On one wall was a small square of white. A framed letter from his mother that D read at least once a day. The Lord, she wrote to her youngest son, gives each of us a gift. Something that says we’re special. It can be strength. It can be in the mind. It can be our smile. But the Lord also gives us a burden for us to overcome. Our time on Earth is about learning our gift and overcoming that burden. Often it’s easier to see our burden than our gift. You know how the Lord has burdened me. But I’m clear now: my gift was to be a mother and to know and feel the things only a mother can. No matter what has happened, I’ll always know what it is to carry life in me. That’s what I was given. Now you got to go out and find the thing the Lord gave you. That’s what your life’s about now.
D wasn’t sure if he totally believed his mother. He often wondered if he truly had any special gift other than being big and brown and occasionally frightening. Still, he read it every day, like a prayer. Despite his misgivings about the message, it gave him a sense of comfort, as if his mother were hugging him whenever he asked for one.
Framed next to that letter was a blurry Polaroid snapshot of his family. A weary, chubby woman in a bulky red sweat suit stood farthest to the left. Her arms were folded around a teenage boy whose long, skinny limbs and glittering gold chains distracted from the sneer on his gaunt, brown, obsessed face. At the other end of the photo was another teenager. This one was younger, with a handsome face and a God-given smoothness. The arm of a caramel shorty leaned against his body, desperately trying to claim him, though this young man would prove impossible to snare.
In the center of the photo stood a firm, muscular, large-bodied young man who damn near blotted out the sun. He wore a tank top and big, baggy basketball shorts and cradled a trophy in his large hands. He smiled with all the confidence a powerful man should. Around his neck dangled the legs of a seven-year-old boy, whose hands held on to either side of the big-bodied young man’s head. If you thought the little boy looked dizzy, you’d be right. The little boy was dazzled and intoxicated by the view from Matty’s shoulders. It was a view from on high he’d later grow into. That summer day was one of the few from D’s childhood he didn’t want to forget.
D was never comfortable being the baby of his family, since a baby has no responsibilities. The baby is the one watched over, the one coddled and protected. Now D had outlived his baby status. Now he was a protector, a guardian, the one who made others secure. Yet in this world, who was really safe?
D reached into his medicine cabinet and pulled out his plastic pill dispenser. Sitting on the toilet seat he counted out fourteen tablets: ten Viracept, which were protease inhibitors; two Combivir, which were ACT; one Claritin for his sometimes leaky sinuses; and one Zovirax to prevent herpes outbreaks. He’d been taking this HIV regimen for three years now and, so far, he looked as healthy as Magic Johnson. Which is to say, if you didn’t know D was HIV positive, you wouldn’t guess it.
He took his tablets into the kitchen and turned on his blender. After tossing in bananas, strawberries, apple juice, and a protein drink called Metrix, D slid several of the pills into his mouth at a time and gulped down his juice drink.
With his body on his bed and his eyes closed, D let the medication flow through him and listened to the city outside his apartment—the cabs, the trucks, the folks down at the bar right below him, and the grocery store on the corner. D felt his senses tingling, like Spider-Man in a comic book, as his organs and his blood accepted the potent cocktail of medication. The disease had made him incredibly conscious of his body—every ache, every pain. Even his breath seemed important now. There was nothing he could ever take for granted again.
After fifteen minutes he got up and slid into his third-best DKNY suit; a Gap turtleneck; sharp, shiny, retro-sixties Italian boots; his favorite Dolce & Gabbana distressed-leather trench coat; and a Kangol worn backward—all of them a proud shade of midnight black. D strode briskly out into the chilly embrace of a suddenly soupy, gray, late-winter afternoon.
* * *
At Seventh and 32nd Street, D reached his destination, the office suites of A.S.S. (Athletic Sports Services), where he had expected to pick up a check. Instead, he found himself sitting on a wooden facsimile of a New York City park bench in A.S.S.’s lobby, flipping through Sports Illustrated, the Wall Street Journal, and NBA press releases. A.S.S. was in the business of squeezing 10 percent from the sweat of black gladiators, so the walls were adorned with huge photos of the agency’s clients dunking, shooting, and otherwise hanging in NBA-authorized air. Forty minutes after his arrival, D was summoned from the bench and ushered into the presence of A.S.S.’s prickly coach. As the agent for two dozen NBA studs, Dante Calabrese fit neatly into the category of white men comfortable with black folks. Same as D’s man Jeff Fuchs, except that Jeff wanted to fit in while Dante was obsessed with cashing in.
D sat uncomfortably across from the agent and took inventory. He had a big head covered with thick, dark brown hair, matching eyebrows, tiny black eyes, and a mouth that would have seemed small if it wasn’t always open. His suit was expensive. So was his watch. But it wasn’t his looks or his gear that made Dante a player. He made sure he knew which SUVs were cool and where the black elite dined in each NBA city, and he maintained an active working knowledge of current slang. Although he could sound goofy saying “off the chain” or “def” or whatever young black folks were into that particular summer, Dante was self-aware enough to run his awkwardness into self-deprecating humor. Calabrese’s goal was constant—to calm the psyche of young African American millionaires. “Yo, dog, my man is funny” or words to that effect were what he sought. This attitude disarmed his cash cows and made them feel vaguely superior to their agent, an illusion Calabrese found extremely useful.
If a player’s folks were working class or worse (which most were), Calabrese employed the ghetto glamour of flashing rings, fancy cars, and illegal cash payments. If a player’s parents were middle class, he talked education, wise investments, and future business opportunities. If a player made it to “the show,” it was stroke, stroke, stroke their egos like he was captain of the Harvard rowing team.
If you were D—an interesting but highly marginal personality in the athletic orbit—Calabrese didn’t feel obligated to wear a mask. When Calabrese asked, “How’s the party security business these days, D?” he expected this black man to respond, Yo, shit is phat. My spot is blowing up. Instead D, as professionally dispassionate as he could sound, reported, “Well, Dante, the business is growing. We’re picking up more accounts. I’m hopeful things are about to go to another level.”
Calabrese acted as if this information was important to him. D knew where he was driving, so he took the wheel. “So, you wanna know why, if business is good, I need five thousand dollars from Bovine? Well, Dante, I’ve put out a lot of cash to get D Security going. I’m still in debt to several vendors for the uniforms, overhead, and, of course, I pay lots of insurance. I’d just rather owe Bovine money than five guys named Vinnie.” Calabrese loved Mafia jokes (he watched The Sopranos incessantly), so that was an ace. Still, there’d be no check without a lecture.
“D,” Calabrese replied with the gracious smugness of a rich man, “I get it. It’s the cost of doing business. I understand that. I totally get it.” Then he glanced over at his G3 screen. “But looking over Bovine’s file, I see this loan will bring what you owe him in excess of fifteen thousand dollars.”
“To $15,045,” D said.
“That’s right, D. That’s a nice sum of money. Not outrageous, but a nice sum nonetheless. Now, you’ve been a really special friend to Bovine since he’s been in New York. You’ve helped him in so many ways.”
“I really like the guy.”
“I know,” Calabrese conceded. “But at some point I feel you either have to formalize this relationship—”
“Formalize?”
“Either come to work for Bovine to pay back this debt or simply be his friend and stop borrowing money. This in-
between stuff has to end. You’re a businessman now, D. I’m sure you understand.” An envelope appeared out of Calabrese’s pocket and D’s eyes followed it like an alcoholic’s to a drink. “Get back to me on this, okay?”
D nodded affirmatively as he took the envelope and signed the upscale IOU form.
If Bovine hadn’t okayed the request, Dante Calabrese would never have said that. What they wanted was a full-time bodyguard/flunky/hangout buddy who’d handle everything from the dishwashing to condom purchases. D had done that in college for a pal and for Bovine when he first hit New York, but he’d outgrown that role. That’s what D Security was about, having his own thing, building his own empire. He didn’t want to work for anyone anymore now—least of all an NBA star. Still, he wanted to maintain the Bovine connection and knew Calabrese’s words were a threat. The potential for Bovine’s next check was at least $70 to $80 million. Calabrese didn’t want anyone to affect the flow. If D was back on Bovine’s salary, Calabrese could control him and muffle his influence. Right now, despite the loans, D was too independent, too much his own man and too close to Bovine to suit Dante.
* * *
A stop at his bank. Moving money around in his D Security and personal accounts. Then over to 33rd Street off Eighth Avenue and the players’ entrance to Madison Square Garden. The guards checked him in with a nod and a smile. An elevator took him up to the arena level, where he walked through a long passageway and then stood in front of the court. Down at the Eighth Avenue basket of the world’s most famous arena, under the white championship banners and the retired numbers in the mostly empty building, Bovine Winslow moved without the ball.
Drop step right. Spin move left. The hustle. The electric glide. The Bankhead bounce. Bovine Winslow was deep into the choreography of his game. “Yo, D!” he yelled as his friend stood courtside on the polished wood, just outside the charmed rectangle. Bovine stopped his dance and came on over. “I don’t like these guys, D.” Bovine spoke in the lovely Southern drawl that graced sneaker and pizza ads all over local TV. “These boys from DC go too far.” Down at the Seventh Avenue end of the court, two Washington Wizards, garbed in the team’s patriotic-colored warm-ups, tossed up shots, joked, and cut unamused glances down at Bovine’s dancing.
Watching his friend’s ritual pregame dance, D saw once more why men envied and women lusted after the Knicks forward. In a league of tall, well-constructed bodies, Bovine’s physique was a conditioning coach’s dream. Shoulders as broad as Karl Malone’s; waist as taut as Evander Holyfield’s; his ass a tight, pointy weapon used to pound low-post opponents into submission; long, sturdy legs with the tapered ankles of a sprinter; all of it adorned in a shiny onyx coating.
Strangely, Bovine’s remarkable body was also his curse. People never took his pain seriously because all the world could see was strength. They didn’t think the knees, elbows, and low blows of opponents hurt Bovine or that the bites, scratches, and groins of women, greedy for his sex, could scar him or cause discomfort. He’d mumble, “Everybody acts like I’m not a person,” yet no one took his mild complaints seriously because Bovine was everybody’s cock diesel fantasy. No one acknowledged Bovine’s vulnerability, and after a while, tired of being ignored, he just did his solitary basketball dance and brooded.
* * *
Later, sitting on a stool in the Knicks locker room—sanctuary, sweatbox, and changing room—Bovine continued, “The Wizards are the worst team in the league for disrespecting a brother. You shouldn’t invite them to our party and around our honeys. Sounds right to me, D.” That was classic Bovine: Sounds right to me.
The phrase had already been used in a Knicks radio spot, sampled for the hook on a Mary J. Blige record, and exploited in two sneaker commercials. Not to mention the line of black Sounds Good to Me T-shirts D was hawking via Korean vendors, flea markets, and the Internet to help pay bills.
D really wanted to get into his conversation with Calabrese but knew this wasn’t the time. Bovine had pulled out his blue Sony Walkman and slipped in tonight’s selection, Ice Cube’s classic AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted, a recording perfect for moving Bovine into the mental combat zone he’d happily reside in for the next three hours. It wasn’t the time to talk business with Bovine. It was time for D to work the room—the room being Madison Square Garden.
D gave Tea Party comps to the Knicks backcourt and the Knicks City Dancers, except for the Asian girl who had tried to stick her tongue in Emily’s ear at a party last month. D gave no comps to the press-room security guards or sports writers. D gave no comps to women wearing pearls. D did give comps to any lady in leather pants. Throughout the pregame warm-up, D surfed the lower-level seats for “fabulous” people of every description.
At the Garden on a game night, D was a third-tier celebrity. Players were level one. Regular celebrities level two. Level three were folks in the mix with a small portfolio. Just as D watched for the kind of client Emily wanted (record bizzers, models, Wall Streeters with style, media types, classy groupies), he too was watched. A black man in a black suit and shirt strutting around the Garden, nodding to ushers, shaking hands, and kissing cheeks. You might not have known who D was, but you knew he was in the mix.
Which was why D was always gazing at “the Mack.” At least that’s what all the season-ticket-holding brothers called him. Game after game this old white man with a short white Afro sat courtside with a stunning array of women. Between his always impeccable taste in companions and his righteously retro hairstyle, the Mack was one of the most identifiable figures in the high-profile world of Knicks courtside VIPs. D, however, knew more about the Mack than most people. His name was Ivy Greenwich and for three decades he’d been one of the biggest managers in pop music. He was Night’s manager, which was why D knew his backstory, but they’d had only fleeting contact. If he was at all known to the masses, it was as Bridgette Haze’s manager. That little white girl was a huge star. D didn’t care much for her music, though he did think Haze had a pretty big ass for her race.
On this evening the Mack was accompanied by Danville, a bronze beauty whose long body was encased in hip-hugging jeans. D’d met her one night with Beth Ann, which seemed connection enough to make a move. After shimmying past security guards, vendors, and corporate types gawking at Danville’s gams, D strode over to the happy couple. Danville had only a vague memory of D but knew all about Emily’s Tea Party. Equally cool was that the Mack had heard of it too.
“I’ve been meaning to get down there,” the white-Afroed man said in a voice that somehow blended Brooklyn with Birmingham, Alabama. What a striking sound he made—ethnic New York with a Southern drawl. “Danville tells me a lot of her friends go there.”
D confirmed that and added that Ford, Elite, and Zoli models who turned up got free admission.
“Sounds like my kind of place,” the Mack replied suavely, as Danville playfully elbowed him.
“You know,” D said, “you manage a friend of mine.”
“Really. Who’s that?”
“Night. We go way back. I’ve done security for a few of his shows. I have a company.” D pulled a business card from inside his suit and handed it over to Ivy.
“Ahh, I’ve heard of you guys. This is your company, huh?”
“Absolutely. We’ve been in business a couple years and we handle security at many clubs in the city.”
“And you’re good friends with Night?”
“Oh yeah,” D replied. “In fact, he told me he’d be coming down to Emily’s Tea Party tonight.”
“Ahh,” Ivy said again. “But you didn’t speak to him today, did you?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him since he did that show in Atlanta. But as you probably know, he’s in love these days and taken to spending a lot of time in bed.”
They both chuckled, though D noticed Ivy’s laugh sounded forced. Since they’d started talking about Night, there’d been a subtle shift in the man’s posture. The Knicks and Wizards were moving onto the court, so D exc
used himself. As he was about to walk away, Ivy took hold of his sleeve and pulled D’s face close to his. “We need to get together and talk a little business, D.”
“That would be my pleasure, Ivy.”
Just before the opening tip, D moved into his seat seven rows behind the Eighth Avenue basket, where he had a clear eye line toward the Knicks bench, where Bovine’s game face was already penciled in. This was Bovine’s fourth year in New York and, not coincidentally, D’s third in an expensive seat. Bovine’s back had proved broad and D had climbed aboard, just like his teammates. It was Bovine who’d given him the seed money to open D Security, a debt D deeply wanted to repay, though who knew when?
D pulled out his two-way and sent a message to Night: You coming tonight? D. P.S. Finally met your manager. Sounds like it might be ready to put my company down. Lace me. Peace. Night didn’t return the page, but Emily E’d him repeatedly throughout a closely contested first half. At halftime break D pulled out his cell and prepared himself for the reprimand. To his surprise, Emily, sweet as English tea cake, reported that her answering machine was filled with RSVPs and that the club’s phone had been buzzing too.
“My lovely,” she shouted, “our little spot is quite hot!” To hear his tart English woman (or was it his English tart?) sound sweet as dripping honey felt like a revelation. It didn’t last. “Did you get the money?” When D reported that he’d visited Calabrese, she said sharply, “You should have brought that check right down to me immediately and not carried it around like a trophy. You’ve owed me that money for months. Just what do you do with all your money?”
None of your business, D thought, though what he said was, “Emily, I see some of the players’ girlfriends. Let me comp them before they get away.”
She said, “Get down here as soon as possible.” It was a plea that sounded like a command and D hung up slightly pissed.
Right after D clicked off, his two-way quivered and Fly Ty’s number flashed on. D sighed and stared out at the court, looking but not seeing. Can’t deal with him tonight, he thought. Maybe tomorrow. More likely the day after that. Or the day after that. What does he want now? Memories can be like razors on your tongue. One nick, and no bandage made could stop the bleeding. No Fly Ty tonight. Hopefully none for a while.
The Accidental Hunter Page 2