To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  "You okay, D?"

  "No," he told his aunt. "Not at all. I gotta get back to LA."

  "What you gonna do now?"

  "I think it's time I really did find Dr. Funk."

  * * *

  D was on the 5 highway, pushing seventy in Big Danny's Buick, making a mental checklist of people to question and requestion, when Al's name popped up on his phone. His old friend spoke like he was afraid to breathe.

  "Bad news, D. Night has relapsed. Found him totally fucked up in his apartment. I hate to say this, but he must have gotten high at that pool party. I drove him out to this facility in Malibu. Amos wants to speak to you. You wanna get on the phone with him now?"

  After a long pause: "You know I don't, Al. Any media on this yet?"

  "Nothing's popped up on my Google Alert so far. The label is gonna flip the fuck out when the news breaks."

  "You tellin', Al? I'm not." D heard his own voice—he sounded pitiful.

  "These things tend to get out, D."

  "You got Night's phone?"

  "The facility doesn't play that."

  "Text that fucking Sy Sarraf. He was at the pool today. I'm sure he laced Night. Tell him to meet me at the Nice Guy—I know the security guys there—and that I'm picking up for Night. Probably in an hour."

  "What do you have in mind?" Al asked.

  "An intervention."

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  VIOLENT INTERVENTIONS

  They were playing Fetty Wap's "Trap Queen," the tinny snap of its beat echoing through the men's room walls from the main room of the Nice Guy. A man in the next stall was taking a dump and singing along: "Man, I swear I love her how she work the damn pole . . ." Unfortunately, he sang without the aid of the Auto-Tune that gave Fetty's voice dimension.

  D vaguely registered this off-key vocalizing as he flushed the toilet and pulled Sy Sarraf's head in and out of the bowl. Sy had happily received the text that D was picking up a "package" for Night. They'd gone into the men's room to do the transaction, but Night's new comanager had a different deal in mind.

  D had slipped the men's room attendant a fifty and said, "Silence is golden." Then he'd turned and shoved the slender drug dealer face-first into the nearest stall. The flushing had commenced right away. D didn't threaten or explain. He just submerged the Persian man's head repeatedly over a ten-minute period, allowing him to gasp a few vital breaths before starting over.

  His point made, D lifted up Sy's head, turned him sideways, leaned in close, and growled like Christian Bale in Batman: "So glad you enjoy Night's music. Continue. But never, ever see him again."

  D tossed a roll of toilet paper on Sy's wet John Varvatos jacket. As he exited the men's room, Fetty Wap's "Trap Queen" gave way to Drake's "Started from the Bottom." But D didn't hear it. He was focused on the unpleasant phone call ahead of him.

  "You were brought on board to help prevent just this kind of problem. But, in fact, you invited Night right into the kind of environment you were supposed to keep him out of. This is a fucking disaster, D."

  Truthfully, D hadn't listened to any of the angry voice messages Amos Pilgrim had left for him. So Amos had sent him ten text messages with various levels of venom.

  Now D sat with Al at Mel's Drive-In on Ventura Boulevard, not far from the studio and the apartment complex where they were living. It was a throwback drive-in hamburger spot that reveled in a connection to George Lucas's American Graffiti, that classic piece of California nostalgia. Al was picking at a salad (though he longed for a burger and fries) while D sat nursing a strawberry milkshake, savoring a bit of sweetness in his sour mood.

  They'd been there a couple of hours as D downloaded all he'd heard at the pool party and out in Lancaster. Information? Yes, D now had plenty of that. But answers and understanding? No.

  Al had listened quietly, making few comments and mostly serving as a blank slate on which D scrawled his discontent. Finally Al asked the question that had been nagging at him: "Can I get a taste of that milkshake?"

  D pushed the glass across the table and Al gratefully gulped down the last of the pink concoction.

  "Amazing," Al said after pushing the glass aside. "I'm supposed to avoid sugar and dairy, but that's like not breathing."

  "I'm just spreading disorder wherever I go."

  "Don't blame yourself, D. It's always the self-inflicted wounds that really hurt us. Anyway, have you looked at the basement studio behind Heaven's Gate?"

  "Huh?"

  "There's a basement studio underneath that shed in the back. It must have been a speakeasy back during Prohibition. It had an eight-track board and a sound booth. But it was mostly a private place to get high. If the story about Dr. Funk and that girl is true, then it probably happened down there."

  "How come you didn't mention this before?"

  "Until you related that story about the girl and the after-hours scene at Heaven's Gate, I'd completely forgotten about it. I bet you could chart the history of black music in LA by the noses that sniffed off that basement sink."

  D was getting ready to head back to the apartment complex and get some rest when he spotted a dark blue BMW cruising by very slowly on Ventura. Another car splashed light on the driver and he saw her face, which was turned in his direction—strong, fierce, resolute. She was a warrior with an ancient soul and twenty-first-century hands. If his hunch was right, maybe he'd get a chance to see her in action tonight. Time to get some answers.

  "Al," he said, "I think I'm gonna go check out that studio at Heaven's Gate."

  "Now?"

  "Why not? I've already had a crazy day. After that thing with Sarraf, my adrenaline is still pumping."

  "What about Amos?

  "Fuck it. He didn't want me around anyway."

  D got in his car, headed down Ventura Boulevard, and then out of the Valley via Laurel Canyon. By this point he figured Serene had bugged his car, so he took his time. No rush. It was late. The sun would crack the sky soon. The streets on the West Hollywood side were as empty as LA gets, so a ride that would normally take an hour only lasted thirty minutes.

  He parked behind Heaven's Gate and walked right into the small structure in the back, a place where his grandfather used to store booze, a place D had played hide-and-seek one memorable teenage night with a brick house of a barmaid named Monique. Now the old chairs and tables stacked against the walls were covered in dust. There were boxes all around containing table linens, silverware, candles, ashtrays, and menus. It looked like the floor hadn't been swept in years.

  D carefully inspected the place and soon spotted some footprints in the dust that vanished in front of a piece of raised floorboard. He walked over and gave the board a firm tug and it lifted right up, revealing a staircase that led down.

  D descended and found himself surrounded by musical instruments and recording equipment, a refrigerator, a rack of clothes, scattered shoes, two hot plates, a VCR, a CD player, and an old white Apple computer. Over in a corner, on a mattress propped up on a pallet, Dr. Funk sat sipping apple juice and examining a small monitor by the bed.

  "Thought you'd figure it out," Dr. Funk said. "It wasn't rocket science, but then again most people are earthbound, so anything celestial is scary—even if, as you see, my space isn't just earthbound but underground."

  "How long have you been living down here?"

  "A long time, I guess—if you measure things by numbers."

  "My grandfather knew you were here?"

  "Of course. He was my friend. He was gonna sell the place but held onto it for me. Those guys wanted to make this into some kind of museum. Like I was an exhibit. Big Danny kept all of them off me. He was a good man. It's why he got killed."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You been wanting my music, right? You want me to play you something?

  "I would love that. It would be great. But first, you know . . . I don't understand. You know who killed my grandfather?"

  "There's a lot of magic in this place. It's why I
stay out here. It's why I'm still alive. It's why I still have blood in me. The vampires have tried to suck me dry. They have bitten me—even made me a little ill. But I got that type-A blood. Quality cells, my friend."

  "Do you know who killed Big Danny?"

  "Big Danny? My man, he killed himself. He drove himself off a cliff of anger. He tried to collect on every debt and not every debt can be settled. Once his wife died, he spent too much time looking back and not enough in the future. There are miracles everywhere. Dreams me and Dick Tracy had years ago are now everyday shit. But Big Danny kept collecting when he should have let all that go. I may look poor and pitiful to some. But I got peace of mind if nothing else. So tell me, you gonna sell this place?"

  "Haven't decided. Maybe it should be a music school. You could stay here as long as you taught."

  "I dunno . . . me and kids? Not sure that would be a great mix for me or them. I still get my royalties. I don't need a job. Anyway, these kids got computers. They make music on phones. That trap thing they do is all digital. But it would be nice if they knew E-flat, E-sharp, and E-minor. They have no idea how nice that would be. I'm not one to judge though. I've been judged too often to toss rocks through someone else's windows."

  "My grandfather set aside some money for me if I took care of you. But you could have it."

  "Big Danny was a special motherfucker. He could get along with a roach even if it climbed out of his shirt at Sunday dinner."

  D and Dr. Funk immediately stopped talking when they heard the sound of someone walking on the floor above them. In the monitor, Serene Powers slowly approached the staircase.

  "You know her?" Dr. Funk whispered.

  "A bit. She's been looking for you. It's time to get this settled."

  "Hello, gentlemen," she said as she descended.

  "Serene."

  Dr. Funk said, "She don't look calm to me."

  "Serenity is fleeting, Maurice Stewart. But you already know that, don't you?"

  "Serene, I let you follow me cause I need some answers. But I am not gonna let you hurt him."

  "Maurice, do you remember Kelly Lee Minter?"

  "Oh wow. Haven't heard that name in years. She your kin?"

  "All women are my kin. All hurt women. All damaged women. All abused women."

  "Serene thinks you did something to this woman. Something you deserve to be punished for."

  "Kelly Lee," Dr Funk said. "I remember. So you come to see me like you the Punisher. Vengeance is yours, huh?"

  "No," D said, "she's not gonna hurt you."

  "Yes, she is," Dr. Funk said.

  "Tell him, Maurice," Serene said. "Tell him what you did. What you did to Kelly Lee Minter and Nicole Neleh and Ashley Mui too. And maybe others."

  "But," Dr. Funk said weakly, "only Kelly Lee died."

  "Only? There's no number at which tragedy isn't tragedy."

  "I didn't think she would die. We were doing what I did back then."

  "A speedball, right?"

  "I was floating on my own cloud," Dr. Funk said softly. "Way up there where only a royal few could breathe. I wanted company. A companion who would enjoy the rare air."

  "So many companions, Dr. Funk," Serene said. "But this one, Kelly Lee—she got up so high she died." When the musician didn't reply, she turned to D. "And you know who covered it up? Your grandfather."

  "I heard."

  "Kelly Lee Minter. Seventeen going on thirty-five. He met Kelly Lee backstage at the Oakland Alameda County Coliseum at the height of his Dr. Funkosity. He spirited her away on his tour bus. Almost a child bride except he never married her."

  Serene reached into her jacket pocket and tossed a photo at Dr. Funk's feet. D picked it up.

  Dr. Funk didn't look at the photo. He just said, "Kelly Lee was a beautiful woman."

  "Girl," Serene corrected.

  "Teenager," Dr. Funk said defensively.

  Serene moved toward him with a quickness D didn't anticipate and slapped Dr. Funk so hard he fell down. D, his professional pride damaged, lunged at Serene, reaching for her torso but only catching an arm. Serene turned her body and side-kicked D in his abdomen. As the air went out of him, he let go of her arm and went down on one knee.

  Serene sprang around to D's head, but he was ready for it and blocked her leg with his left arm before punching her right in the stomach. This time Serene toppled down, caught her breath, and tensed for a counter-attack.

  "Stop! Please stop!" Dr. Funk had scrambled to his feet, his face swollen and red. "D, there's no need to fight this woman over me. I know I need this punishment. I guess I've been waiting on her for a long time."

  D stood up. "Did you kill my grandfather?"

  "No." Serene stood up too and looked at him without flinching. "I'm not a murderer, D."

  "So what are you going to do with Dr. Funk?"

  "I'm not going to kill him."

  "Then what?" It was Dr. Funk.

  "I was hired to bring him to justice—to be punished by Kelly Lee's mother."

  "Really?" Dr. Funk said.

  "I am to bring you to her."

  Serene pulled three more photographs from her jacket pocket and tossed them at Dr. Funk's feet. Each one revealed a comely brown-skinned teenager with large, luscious lips and big brown eyes. Dr. Funk gazed at them intently, his usually sleepy eyes becoming bright, alert, and sad.

  Finally he said, "I wrote a song called ‘Dirty Water.' I wrote it one morning in a hotel room somewhere in the Midwest. It was early. There were two women on the floor, one on top of the other. They looked ashy and drained, like clothes washed in dirty water. There was so much dirty water I thought the two women had drowned. Then I realized that it was me—I was the one who'd drowned. I was underwater. Deep. My lungs were like the gills of a fish. I'd drunk so much dirty water that I wasn't human anymore. When the two women awoke, they showered in clean water and went back to their lives. I was left in that dirty, dirty water. D, maybe this will get me clean."

  Serene said, "It's your last chance, Maurice."

  "No one owes me nothing. But I'm sure I owe people—a lot of people. D, see that locker? Watch over what's inside. I trusted your grandfather. I trust you."

  Dr. Funk walked up to Serene, who took him by the arm and slowly ushered him toward the stairs. D trailed behind them. A white late-model Range Rover waited outside. As Dr. Funk slid into the front seat, Serene turned to D and said, "Sorry about your liver."

  "Oh, it's like that."

  "Um, yeah," she replied. "I have mad respect for you, D. Sorry we had to squabble in there."

  "Me too."

  "As for your grandfather, I think you need to look more closely at his list of debtors. I was following him and Red Dawg for a couple of months, and he was definitely collecting on his debts. My impression was—and it's only a guess—that he planned to invest it in something with a future."

  "That's what you think, huh? You could have told me this before."

  "I'm telling you now because I like you. I wasn't sure about that until now. By the way, that Korean girl you're fucking? I'd look into her family if I were you." Then she smiled, evil and mean, and walked away. As they drove off, Dr. Funk waved at him weakly from the passenger seat.

  Back inside the basement studio, D opened Dr. Funk's locker and gazed upon forty or so years of unheard music history. A stack of iPod Minis, held together by a rubber band, were buried under some TDK cassettes. There were CDs with song titles scrawled upon them. There were DAT tapes—some with labels, some with block numbers written in red magic marker. Down at the bottom D unearthed several reel-to-reel tapes that had Power Station and Record Plant scribbled on them.

  Maybe seventy different containers of music stacked in no discernible order filled the locker. The fan in him was overjoyed to have all this bounty at his disposal, but his practical music-biz pro side recognized the technological challenges of trying to listen to everything on these tapes.

  Then there was figuring out who owned them o
r who might claim to own them once they entered the world. Scratch had been just one of Dr. Funk's many collaborators. Who else had he been working with over the last decade or so? This music was a logistical and legal nightmare. But his curiosity, plus his sense of responsibility to Dr. Funk and to music culture, inspired D to hatch a plan.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  INCRIMINATING CONVERSATIONS

  D was listening to the playback of a new Night song, "Watercolors," when Michelle's name flashed on his phone. He stepped out of the studio and into the hallway.

  "Hello?" he said.

  "We need to talk. Do you have a minute?"

  "Of course. Please. What's wrong?"

  "A lot, D."

  An hour later they sat in a back corner of Caffé Primo on Sunset in West Hollywood. D thought she looked good but stressed. She spoke with her hands clasped together. She found it hard to meet his eyes.

  "My father is a gentleman," she began. "He set the foundation for all our businesses. At a certain point, my mother stepped up and expanded everything. Now my brother—my brother was supposed to take everything to the next level. He was treated like a prince by my parents. But when push came to shove he was too spoiled to do what I do or what my sister does."

  "Is that why your brother runs a convenience store in the hood instead of making real estate deals? Is he being punished?"

  "He's been good at it since my father retired," she said defensively. "And with the Metro expanding toward LAX, it could become very profitable. You saw the coffee shop next door? We'll be selling gourmet goods at our place real soon."

  "Sounds promising."

  "But my brother has issues. He's made some bad friends. There are Korean thugs too."

  "How close is he to these thugs?"

  "Come over to this side of the table," she whispered.

  D stepped around just as she started crying. "What are you trying to tell me about your brother?" She didn't answer, just wiped her eyes. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."