with his knowledge of Apple’s longterm business plans. Seemed he had a supertight relationship with Steve Jobs and was telling her about their next magical machine. D would have liked to eavesdrop on Amos’s info but Amina was picking his brain for gossip.
“And why didn’t Janet introduce Jermaine Dupri for his tribute?”
“Hey, I just do security. I’m not privy to every decision.”
“Hmmmm, I know you know.”
“I really don’t. But you’re right, that’s not info I would volunteer.”
“But you’d tell me if you knew, right?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Maybe’s no way to woo a lady.”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I thought that was what you were trying to do.” They both laughed. “But let me tell you something: I like secrets. You share with me and I share with you.”
“Oh,” interjected Amos, “what’s going on over here.”
“My friend D is being a little stingy with the backstage gossip.”
“That’s the man’s job. How can a man do security if he’s telling the secrets of the people he’s securing. That’s not how you keep someone safe.”
“Well, you can take his side if you want to, Amos. But one thing I know is that there are no secrets. Not really. Everything done in the dark eventually comes to light.”
“Whoa,” D said. “That’s scary but true.”
There was a lull in the conversation, so D jumped in and asked how Amina had met Amos.
“Out in LA, wasn’t it?” Amos replied. “You were with Malik.”
“Yes, it was some fundraiser out at your place in Malibu.” To Courteney she added, “He has an amazing house right on the Pacific. You should see it.”
“Perhaps she will,” Amos said with a rakish smile.
Amina was clearly in cahoots with Amos. But D’s mind wasn’t at the Rose Bar; it was on the West Coast. Amina had gone out there with her late husband. She had to have known at least something about his activities. More to ask her about later. Quality time with Ms. Warren-Jones was definitely essential, though he wanted to kiss her more than ask questions. Either way, the ghost of the late Mr. Jones would have to be dealt with.
The ladies needed to head back to Jersey (“Some of us have normal lives,” Courteney said more than once, so everyone hopped into Amos’s SUV and accompanied the ladies to a Midtown parking lot. While Courteney and Amos had a private car-side conversation, D and Amina spoke a few feet away.
“So I guess my question is, am I gonna see you again?”
“And why wouldn’t we see each other?” She was messing with D, batting her eyes and touching his jacket lapel.
“My insecurity, I guess.”
“Most men aren’t honest enough to admit that.”
“Maybe. I don’t know about other men, but I was very excited you came.”
“Well, I owe you for the tickets. Dinner at my home this weekend?”
That was an easy yes. Hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time. They embraced again—this time deeper—and then she signaled over to Courteney, who was still fielding Amos’s latest offer. Courteney gave the black millionaire a chaste hug and a peck on the check before the ladies headed back to Jersey.
“How’d you do?” Amos asked after their car had pulled off.
“She invited me over for dinner.”
“Nice,” he said. “I’m headed down to a spot called Greenhouse on Hudson to meet Andre Harrell and some other people. You wanna roll?”
“Naw. No way. Usually after a show like that I’d be in bed by now.”
“I hear that. But I’m gonna stay out. I don’t get to New York very often, so I’m gonna run around a bit longer. I’ve heard lots of good things about you. Feel free to look me up when you next get to LA.” Amos handed him a business card with his name and a telephone number embossed on it.
“A card with no e-mail address. That’s seriously old school.”
“Classic shit remains classic shit.”
And then Amos was off to a long night of clubbing, while D walked down Ninth Avenue with the man’s card in his breast pocket, Amina’s image in his mind’s eye, and the lyrics of Southern hip hop songs running through his head.
CHAPTER 18
OTHA FISH
D had never spent much time in Jersey. He’d seen some Nets games back when J Kidd was running the break and he’d bodyguarded a couple of wealthy swells who trekked out to the old Meadowlands Stadium to see U2. Actual time amongst the Garden State’s regular folks had been limited to a couple of dinners at Dwayne Robinson’s house and a shopping trip to Ikea with his ex Emily.
D had been so worried he’d get lost on the Jersey Turnpike on his way to see Amina Warren
-Jones that he was actually a half hour early. He’d driven around a bit, looking at the suburban city in the encroaching darkness, deeming Short Hills not as pretty as Montclair and considerably more livable than rough-and-ready Newark. Looking at some of the black homeowners he spied exiting SUVs and tending to their lawns, D recalled how his mother had dreamed of such a life when they were kids. These days she was living comfortably in Flushing, Queens, with her second husband—but Queens was not as plush as this.
Amina’s home was a two-story brick Colonial with a good-sized lawn and a white lawn jockey in front. A late-model BMW sat in the driveway and D parked his rented Lexus behind it. The large man suddenly felt quite nervous, both because he hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in years and because instead of this being an interrogation, he was on a date. D’s butterflies were so strong he was at risk of mumbling his way through the entire evening. He was about to ring the buzzer when the door opened and Amina, all brown hues and blinding white teeth, looked him up and down.
“Welcome, D.”
“Oh, thanks for inviting me.” He stood in the doorway and held out two gift-wrapped packages.
“Why thank you. You can come in, you know.”
D smiled sheepishly and entered her home, feeling as awkward as a thirteen-year-old on his first date, and also a bit guilty, since this was not, at least for him, a totally social call.
“I brought red wine. I don’t actually drink,” he said, “but people who do tell me it’s a good vintage.”
“Okay,” she replied, eyeing the large square package under his left arm, “can we share that?”
“No,” he said with mock seriousness. “This is only for you.”
D began unwrapping the brown paper. When he finally pulled out the prize, Amina laughed.
“How’d you get that?”
“I called Rush Arts and found out who’d won the auction. Then I made an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“This is amazing.” She reached out, kissed D on the cheek, and took possession of the Glen Friedman photo of D.M.C. that they’d both bid on at Russell Simmons’s house. Amina held the photo before herself with both hands and then turned and walked into her living room with D on her heels.
The scent of sandalwood incense filled the space, which had a warm beige and bronze color scheme with lots of pillows and a low coffee table by the fireplace. Unlike the tomb D called an apartment, Amina’s home felt like a place where you’d chant in Sanskrit and have couscous with lentils for dinner. It had turned out to be an easy place to find and would be a hard place to leave.
Amina had made a vegetarian feast with Indian accents. A huge salad laced with walnuts, raisins, hummus, chickpeas, brown rice, mushrooms, and a thick curry sauce. She’d traveled to an ashram in Goa a couple of times and had picked up a lot of cooking tips when she wasn’t chanting or doing backbends.
“Have you ever meditated, D?”
“I guess you could say I do every day. I keep my apartment very dark. Black, really.”
“Is that why your wardrobe is so consistent? Coordinating with the wallpaper?”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No. I always invite undertakers over for dinner. What’s the deal with that?”
“Well, it’s a story.”
“And what else is dinner for?”
So D opened up to her a bit. He hated the instant sympathy the deaths of his three brothers generated in women. It brought out the mother in even the most cynical female and made him, the surviving son, seem a victim, a role he resisted at all costs.
What he rarely told, and wasn’t planning to tonight, was that he was HIV-positive. As much he was drawn to Amina, he wasn’t going there. Strictly on a need-to-know basis, and despite the obvious chemistry, he didn’t think any such revelation was at this point necessary. The tragically true tale of D being the last surviving Hunter son was enough for an introductory meal.
“So that’s why the all-black? You are in mourning.”
“Yeah.”
The story of D, his mother, and brothers made Amina tear up. D didn’t cry but made some mighty sad faces. So well before desert they were no longer at the table but hugging each other stretched out before the fireplace.
“I never had any kids,” Amina said quietly. “But I did lose my husband. In fact, we weren’t married very long before he became more a ghost than a husband.”
“Seems like he traveled a lot. Got into a lot of things.”
“Yes, Anthony did.”
“Anthony? I thought your husband was named Malik.”
“Malik Jones. That was his cover name. Anthony Jackson. That’s his real name. Actually, Malik was a nickname I gave him. Sometimes he’d get into his black militant moods and I’d call him that.”
D’s head was swimming now. Malik Jones was Anthony Jackson? His wife had given him the name?
“But your last name is Jones.”
“I adopted that to help him out. To keep his cover consistent if someone began checking up on him.”
“Cover? You make him sound like some kind of spy.”
“I guess he was, in a way.”
“Russell told me your husband was kind of a thug.”
“And Russell thinks he knows everything. But he doesn’t.” Amina’s tone was more melancholy than angry. “Russell didn’t really know him. At the end of the day I didn’t know him either.” She stood up and offered her hand to D. He rose without a word and let her lead him into the kitchen and through a door that opened to a furnished basement: pool table, leather sofa, video games, and old copies of Sports Illustrated and Forbes magazine. It was a man’s area. There was a light layer of dust, so different than the vibe upstairs.
“This was my husband’s space. It’s where he could be himself, I guess.”
D was looking around when he saw a picture of a man in a uniform. At first glance he thought it might be Anthony Jackson’s father or even grandfather. He stepped closer to the photo as Amina smiled.
“That’s him when he graduated from the Police Academy.”
“Police Academy?”
“First he was a police officer. Then he got recruited by the FBI.”
“Wow. That’s not what I expected.”
“Sometimes the whole thing still surprises me.”
“I’m trippin’ right now. I really am.”
“I debated what I would tell you all day. But it feels right. Especially after what you told me about your family. I guess we’re both a little damaged.” She came closer to him and wrapped her arms around his waist and placed her head on his wide chest. “Don’t hurt me, D, and I won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’re supposed to say, I won’t hurt you.”
“I know, but I’ve seen too much to act like I can control anything, especially the future.”
Amina let D go and stared him in the eye. “Okay. I understand that. Would you like some dessert?”
“I’d love it.”
As they headed back upstairs, D took a glance back at Jackson/Jones’s suburban basement and felt the dead man’s ghost glaring at him from the shadows.
Standing in the kitchen as Amina sliced up a vegan sweet potato pie, D said, “Thank you for sharing that.”
“You’re not the only one who can use Google. I read about you and Dwayne Robinson. I asked Russell about you. After he got over—for about the fourth time—that we weren’t gonna sleep together, he said good things about you.”
“So Russell Simmons cosigned me?”
“As much as he can for any man closer than he is to getting something he wants.”
“Oh. Am I closer?”
“Closer than Russell Simmons doesn’t necessarily mean close.”
D laughed. “You got jokes.”
But he wasn’t laughing when she leaned, grabbed him by the head, and kissed him, parting his lips with her tongue and pulling him into her mouth. After a moment, D separated himself and took her by the arms.
“I have to let you know something about me. Something that could change how you feel about me.”
“You’re HIV-positive, right?”
“Yes.”
“I heard some rumors. I asked around. How long?”
“Six years now. I’m not gay. Didn’t shoot heroin. Best I can figure, I got it having unsafe sex with a young woman I didn’t know. Didn’t use a condom. But then it might not have been her. I’m not really sure. Not that it matters at this point. Not at this point.”
“You look great.”
D explained that he was one of the lucky ones. “Like Magic,” he said, “but without the long paper. I was in good shape when I found I had it and I’m in great shape now.”
“Yes indeed, you do look good.”
Half ignoring Amina’s comment, lost in his own confession, D continued: “The ‘monster’ didn’t destroy me. It just made me vulnerable. So every winter I worry about colds. I’m afraid the flu or some allergy will kill me. I’m as strong as a bull, but if I don’t take my meds, for whatever reason, I get afraid I’ll shrivel up like a raisin.”
D was now looking off into the distance, back into the past, to that day at the doctor’s office, like it was a scene from Grey’s Anatomy. When he gazed back at Amina her eyes were swelling, once again heavy with moisture.
“I’m sorry,” D said, not knowing what was appropriate. He hadn’t told many people. He’d only had one or two girlfriends and a few scattered lovers since he’d been diagnosed six years earlier. His great love, Emily, a mixed-race British party promoter with a taste for Cuban cigars, had taken the revelation well, telling D she had herpes and joking that they made a fine couple of losers. And even when Emily left him for a dreadlocked Jamaican man, D couldn’t be mad at her. She’d already been more understanding than he’d ever expected any woman could be.
“You are in such pain, D.” Amina reached across the table and held his large hands between her slender fingers. “I bet you don’t even understand how guilty you sound.”
“Maybe, Amina, but it feels like guilt I deserve. I don’t know why.”
The Plot Against Hip Hop Page 9