To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  Unfortunately, at the poker table Jung-ho had more tells than a gossip blogger. He lost so consistently that the other businessmen wouldn't play if he didn't show up. "I figured he borrowed money from somewhere," Michelle admitted. "I guess he went outside the Korean community to keep it out of local chitchat. Ma must have found out."

  "Found out?" D said. "You and I both know that my grandfather told her. From what I could figure out, it appears he was way behind in his payments. Why he didn't pay on time is not clear. Maybe he felt he had nothing to lose, so my grandfather couldn't really hurt him."

  Michelle was now way down the block from the house she was supposed to be looking at. But her eyes were watering. Too much family information. Too much dirty laundry. She liked D but he shouldn't know all this. "Well," she said finally, "I don't know what happened between all of them. You don't know either. My father has been very ill the last few years. He stays at home. I see where you are going with this, D, and I don't appreciate you suggesting that my father may have had something to do with having your grandfather murdered."

  "I didn't say that, Michelle."

  "I'm not stupid." She was hot now. "Have you been hanging out with me just to investigate my family?"

  "Of course not. I didn't know your family borrowed money from my grandfather. I just found this out."

  "I don't believe you," she said, and then walked away.

  * * *

  D met Mrs. Pak at a coffee shop in the Korean mall on Western. He had asked her to come alone. She had a cappuccino and he ordered a bottle of still water.

  "So . . ." she began, wondering if something was wrong with the sale of Big Danny's house.

  D pulled his grandfather's Polaroid out of his pocket and slid it across the table to her. She leaned over and glanced at it. Without looking back up she said, "I told you we were friends."

  "That looks like a date, Mrs. Pak."

  Now she sat up and stared at D with what was supposed to be a poker face, but D saw right through to her hole card. "Your grandfather's dead. Is this how you honor him? Going through his possessions and asking nasty questions?"

  "Mrs. Pak, before I came out here for his funeral, I thought I knew who he was. Now I realize I knew very little about him. I just feel like you might be able to tell me things no one else would know."

  "We were close, yes. But we were not lovers. So don't make this into some silly soap opera. He loved his wife very much and I have always honored by husband."

  "But you were close," D pressed. "Is that why he kept this picture hidden in his desk?"

  "I don't know where he kept it."

  "Did my grandmother know how close you were?"

  "I was not in their home. We did meet a few times. She was a lovely woman, as you know. We weren't friends but she was always courteous."

  Despite Sun Hee's discomfort with these questions, D sensed that she was open to talking. She definitely knew things D needed to know, but she wasn't just going to volunteer it. "I understand," he said softly, "that your husband was upset after the riot. I was—"

  "My husband is a very honorable man," she interrupted. "But not so strong. Sometimes I needed advice or information about dealing with the city and Daniel always helped me. That was the bond. My husband knew he was helpful, especially once I got into the real estate business. So we all got along."

  "Okay. Can you think of anyone who'd want to harm him? Anyone he might have mentioned? Maybe someone who owed him money?"

  "You know," she said, "in the Korean community many people of my generation and older either didn't trust American banks or could not get approved for loans. So they borrowed from friends and acquaintances instead, keeping their financial needs within the community. It is a good system if people live by their word. But not everyone does. You would be surprised how many shootings happen within our community over unpaid loans."

  D just listened, wondering where this was going.

  "Loaning money without the force of the law is an uneasy business. It can make you do terrible things, or at least make people worry that you will. I told Daniel this when I found out what he was doing. I told him several times." Sun Hee Pak stood up and stepped toward D. "But I was just a friend giving advice."

  "Thank you for your time. I am sorry if you feel I was accusing you. I meant no disrespect." D felt sheepish and in over his head.

  "You are a good grandson." She placed a hand on his shoulder, then her face hardened. "But you are not a good boyfriend for my daughter."

  She walked away. D picked the photo off the table and slid it into his shirt pocket.

  * * *

  The next morning, D watched Lawrence Pak drive off toward Crenshaw. Thirty minutes later, Sun Hee Pak headed off to her office on Western. Instead of leaving, D exited the rented Prius and walked up to the front door of the Pak residence. He buzzed twice, stood around for a minute, then noticed the security camera above the door. He smiled and waited. The door finally opened.

  "Come in, young Mr. Hunter." Jung-ho Pak moved aside and let D in.

  The living room felt formal, with plaques, family pictures, and flowers positioned just so around a fireplace and a lovely wooden table. Jung-ho guided D through it toward a large kitchen filled with the aroma of toast and eggs. A small TV played Good Day LA. A cigarette burned in an ashtray. Jung-ho, who had a polite but rigid presence, wore a blue Dodgers T-shirt and gray slacks. He offered D coffee and toast. D could see a lot of Michelle in his soft, gentle eyes. Compared to the lion that was Sun Hee, Jung-ho had the air of a lamb content to graze upon someone else's grass.

  "It's quite hard learning to be an American," he said. "Obviously I had to master the language. As you can hear, I may have missed a few lessons. Once you get a grasp of the official language, you then must learn slang if you want to work in retail. Our stores were in black neighborhoods. For a long time I thought blacks were all named Cuz."

  Jung-ho Pak's easy humor again reminded D of Michelle, without the hard edge of his wife or the uptight intensity of his son. D liked him immediately, which he certainly hadn't expected.

  "Is that why you let them set up the dice game in the parking lot?"

  "Well, it is one thing to master English, but one plus one still equals two all over the world. People wonder why immigrants move into retail—well, numbers don't need translation. So, to answer your question, I got good at counting dice. Some of those gangbangers were scary. But since a lot them hadn't gone far in school, they began to use me to keep the games honest. If I didn't have a family, I would have opened a gambling spot."

  "Is that how you met my grandfather?"

  "No. We actually met at a seminar about minority small businesses organized by Mayor Bradley's office. I must have looked a bit confused, cause Big Danny introduced himself. He even knew a few words in Korean. Unlike a lot of blacks who seemed threatened by us, Big Danny was willing to give advice and make deals with Koreans wholesaling goods from Asia."

  "Like at the swap meets?"

  "Yes. I was able to cut him a few deals. In fact, he was the first and only black person to invite my wife and me to their home. They were probably our first American friends."

  "As I understand it, the '92 riot strained your relationship."

  "What do you mean?" It was the first time Jung-ho lost his amiable smile. "Strain? No strain. In fact, it all brought us closer. He helped my wife survive danger. What more can one ask of a friend? Where did you hear that?"

  D lied: "I guess I heard it from my aunt."

  "Tell your aunt that isn't true. She was just a child then—what would she know? We stayed in communication until his death. If there was strain it was between Red, who worked for him, and my son. If it had just been business between Big Danny and me, there would be no strain. But young men can be disrespectful to each other for no good reason."

  D considered that for a moment. Then he said, "The police don't have any leads about who might have killed my grandfather. Do you have any ideas?"


  "I have thought about this often. He was in business for many years in a very tough area. I know I had many serious run-ins. I was threatened; I am sure he was too. I remember that Chicano rapper who shot at him."

  "I spoke to Teo. Right now I don't think he did it."

  "Oh." Jung-ho shook his head. "Big Danny was well liked. But he carried cash. These new people in the community—Mexican, Central American—they don't have the same connections. Not like those of us who have lived here decades. Only a new person would assault or attack him. Can I show you a picture?"

  Jung-ho retrieved a photo album, the pages sticking together from plastic coverings that looked like they hadn't been separated in years. He opened the album gingerly and pointed to a picture of he and Sun Hee having dinner with his grandparents. The table and walls matched the background of the picture in D's pocket of Big Danny and Sun Hee.

  "Where was this?"

  "It was a chicken and waffle place. Rocky's, maybe?"

  "Roscoe's House of Chicken & Waffles."

  "Yes, that's it. We had dinner there. Very popular. Always had a line out of the door."

  "He took me there every time I'd visit when I was a kid," D said. "He must have really liked you guys."

  * * *

  Driving back to the Valley, D found it hard to believe Jung-ho Pak had hired a contract killer to hunt down his grandfather. Didn't mean that Big Danny and his wife didn't have an affair or that he didn't owe a lot of money to Big Danny. But it was a huge leap to believe he'd pay for murder.

  D's head began throbbing. He pulled over to the curb on Highland and put his head against the steering wheel. He wasn't a fucking detective. He was just a big man in black clothes. Threatening from a distance, but truly clueless up close. This is embarrassing, he thought. Damn embarrassing.

  His phone buzzed and the text read: Need to speak to you. In person. Chan Dara off Sunset. An hour. Amoeba after!

  Back in the nineties, the Chan Dara chain had a reputation for hiring extremely cute, flirty Thai waitresses in short skirts. There was an air of disrepute that hung over the spot, like you might get invited to a brothel after eating your curry. But when D arrived he found that the owners had cleaned up their act. There were now as many male waiters as female, and the women, while not unattractive, didn't make anyone think of wild nights in Bangkok.

  Gibbs picked up on D's disappointment, noting, "These days it's just about the noodles and veggies here, my friend. In fact, the place is gonna close at the end of the month. Without the sexy girls, it's just another place in LA serving pad thai. But don't you worry, you'll be glad you came."

  After they'd ordered, Gibbs asked how it was going with R'Kaydia, so D related how he'd tried to get her out of his life, but that through Night, she'd slipped back in.

  "Yeah," Gibbs said, "she won't be easy to shake. Not with all that money on the table."

  "Do tell."

  "The pitch she made about the hologram and music is just a small part of her business. You see that house she and her man Teddy live in? You don't pay for that with just music these days."

  "So?"

  "So there's what I know and there's what I hear. What I know is that R'Kaydia is tight with Mark Zuckerberg's team, and her company is developing software for Facebook that would allow users to create holograms of Facebook posts that would pop up right off your laptop or smartphone."

  "Wow," D said. "A big deal."

  "Yup. The fees for developing that technology are paying R'Kaydia's bills. Everything else is chump change. We're talking up to thirty million dollars from Facebook. But there's a problem, and this is where you come in: a key Facebook executive has a funk band and he idolizes Dr. Funk. So much so that he wants Dr. Funk to play at his thirtieth birthday party in two months. Well, R'Kaydia and Tapscott told him they could get the doctor for him. But, so far, it ain't happened.

  "Now what I hear is that this Facebook executive is so pissed that he's threatened to pull all the funding for this hologram development gig. So R'Kaydia is freaking out. That Facebook prick's ego could cost her millions."

  "How true is the what I hear part?"

  "I dunno, dawg. It's second- and thirdhand."

  "Hmmm," D said, "so I'm probably not the only person she'd have out looking for Dr. Funk?"

  "A Facebook deal worth millions at stake? Hell no. She's probably got all the PIs in LA on it. But, of course, you're the only motherfucker seen on YouTube being hugged by Dr. Funk."

  "So she's really desperate, huh?"

  "How many multimillion-dollar deals you fixing to lose, D? I've lost one or two. It ain't pretty. It's a lifestyle changer. No new home. No new cars. No new women—and you'll damn well lose the one you got."

  D mulled this over for a minute. Then he said, "You got any new business to discuss with R'Kaydia?"

  "Nawn. Doubt she'd sit with me these days."

  "Okay. Does she still go to clubs?"

  "There's a Sunday pool party at a Beverly Hills hotel that DJ Rashida throws. She's hot to death too. Used to spin for Prince."

  "And . . . ?"

  "Anyway, this guy Legendary Damon promotes it, and he attracts a posh crowd. I can make sure he invites her this Sunday. I know him from New York."

  "Do that."

  "What's your play?"

  "Have Legendary Damon tell her Night's coming too. Tell her he'll be debuting a cover of a Dr. Funk song."

  "You got a plan, huh?"

  D wasn't sure how much he wanted to reveal. "I got a hunch. This has been a crazy hunt for Dr. Funk, but I'm thinking I may have been looking in the wrong places for the wrong thing."

  "You're getting very philosophical in your old age."

  * * *

  After dinner, the two New Yorkers walked across Sunset to Amoeba Records, a block-long cathedral to the world of predigital music and film culture. Rows of CDs, LPs, DVDs, posters, cassettes, and even some eight-tracks filled the cavernous store. For D and Gibbs, whose memories of music were connected to long, lazy afternoons digging through vinyl in bins, Amoeba was as back-to-the-future as it got. They strolled through the R&B, hip hop, and dance sections, recalling, reminiscing, and reminding each other of artists, songs, clubs, and moments from years ago that seemed like yesterday. Good times then; a melancholy journey now.

  Gibbs hopped into an Uber in front of Amoeba (he was meeting Shelia back at Soho House for drinks) while D ambled down Ivar. Leaning against a wall in a nearby parking lot was a shirtless black man with Army fatigues for pants and no-name sneakers on his feet. He had on Apple earbuds and the white cord reached into his pants. He grooved to the music like it was the most jamming song ever made. D couldn't help it—he found himself transfixed by this sadly fascinating sight.

  The man came out of his dancing groove and looked at D.

  "Sorry for staring, brother," D said. "What are you listening to?"

  The man plucked out an earbud but no music came from it because they were plugged into nothing but the lint in his pocket. "You got twenty dollars?"

  "Twenty dollars? That's ambitious." D reached into his pocket, found five, and handed it over. "That's all I can spare."

  The man took the money and asked, "If I was who you were looking for, how much would I get?"

  "I'm not sure. But it wouldn't be twenty dollars. Have a good night."

  "Every night with music is a blessing," the man replied, putting his earbud back in and returning to the music inside his head.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WALLI'S FIRST POOL PARTY

  Women in bikinis, some wearing flip-flops, a great many in wedge-heeled scandals, lounged on deck chairs, while shirtless men, a few actually in Speedos, hovered around preening under the California sun. There were six-packs on the men. There were six-packs on a few women too. There were middle-aged men with Viagra-generated erections who dipped in and out of the water to highlight their chemically enhanced wears.

  On a cushion by the pool sat Walter Gibbs in trunks and a
Notorious BIG tank top, with a full setup (vodka, juice, ice), and two lovely young women (one black, one Thai) ordering liberally off the food menu. Not far from Gibbs, in a shaded cabana, R'Kaydia wore a floppy sun hat, round Jackie O. sunglasses, and an elegant pale-blue two-piece bikini. With her were Nikeva and Daisha, two wavy-haired ladies on the Creole side of black, who sipped champagne and wore slightly more conservative outfits. They were R'Kaydia's running buddies, married-well ladies happily young enough to still turn heads.

  R'Kaydia herself had eyes for a large, well-muscled, bronze-skinned trainer type across the pool with more tattoos than a Maori warrior. Her gaze shifted at a rising murmur of female voices and the lifting of smartphones, which meant a celeb was entering the pool area. Night, in Warby Parker shades, a white tank top, a gold medallion, baggy shorts, and Nike flip-flops, smiled for the ladies as D, looking as large and serious as always, remained a step behind in a black polo-shirt-and-shorts ensemble that R'Kaydia found silly. Always the bodyguard, she mused, even as he tried to step up in class.

  She wondered who the skinny kid was trailing in their wake and gawking at the poolside women like a cub who'd never been fed. The teenager looked familiar but R'Kaydia couldn't place him. Based on his clothes and demeanor he probably wasn't from the West Side. Whatever, she thought as she waved Night over. Her Instagram was going to be on fire this afternoon with pics of her cozied up with this sex symbol.

  Night had been shocked when D invited him to a Los Angeles hotel pool party. Not that he didn't want to go—he'd already hit the Roosevelt Hotel Sunday gig and the Do-Over at Lure a few times. But D insisting he come out and perform was a major surprise, a sign that perhaps he was emerging from mourning for his grandfather and was really ready to help Night hype his career.

  Night loved that D had brought along his cousin Walli. Taking a kid out of the hood and letting him see a bigger world was always cool. Taking him to see a multiculti rainbow of sexy-ass girls sipping cocktails in swimsuits under the Cali sun was a gift this young man would never forget. (Also, Sy Sarraf would be coming by with a supply of "vitamins," perfect for a relaxing Sunday.)