“That’s certainly helpful,” Jen said sarcastically.
“Well, there is one other thing. There’s a motorcycle posse out in Queens that may be behind all this. I passed along what I know to the police and they’re gonna follow up on it. If my hunch proves right, it may have some effect on your management decision.”
“Stop fucking with us, D,” Jen said. “What do you know?”
“I’m not gonna play any games with you, Jen. I could have it all wrong. So just be patient and let’s see what the police come up with.”
Jen was unsatisfied by D’s remarks and started to tell him so. But Bridgette cut her off: “Look, I came to New York to make changes. That was the plan. I guess we didn’t know the city had its own plans for me.”
Happy the subject was shifting, D said, “Why don’t you get out of the city for a few days? The Source Awards are at the end of the week. Go away and come back for that.”
“Good idea,” Jen said, “except that she has a video shoot with Bee Cole set for Tuesday and we want that video at MTV on Monday for airing on the Tuesday after the awards. Plus she has to do press for the taping.”
A thought occurred to D, and he decided to test it out. “Hey, Jen, why don’t you manage your sister?”
A flash of excitement filled Jen’s blue eyes, but her face remained stoic. D could see it was absolutely what she wanted, even as she tried to hide her desire from her sister. He suspected that was part of Rodney’s pitch and the reason for the intimacy he detected between them. “Well,” Jen said, trying to sound only half interested, “it’s come up. We just have to see what’s best for our family.”
D wondered what Bridgette thought, but now she was zoning out, as if all her vitality was being sapped out of her. Champagne didn’t usually make people withdraw.
“Maybe it’s time we all went home,” he suggested.
“Bridgette,” her sister said, “you do look tired.”
“I am tired,” Bridgette admitted, “but I like this place. It’s small. There’s good music and I’m having champagne with some of my favorite people, not a retailer or a program director or a reporter. No one is sweating me. I’m just a girl at a club having a drink. If we were back in Virginia, Jen and I would be sitting somewhere with some cute guys, though we’d be drinking Buds, wouldn’t we?” She leaned over and placed her head on D’s shoulder. She slipped her arms around one of his and got comfortable and closed her eyes. D looked at Jen, who shrugged, poured herself the last of the champagne, and walked over to where Rodney stood.
With her eyes still closed Bridgette asked, “Did you play football, D?”
“Only touch. I grew up in a basketball family. We didn’t want a mask to cover our pretty faces.”
“I lost my virginity to a football player.”
“When? Last week?”
“Ha ha ha,” she said without shifting. “His name was Tad Wilson. He was the center on my high school’s team. Everybody was trying to hook me up with the quarterback, but Tad was wide and very strong and had a great ass. I used to watch it all game long through my daddy’s binoculars. All the squatting, I guess. Had a better ass than me.”
“No way.”
“Oh yeah, D. I’m just keeping it real. You have a nice ass yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Bridgette opened her eyes and sat up to look at him. “Have I been making you uncomfortable?”
“Extremely.”
“You probably wouldn’t have crushed that guy today if I wasn’t all over you.”
“There’s something to that.”
“Well, good then.” She resumed her previous position. “My mother taught me never to let a man be too comfortable. I know she was right about that.”
“Shouldn’t you be dating Justin Timberlake or some VJ on MTV or maybe the guy from The O.C.?”
Bridgette ignored D’s question and fell asleep in the SubMercer with her head against his broad shoulder.
Chapter Twenty
In the murky light of D’s apartment it could have been late morning or early afternoon. Glancing at his cell phone, he grunted and pulled his big body out of bed. In the bathroom he gazed into his face, noticing the bags under his eyes getting deeper and that his left eye still got a little redder than his right (courtesy of a punch from his brother Jah when he was eleven). Once in the shower, D began contemplating a day and night filled with meetings. He tried to focus on what he had before him and not on Bridgette Haze. Was he really going to do this?
His ego, of course, wanted to own the heart (and booty) of America’s sweetheart. Being hooked up with Bridgette Haze would definitely be good for business. Look at the props he’d receive being the bodyguard boning the pop star.
But there were many negatives. Like, for example, the fact that he was HIV positive. He had been fortunate that Emily was so sensitive, curious, and willing. Risking infecting someone doing so well to satisfy his own lust was like asking for a first-class ticket to hell.
And then there was the attention. Being tabloid fodder was not fun. Already reporters had been calling D Security’s office seeking quotes, a bio, whatever bit of info on D they could get. And if they were calling him, they sure were calling others, offering money for dirt. No one in Manhattan knew anything substantial about D Hunter. But the phones worked in Brooklyn, out in hoods where the name Dervin Hunter would sound familiar. His family’s past was his secret. It belonged to him and his mother. He didn’t want sympathy or understanding or to see a counselor. He’d done all that and all it did was make him feel hopeless. Secrecy empowered him, allowing him to create an identity and to define himself by his own actions and not those of his family.
Being a semi-celebrity would definitely be a pain, though it did have some benefits. “Tom Brookins has dropped his suit.” Those wonderful words were spoken by his attorney, Stephen Barnes, at his small lower Broadway office. Barnes was a smart, sharp-witted black man with a graying beard and a round, authoritative face. D looked at him as if he were lying. “Did you hear me, D? It’s over. His attorney called this morning and said Brookins had a change of heart.”
“Well, as much as I hate to admit it, Dante Calabrese came through for me.”
“I don’t believe that’s true, D. I’m not sure he made one phone call or lifted a finger for you. What changed this equation was the National Enquirer and US magazine.”
“What are you talking about?”
Barnes opened a file on his desk, pulling out tear sheets he handed to his client. “You need to read more, D.”
The clips were from several magazines and newspapers. All centered on Bridgette Haze and her “ebony protector,” her “bronze guardian,” or her “D-licious bodyguard.” The reporters were skimpy on details about D—from Brooklyn, close to black celebrities (model Beth Ann, basketball player Bovine Winslow, singer Night), ran a small security company in New York—and mostly dwelled on Bridgette Haze’s love life, including her predilection for “weighty Romeos.” They detailed alleged trysts with offensive linemen, roadies, and, most infamously, a roly-poly Cuban gardener when she was just seventeen years old during a visit to Orlando, Florida.
“It’s because of this shit that I can stop paying you?”
“It appears that you’re too visible now. Before you were just some club security guard Brookins could crush with his wallet. Now he’s afraid people will find out about the case and how he was really injured—he’s missed a bunch of games because of his wrist—and that Miss Haze will help you fight the case.”
“You gotta be kidding me. What a sucka.”
“There is one condition.”
“Hit me.”
“That you promise to provide Brookins with free security the next time the Wizards are in town.”
“Fuck him.”
“It’s not unreasonable, D. Besides, I’ve already cleared it with Mercedez.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He wants the young woman who knocked him dow
n to protect him.”
“Oh, he wants to hang with the bitch that knocked down his bitch ass. Fine by me if it’s okay by her. I used to do security. Then I became a bodyguard. Now I’m running a dysfunctional dating service.”
From that meeting, D headed up to Union Square East and Zen Palate, a two-story vegan eatery overlooking the park. Upstairs at a big round table by the window he sat with Bee Cole, dressed remarkably ordinarily in low-riding jeans, big belt, and a clingy white cashmere sweater; Ivy Greenwich, looking tan after a quick trip to Costa Rica; and two male members of Bee’s production team. They munched on faux food (most of it composed of either soy bean or wheat gluten) with budgets and schedules on the table around them. It was D’s first time in Ivy’s presence since the Times Square incident and the pilgrimage to Queens.
“For this video shoot,” D said, “I want nothing to compromise Bridgette Haze’s security. The Times Square event was well conceived from a PR point of view, but it was obviously a security disaster waiting to happen. I don’t want Bridgette and, quite frankly, my company to be put in such a vulnerable position again.”
“D,” Ivy replied reassuringly, “there was lots of bad judgment displayed by people who should have known better, including yours truly. Some forces influenced those events that, I assure you, will not influence Bridgette to that degree ever again.”
“Okay,” D said, “I know this will be a very elaborate shoot with a great degree of spectacle, but I want it to be clear that all production personnel will have to check in with my staff, that only D Security will control passes, and that any major changes in the schedule will be made in consultation with me.”
Bee smiled and said, “I love a forceful man,” but D’s face barely softened. He was in no mood to be flirted with. Seeing this, Bee pulled back her fishing rod and agreed to D’s demands. After that, talk at the table moved on to the details of the two-day shoot. No problem shooting at the Apollo. No problem using that S&M club in the Meatpacking District or the strip club in the Bronx. But D was troubled by the money shot, which featured Bridgette Haze and a gang of New Yorkers she befriends on her nocturnal journey dancing at dawn on the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Couldn’t it be City Hall or a rooftop or someplace more easily controllable?”
“The video is a metaphor for how the city brings people together,” Bee told D, “and the bridge is an internationally known symbol of the city, sugah.”
“You agree, Ivy?”
“It’ll connect Bridgette with New York in a powerful way and that’s why we came here in the first place.”
Resigned to helping secure the Brooklyn Bridge, D took notes the rest of the meeting and wondered if either Ivy or Bee was going to bring up the tabloid stories linking him with Bridgette. But the meeting stayed professional. Only as he was leaving for One Police Plaza did Ivy suggest they talk privately later, though D detected no leer in the older man’s eye.
Down at police headquarters, D was joined by Jeff Fuchs for a meeting with a sergeant from a Brooklyn Heights precinct, a coordinator from the city’s antiterrorism squad, and a rep from the Mayor’s Office of Film and Television. It was very workmanlike. Question: what time would the crew start setting up at the bridge? Answer: 3 p.m. Question: what time would Bridgette Haze arrive at the bridge? Answer: around 3 a.m. Question: would she be giving autographs to members of the NYPD? Answer: absolutely.
Afterward D and Fuchs strolled up Centre Street, through Chinatown, and up toward SoHo, sharing their first private chat in several days. “So are you fucking her?” Jeff asked as they crossed Canal Street.
“No. Don’t believe what you read. If anything’s going on, it’s a little crush on her part. Nothing serious.”
“No,” Jeff replied. “Not the little singing stunt. That Puerto Rican bitch, Mercedez.”
“Jeff, she’s not a bitch. If I’m not wrong, Mercedez has been an asset to D Security.”
“So you are fucking her?”
“No. I’m not.”
“Oh, she’s just giving you head?”
D stopped in front of the old police headquarters on Centre. It was now a ridiculously expensive condominium. A doorman in a brown blazer looked out at the two men with concern, sensing the tension in their bodies. “Come on, Jeff, what’s with you and her?”
“I don’t understand how you’re giving her access to information I don’t have.” There was real hurt in Jeff’s raspy voice. “I don’t understand how you seem to trust her more than a man who’s always had your back.”
“Listen, Jeff, you are still my dog. No doubt. Mercedez just happened to be around a few times when I thought a woman could be helpful. Besides, the Haze sisters like her. That’s all.”
“That’s not all, D. I know you’re a secretive motherfucker. That’s your right. But there’s more going on than you’re letting on.”
D wondered if this was the right time to bring up the drug-dealing situation at Emily’s Tea Party. He could have cold-busted Jeff right there, but he realized there was another issue in play. D started walking again with Jeff right behind. They’d walked half a block when D turned to Jeff and said, “You and Mercedez did the nasty?”
“No,” Jeff said blandly.
“Something sexual went down, am I right?”
“Kinda.” All the fire had left Jeff’s voice. He sounded like a little boy now. “But that’s not what this is about.”
“No, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Jeff, you’re a lying motherfucker. But, hey, that’s cool. It’s your business—your business until it starts to interfere with mine. Right?”
Jeff agreed, but looked beaten down. D decided the Emily’s Tea Party situation could wait.
* * *
It was five o’clock by the time D Security’s weekly meeting got under way. First he announced the dropped Tom Brookins suit to applause, and Mercedez’s assignment to laughter. Despite that lightness, there was a palpable tension between Jeff and Mercedez that D tried to ignore. He just plowed through the details of the shoot: where staff would be stationed, who the police liaison would be at the various locations, and he gave out the insurance forms, time sheets, and other mundane details of managing a field operation. Jeff was assigned to coordinate with the film and television office and, in a real surprise, he would have Mercedez work under him. Both Jeff and Mercedez were protesting when Clarence, the classy, always distinguished gentleman of D Security, cut in.
“D,” he said, “I have a crucial question regarding the shoot.” As he was the veteran member of the company, everyone deferred to Clarence when he had something to say.
“Please, Clarence,” D said, “what concerns you?”
“Just wanted to know whether you’re going to be doing your work outside or inside Bridgette Haze’s trailer.”
D was stunned into a stutter. Clarence burst out into a deep, full laugh that infected the entire room. Whatever questions about D’s relationship with the singer lingered in the room, they were diffused by Clarence with one bad joke.
“Nothing serious is happening, Clarence,” D finally responded. “I’ll be out in the cold just like everyone else.”
“Oh yeah,” Clarence said next, sparking more laughter.
D broke up the meeting soon afterward and gave Clarence a hug. D grabbed a backpack out of his office and headed to the elevator with Jeff and Mercedez on his heels. “Listen, you two,” he said with fatherly exasperation, “I have to go handle a family emergency. You guys have a problem, well, work it out. I’m your boss, not your referee.” The elevator doors opened, D entered, and, after a wave goodbye, let the doors close in their faces.
It had been a busy day and it was far from over. Downstairs one of Tony’s TZL town cars was double-parked at the curb, and as soon as D entered, it rolled down Broadway. A left on Canal took the car over the Manhattan Bridge and, once in Brooklyn, onto Flatbush Avenue. As Brooklyn landmarks like Junior’s and the Brooklyn Academy of Music passed the town car�
�s windows, D checked messages on his two-way: two from Bridgette Haze wondering how his day was (answer: hectic) and whether he’d stop by the studio tonight (answer: can’t); three from companies hawking security gear (wiretaps, miniature surveillance cameras, al-Qaeda–proof metal detectors); and sundry e-mails from the usual nuisances (party promoters, Viagra sellers, sex sites featuring Sepia Sluts).
By the time the car made a turn onto Eastern Parkway, D was satisfied that he was on top of everything, so he leaned back into the leather seat, loosened his muscles, and contemplated the wide boulevard’s tall, skeletal trees. During Labor Day weekend, the West Indian Day Parade filled this avenue with floats, steel bands, beef-patty salesmen, and over a million largely inebriated, mostly brown New Yorkers recreating the carnivals of the Caribbean during one long day.
As a child, D had loved to walk up and down Eastern Parkway the day of the parade, pushing and dancing with the throngs all the way from Brownsville, at the far eastern end, through Crown Heights, and all the way west, past the Brooklyn Museum and the beautiful Botanic Gardens, to the arch at Grand Army Plaza, next to the entrance to sprawling Prospect Park. It would take all afternoon to make that trek, but it was a joyful walk. When he was six he sat on Matty’s shoulders and felt as if he could see over the entire vast crowd. When he was ten he held Rashid’s hand as his middle brother flirted with Trinidadian girls gyrating with butterfly wings on their backs and garish makeup on their otherwise comely faces. At twelve he spent much of the day searching for Jah amid the smoky clouds emanating from the clusters of herb dealers prospecting on the edge of the crowd. When he was a teenager he walked the parade alone, enjoying the music while searching for ghosts. He hadn’t attended the West Indian Day Parade in years and had no plan to do so ever again.
The sedan made a left off Eastern Parkway near Lincoln Terrace Park and went up two blocks to an ornate, well-maintained old church. A huge video screen and a baptism tub dominated the high hall. Its long overhanging balcony and the presence of several cameras around the room made the church seem more a concert hall than a place of worship. As D walked toward the front of the church, faces turned his way—some sitting in pews, a couple standing by the wide, brightly lit pulpit. None of them, however, was the person he sought.
The Accidental Hunter Page 16