“Is this your only picture of her?”
“That’s what I can give you, yes.” Ride reluctantly passed it across the table.
“Did you hurt her?”
A storm of anger passed across Ride’s face and D wondered if his new employer was going to reach over the table and squeeze his head into an omelet. The skies stayed overcast but no rain fell. “I know my own strength,” Ride said simply.
D pressed no further. He took the wad of bills and straightened them out, sorting them in order of denomination (fives, tens, twenties). It was a habit—it irritated the hell out of him to have disorganized money in his wallet.
“Just meet me back at this McDonald’s in three days with some info on Eve. Okay, yo?”
“And if I don’t have any info?”
“Make an effort for me and I will make an effort for you.”
Ride stood up, leaned over, gave D a light embrace, picked up his food wrappers, dumped them in the garbage bin, and lumbered out. The light-skinned kid lingered a beat and then was out the door, moving quietly in Ride’s wake.
That’s not a lot of money, D mused, but it beat a blank. Now, how does one find a lost ghetto girlfriend in the twenty-first century?
I’LL ALWAYS LOVE MY MAMA
Wherever poor people live today—be it a rural African village, a Brazilian favela, or an inner-city American hood—the World Wide Web is a magic carpet of interaction with the larger world. For most of Brownsville’s history it was a scrappy block of land far from Sri Lanka and Soweto. Now it was all just a click away. Alas, this connectivity didn’t always result in shared values.
“I be looking at these girls,” Ray Ray said, “and they be mad skinny, D.”
“That’s true,” D chuckled.
Ray Ray sat at his mother’s kitchen table tapping on an Apple computer, looking at images on the Russell Simmons–owned Global Grind, a site that mixed celebrity gossip, swimsuit galleries, and political/social commentary. He and D were supposed to be using Google, Facebook, and Twitter in search of Ride’s lost Eve. D didn’t think he’d find this girl via the Internet but Ray Ray wanted to try and it gave D a chance to get into what he really wanted to talk about.
“I don’t understand,” Ray Ray said. “I see fat-ass girls on Dumont Avenue hotter than every girl on here. I mean they got some nice faces and shit, but they ain’t really bringin’ it like a bad bitch should.”
D smiled. “You don’t see Brownsville booty everywhere, Ray Ray. Russell Simmons and a lot of folks in the media world have a different standard of beauty that’s got nothing to do with life in the real world. The values there are as bad as anything you’ll find in the projects.” Pausing and changing his tone, D continued: “I need you to do me a solid. I was handling security for Asya Roc and he—”
“Yo, I heard about that shit,” Ray Ray interrupted excitedly. “There was some shooting at the fight club. Same night there was that crazy shoot-out down by the Saratoga subway. Two niggas got murked by the cops.” The young man’s eyes lit up. “You were at both, weren’t you?”
“Ray Ray, all you need to know, if you are ever asked, is that I came by here a few weeks back to check up on you. You don’t worry about remembering the date. We talked about getting you more work and we played some video games. Plus, I didn’t see your mother. It was just you and me.”
“Gotcha.”
“Thanks. So I’ll pay you for helping me finding this Eve and, if anyone asks, that’s what you’ve been doing for me.”
“Of course.”
The apartment door opened and Janelle, Ray Ray’s mother, entered wearing black ankle-high boots, formfitting jeggings, a leather jacket, a burgundy blouse, a hot-pink scarf, dangling earrings that matched the scarf, and a short Halle Berry–ish weave decorated with two streaks of pink. Janelle was two shades darker than her son (a reflection of the caramel complexion of the kid’s father) and had a beautifully sculpted face (full lips, sharp cheekbones), though her eyes always looked skeptical, even when laughing. Those lovely lips poked out in a perpetual pout.
“Well hello, stranger,” she said to D, and gave him a long hug and a kiss on the cheek before acknowledging her son. “Boy, you know that Facebook is gonna stunt your growth. I think it already has.” This was typical of Janelle—everything had stunted her slender son’s growth, from video games to hip hop to Facebook. She had a habit of speaking on subjects before she really knew what was going on. “You about to work for D again?”
“Yes. I’m helping him do some research.”
Janelle noticed the heart-shaped photo of Ride and Eve on the kitchen table and picked it up.
“You know her, Ma?”
“I used to see her around but heard more about her that I actually saw.”
“Did you know Ride as well?”
“That big gorilla-ass motherfucker? Yeah. Nigga tried to talk to me once, but a Big Mac is no kinda date.”
“So,” D said, “Ride is out and looking for her. There’s money in it for you and your son if you can help me find her.”
“Well, she’s long gone from around here. Ain’t been around here since Skippy was a pup. You know, D, I don’t like my boy hanging with these damn convicts out here. They like incarceration recruiters. Spend enough time with them and you will find your ass in jail.”
“Janelle, I’ll be the one dealing with him,” he said reassuringly.
She turned to her son. “How much is D paying you?”
D had prepared three hundred dollars to give to Ray Ray for his research/cooperation but now figured he’d have to give Janelle his money and then slip the kid some cash separately. Either way, Mama was gonna get a taste, so he put the cash down on the table.
“It’s my money, Ma.”
“Okay. So that means you are only gonna spend that money on yourself and not pay no bills?”
“Ma, you know if I have, you have.”
“Well, now we have three hundred dollars. You are being awfully generous, handsome,” she said to D. “Ride must have given you a G or something.”
“Your son and you will be compensated for whatever help you can give me. I would never jerk you two.”
“Hmmm,” Janelle said, “sometimes you are sillier than a bag of dust. What, you tryin’ to find her on Facebook or one of them sites? She’s probably using a nickname and got a blond weave and gained twenty pounds . . . Tell you what. You guarantee us another four hundred of what Ride pays you and I’ll show you how to find her.”
“Why does everything have to be a negotiation with you, Ma?”
“Cause I’m trying to teach you, Ray Ray. You didn’t learn shit in school so I’m supplementing that bad-ass education you got.”
“Okay, Ma.”
“Your mama is a resource,” Janelle said. “Forget Facebook. I’m Facebook.”
“Ghetto Facebook, huh?” D said.
“Why it got to be ghetto?” Janelle asked.
“It is what it is, Ma,” Ray Ray said, and both he and D laughed.
“Boy, I oughta pop you.”
“So, Janelle,” D asked, “do you know something or are you just messing with me?”
She held out her hand and D dug into his pocket, peeled off another hundred, and handed it to her.
“Okay, go over to Womack & Womack’s over on Livonia off Saratoga. That girl Eve’s sister works there. Eryka. Looks like her but rounder. She does a mean wash-and-curl though.”
“Damn, Ma.”
“Don’t sleep on your mama, son. Now,” she said, turning to D, “you staying for dinner?”
YOU GOT ME
Even in the daytime, Livonia Avenue between the subway stops at Rockaway and Saratoga was shadowy, as any sunlight had to cut through spaces in the elevated tracks. Aside from the Marcus Garvey public housing development and Betsy Head Park, most of these blocks were either empty lots or poorly maintained buildings. Even Betsy Head, which should have flooded the street with light, felt dark because of the dust rising fro
m its pebble-filled ball field.
“Anyone still play game here?” D asked Ray Ray as they walked past.
“A peewee football team practices here,” he reported, “but their league banned games because of all the rocks. Only hard-core Ricans and Dominicans play softball on it. A bad hop out there will bust your lip.”
The only respectable structure on Livonia seemed to be the renovated building near Saratoga that housed AKBK Realty and next door Womack & Womack’s Hair Heaven. The real estate entity had evidently paid for some sandblasting and the installation of security lights.
D and Ray Ray were about to cross the street onto that block when a patrol car and an unmarked vehicle pulled up in front. The Latino detective from D’s shoot-out emerged from inside AKBK Realty with a gun drawn and a walkie-talkie.
“Yo,” Ray Ray said, “that’s that Detective Rivera!”
“Okay,” D said, “let’s lay back.”
The police ran into Womack & Womack’s with serious intent. Women, some with their hair in half-finished weaves, scurried out. Mixed in with them were a couple of hairdressers.
“That one there is Eryka,” Ray Ray said, pointing to a curvy black woman with blue threads in her bob weave.
The police came out a minute later pulling a fifty-something black man with a barrel chest and a blond Afro (wig) and shoved him into the back of the patrol car.
Eryka shouted at Detective Rivera, “This is bullshit! Bobby would never have no guns or shit like that in his shop!”
“Relax, Eryka,” the Latino replied with a self-satisfied smirk. “We got a tip Bobby had guns in his shop. The tip proved right. He doesn’t have a permit. He’s an ex-con. He knows better. He’s in serious trouble. Sorry.”
Eryka sucked her teeth. “Can I at least get my bag out the damn shop?”
“Eryka, it’s a crime scene.”
“Stop the bullshit, Gerald. You know someone must have planted those guns.”
“Well,” Rivera said, “I hope it wasn’t you.”
“Bobby isn’t into anything but hair.”
The detective folded his arms and said evenly, “I’ll listen to what he has to say and I’ll give him a fair hearing. But you know we take illegal guns very serious in this precinct.”
Eryka, quite the diva and not intimidated by the detective, countered, “I know you really care about the guns,” and ice-grilled him like a G.
Rivera shook his head, smiled stiffly, and then let her back in Womack & Womack’s. D and Ray Ray stood behind one of the elevated subway supports, clocking the activity.
When the cop and the hairdresser came back out, Eryka had her bag but was still steaming. Rivera went over and locked the door to AKBK Realty and then hopped into the unmarked car and sped off. Eryka stood in front of the beauty shop looking angry and lost.
“Are you okay, miss?” D stood a couple of feet from her appearing concerned.
She glanced at him a moment and said, “You motherfucking cops make me sick.”
“I’m not a cop,” he said. “I was just walking by and saw you. I apologize for interrupting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You wearing black and all I just thought—”
“No,” he said, “it happens all the time. Listen, I saw a little of what went down. It looked nasty and unnecessary.”
“Very fucking unnecessary.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Eryka looked him up and down, from shoe size to shoulders, and decided to take him up on his offer. D had already sent Ray Ray home, thinking this was a job for a single man.
Ten minutes later they were having fish sandwiches and lemonade at a small spot Eryka knew. She’d spent most of the time venting about the way the cops treated people in Brownsville, with a particular emphasis on the nastiness of Gerald Rivera. Finally she asked D, “So what are you after, big man?”
“You don’t think I was just walking by?”
“You ain’t cracked for the pussy yet, which immediately lets me know you about business. Plus, you brought me lunch and didn’t flinch. You ain’t a cop unless you IA, which I would welcome, since that bastard Rivera is dirty as hell.”
So D told her what he knew about Ride and his quest to find lost love. The story both amused and disappointed his listener.
“Well,” she said, “that man is so strung out on that stunt it’s crazy. But I doubt she’s thought about him a day or night since he went away. As for finding her, well, she e-mails me from time to time. But she changes her e-mail and phone number. I bet she’s in either Cali or Miami, or maybe some island. Girl loves flaunting her shit in a bikini as much as she loves singing. When she calls me next I’ll tell her Ride is looking for her. That’s all I can do for you pertaining to that.”
“That’s something. Thank you.”
“So you a security guard?” she asked.
“I know it’s crazy but I get paid to keep people safe.”
“Hmmmm,” she said, surveying his body again. “You good at it?”
“I’m as good as my clients let me be.”
“Oh, it’s like that. Where do you live?”
“Over in Prospect Heights.”
“Fancy.”
“Not really,” he replied, slightly embarrassed. “I just moved back to Brooklyn and it’s just what I could find.”
“Well,” Eryka said as she reached out and touched his hand, “good for Brooklyn.”
POUR IT UP
From a penthouse in the Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower all of Brooklyn was spread out below like a miniature city with rows of homes, tiny rolling cars, and bundles of high-rises. Looking far to the east, D saw the cluster of sixteen-story public housing buildings in Brownsville where he’d grown up and far out beyond them the aircraft hangars of John F. Kennedy airport. To the south Brooklyn bumped up against the Atlantic with the ocean spread out behind Coney Island and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Brooklyn didn’t seem so big now.
Turning back around, D peered into the sun-drenched living room where Rihanna was striking poses. Behind the spiky-haired, bronze-skinned singer he could see the East River, three of the four bridges that spanned it, and the shoreline of Queens. The singer, quite fabulous in an Alexander McQueen gown, was claiming the horizon for herself, cavorting to her own music in a three-million-dollar penthouse in the converted bank building’s peak.
This was a throwback day for D. When the record industry was poppin’ he’d done security for scores of photo and video shoots. D thought he was doing a favor for a member of RiRi’s regular team, though in reality it was an old pal tossing him a bone. He’d been told not to speak with Rihanna unless spoken to (not a problem), but he was allowed to watch her (happy to oblige).
When D was in college he’d fallen into security because it seemed an honest and worthwhile enterprise, something a man could feel good about doing. He wasn’t a cop or a fireman or some other official protector of life and property, but he was big, determined, and quite able to handle himself.
Yet it had all gone sideways. He’d done security for hundreds of people, both the internationally known and those whose names passed the lips of few. He was realizing now that there had been little philosophy to his efforts. Nothing that guided his actions other than a singer, actor, or businessperson wanting to feel safe for the night. No matter how noble D found his work, he knew his clients were a motley crew. His efforts lacked a moral center, which was more a reflection on himself than anyone who paid him.
Just then a man who himself was morally suspect walked over to him. Eazy Stevie was the kind of person who enters your life by random circumstance and then assumes unearned intimacy. They’d met when D was doing security for an LA MC on a promotional jaunt through New York. D was having a hard time keeping up with the Cali slang of the MC and his posse when Eazy Stevie, who was working for the management team, helped smooth out a misunderstanding between D and the road manager. The trip was otherwise without incident but from then on Eazy Stevie acted like they�
��d bonded during wartime, calling him cuz and blood in a manner that left D cold.
How did this motherfucker keep getting jobs? Yet here he was again, up in Rihanna’s mix and treating D liked they’d done a bid together.
“Yo, cuz,” Eazy Stevie said, “how you doing? Looking good, dude.”
“I’m well, Stevie. How are you?”
“I’m rolling with the hottest female artist in the world, so I’m pretty good. By the way, I don’t know if you know this, but I recommended you for this gig.”
D wanted to keep things simple so he just said, “I know.”
“I hear you’re looking for a copy of a record. An old obscure Motown joint.”
“Am I?” D said, quite surprised.
“That’s what I hear. Am I wrong?”
“You are wrong about a lot of things.”
“So I’ve been told.” Eazy Stevie sounded disappointed.
“But not about that,” D said.
“D, I know you don’t like me. I’m not sure why. I’ve never done anything to you. But I accept it. Anyway, about that record: I believe I can lead you to a copy.”
“How do you know what I’m looking for?”
This question seemed to make Eazy Stevie quite happy. “You are not the first or only person Edge asked about finding that record. The old man knows a lot of people.” He obviously wanted D to owe him a favor; the prospect made him giddy. For him a favor was currency that led to the next job, the next check.
“What do you get for helping me?”
“Just a finder’s fee, nothing more. Though I should say there’s finding and there’s getting, and I could help you do that too. I believe a Mr. Kanye West either has a copy or is close to purchasing one.”
“Okay,” D said with a raised eyebrow, “gimme your number.”
“Why don’t you friend me on Facebook instead?”
“You gotta be kiddin’.”
The Lost Treasures of R&B Page 5