“It’s a relentless beat, you know?” Night said. “The need for new shit, new sounds, new everything. That was the title of your man Dwayne Robinson’s book: The Relentless Beat.”
“I know it well. Dwayne treated me like a son.”
“Yeah, it was a shame how he got done. They ever catch those niggas?”
D looked the singer in the eye. “The streets did.”
“Oh,” Night said, surprised and a little unnerved, “like that, huh?”
“Yeah. I think there are some outstanding debts yet to be paid, but everyone who was involved is no longer above ground.”
“Justice,” Night said. He reached out and hugged D, who was getting a little teary. Night let him go and watched him closely.
“But,” D said finally, “he’s still dead.”
“He was a smart man, D. Last few years, I read that book two or three times. I believe his whole theory about soul singers.”
“The Fever.”
“Yeah, ‘The Fever.’ That was a hell of a chapter.”
In his book The Relentless Beat, the late Dwayne Robinson had written:
This Fever is not some benign three-day cold you can knock out with orange juice and aspirin. Once overcome by the Fever, it penetrates your DNA and alters your cell structure. Your sex appeal goes off the charts. Young girls scream. Adult women swoon. Even grandmothers get embarrassed by their sticky wet dreams. Sure, the transformation is amazing, but that doesn’t mean it’s all good. Once acquired, the Fever takes on a life of its own. Sex happens everywhere, all the time, until it loses meaning. You become insatiable and then the Fever consumes you. It wears out your body because too much fucking is like to much herb, too much candy, and too much food—it has nasty consequences. The Fever is what got Sam Cooke shot in a tacky LA motel. The Fever got Teddy Pendergrass crippled in a car accident. Because of the Fever, Eric Benét couldn’t keep Halle. The Fever got Michael Jackson catching a case over some underage boy. The Fever got R. Kelly on film with an underage girl.
“I lived that whole theory out,” Night said. “The singing, the women, and all that energy. It burned me up. It took me years to get myself back together. In Asia they have that concept of chi—the energy that animates your life and everything in the world. Your personal chi can get drained. Well, if chi was a cup of water, I was down to my last drop. You remember how I used to be? I could stay hard fucking a sixty-year-old white-haired bitch. That’s how much chi I had.”
“I remember you back in the day,” D chuckled. “Crazy shit, Night.”
“Yo,” Night smiled and grimaced, like he wanted to laugh but had sore ribs, “you remember when I was brought in on suspicion of murder? They were gonna pin that shit on me. Then that crazy motorcycle posse kidnapped my ass. And that was all before I really was anything. But it was all outside me, you know? Once I had some hits, the shit was all about what was inside me. It was painful, D. It was real painful.”
“Hey, that’s all ancient history. The only thing that matters now is what happens next. The story continues cause life goes on.”
“I’m trying, D.”
“Motherfuckers used to call you the lost treasure of R&B. That was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now. You are just a singer making a new record. All you need to do is sing well and write well. That’s what you owe yourself. Not to me or Al or some woman screaming for you to take off your shirt.”
Night laughed and patted his friend’s shoulder. “You preaching tonight, D.”
“No. This isn’t about religion. You know I’m not the religious type. This is just what I know. I’ve spent a lot of time dwelling on shit that rained down on me. Can’t keep wiping it off. Eventually, you gotta get new clothes.”
“So,” Night said, smiling, “when are you finally gonna stop dressing like an undertaker?”
“One thing at a time, motherfucker.”
D saw Al and the production team waving at him from the control and nodded in their direction. “Maybe you should go make some more music before those guys out there fall asleep.”
When D took his seat back on the control room sofa, Night said through the speakers, “D, this song is for you, my dude. It’s how we should be.” The track had a military rhythm reminiscent of Sade’s “Soldier of Love,” but with regal chords that suggested soul music meets the British royal court.
I’ll battle anybody
I’ll do anything
I fight like a lion
And then live like a king
I live like a king when I have no money
I live like a king when the sun don’t shine
I live like a king cause the power is within me . . .
[bridge]
Living like a king isn’t about my ego
Living like a king isn’t about objects
Living like a king is a spiritual calling
I live like a king cause I have no other options
I live like a king to inspire my children
I live like a king to make my own future
I live like a king hoping you will join me
And we’ll all live like kings . . .
When he finished the take, D told Al, “I am definitely feeling that.”
Al smiled and patted D on his arm. “I am so glad you’re here, D. We leave for London in two days. Dig out your passport.”
FIRE WE MAKE
D hadn’t gotten back to Brooklyn until five a.m. and, still wired by Night’s music, didn’t fall asleep until around six. So when Fly Ty hit him at ten a.m. he hadn’t wanted to talk but his curiosity overpowered his fatigue.
Fly Ty popped onscreen looking serious with his light-blue Kangol on backward and his matching T-shirt. “I have some good news and some bad news. Actually, I have some small bits of good news and some large chunks of bad news.”
“Okay. Let’s start with the shoot-out.”
“That’s the very bad news. Not very, very bad, but it’s up there. So the cops involved in the shoot-out did not put you in their paperwork. I had a friend look over their reports. When a member of the NYPD discharges their gun they get interviewed carefully. Internal Affairs really gets involved. Well, both were consistent. Maybe too consistent. Let me suggest why that is.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Well, they weren’t coming from the end of their regular shift. They, in fact, are part-time employees of a real estate company that seems to be buying up large parcels of land in Brownsville and East New York.”
“Gentrifying the Ville? Damn.”
“Real estate is a long game, D. Who knows what 2025 will look like.”
“These guys are part-time brokers?”
“Security and Community Relations Consultant is how Rivera is listed. The other cop, Teddy Wynne, is hired by him on a freelance basis. But that does not explain why, if it went down as you said it did, they didn’t include you in their reports.”
“Nope,” D said.
“But this bit of information may help explain things. The developers, AKBK Realty, sought these guys out. They are, apparently, the most corrupt crew in the precinct. They’ve been accused of protecting and extorting drug dealers. It’s been said that they protect those baby pimps who kidnap girls and turn project apartments into brothels.”
“So these are real bad boys?”
“Nothing’s been proven but their rep in terrible,” Fly Ty said.
“So maybe they didn’t report me because they weren’t sure what was in the bag and are worried, or because they were up to something themselves. Better to keep shit simple. You think they’re looking for me?”
“I’d bet on it, and that’s the very bad news.”
D considered this a moment. “What should I tell those two detectives investigating the fight club thing?”
“Not sure. Let me check up on them first. But that guy Rivera—”
“He got the best look at me.”
“Well, he may be bent but word is he’s a good investigator and very smart. H
e’s the one to worry about.”
“They didn’t actually do anything wrong. Truth is, they actually saved my ass.”
“Nice of you to say that, but they may not feel that way. We don’t really know what they’d just been into before you ran into them.”
“I bet I interrupted something.”
“Maybe. It’s all speculation. But that’s all I know now.”
“What about the fight club thing?”
“Officially nothing happened. There was no report of any incident there. But people contacted the police with tips. They did find one shell casing. Off the record, they know someone got shot and that the casing matched a gun in a manslaughter case, but who knows how long that shell had been in the restroom? They also know Ice was somehow involved—anything about Ice gets them interested. Plus, they hear you and that rapper were involved too. Rapper perp walks are always popular. But they are not sure what really happened. There were three gunshot victims brought to Brookdale Hospital that night though none were shot in the leg. At King’s County there were five admitted with gunshot wounds. Two leg wounds but they were both Hispanic teenage males. In essence they are looking for Ice and hoping he’ll be looking for you and that’ll you’ll snitch.”
“I saw Ice the other day,” D said. “We’re good. For a stone-cold killer he’s a good dude, Fly Ty. But it’s not comforting to know that the police are hoping he’ll scare me into talking. It could give him bad ideas about me.”
“Speaking of crazy motherfuckers, let’s talk about your friend Mr. Ridenhour.”
“Please. Whatcha got?”
“Well, he was upstate for felonious assault on a dealer with a baseball bat. He seems to have good judgment in these matters since he just broke the guy’s arms and bruised his legs, but never hit him in the head and risked killing the guy. A very professional job.”
“In case he comes at me with a Louisville Slugger, at least I know I’m in good hands. What about the girl?”
“Eve Wright. Thirty-one. Two shoplifting misdemeanors. One arrest for solicitation tossed. One divorce. Not from Mr. Ridenhour. New York State driver’s license. Address listed is 812 New Jersey Avenue.”
“Great.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, I went on Google Maps. That building is undergoing some kind of renovation and is empty save a gang of hard hats.”
“Ahhh.”
“Also, she was born Eve Parsons but doesn’t appear to loyal to that name. She also goes by Eva Peoples and Evelyn Patrick. Also been known to use her sister Eryka Wright’s home. It’s likely she’s using a new name. I would if I had a big motherfucker just out of the joint in love with me.”
“Maybe she owes him some cash? You think this is about money or love?”
“How should I know?” Fly Ty said. “He’s your client.”
“He’s got a little guy following him around. About thirty. Lean, five nine, lemon-yellow with a goatee and small eyes. He’s making the following obvious and Ride doesn’t seem too concerned.”
“Hmmm. You sure he’s not actually a bodyguard?”
“I guess that’s possible, though how this kid would keep that big motherfucker safe is a mystery.”
“Let me see if there’s some info I can find on known associates.”
“Think you can help me find this old record?”
“I’m a lifelong cops-and-robbers guy,” Fly Ty replied. “I like music as much as the next man. But searching out lost vinyl? That’s not what I do. Too bad your man Dwayne Robinson isn’t around. This probably would have been a no-brainer for him.”
“Yup. No question about that . . . I have an idea.”
“Ideas are good. Strong locks on your door would help too. Just in case you get some unexpected visitors.”
“You mean more of them.”
“Ahh,” Edge said wistfully, “Brooklyn.”
* * *
D woke back up around three p.m. He did push-ups, sits-ups, and some stretching. He washed down his HIV meds with apple juice and then had his usual breakfast of oatmeal and almond butter. He filled his black Tumi suitcase with clothes, shoes, and toiletries, happily contemplating getting out of town; the money he’d receive would pay three months’ rent. Between Ride’s cash, the Rihanna payment, and the unexpected Night windfall, this had been his best month in quite a while. He wanted to get D Security rolling again and this move to Brooklyn, though action-packed, was proving profitable.
Finished with his packing, D decided to have a bit of fun.
He used social media much like every borderline middle-aged man. He got into the occasional Twitter fight with other basketball fans over LeBron vs. Jordan, the Knicks’ deficiencies, and whether the great sight lines at the Barclays Center made up for the supertight upper-deck seating. (D, in fact, chided Jay-Z about that very thing one night when he was bodyguarding him, and the MC’s reply was, “Lose weight.”)
D also surfed Facebook for photos of hot women who felt it was their social media duty to post shots of themselves in all manner of revealing clothes, from two-piece swimsuits to Victoria’s Secret knockoffs to curve-hugging stretch pants. D wasn’t proud of this preoccupation but sometimes his private life felt a bit Spartan and this online Peeping Tom bit harmlessly spiced things up.
Because of his music business connections, D received weekly friend requests from singers around the country (and sometimes the world) seeking management, a record deal, publicity, or some other hookup. If their profile picture appealed to him, D would check out their music link, and if—and only if—they could sing or had good songs he’d review their photo albums. It was, he felt, a way to maintain some integrity and not be just another horny Facebook stalker. (This was bullshit but it justified his habits.)
He had recently received a friend request from a woman named Cassie Wilson, a cute dark-brown sister with big eyes and sexy Chaka Khan vocals. She was from the Bay Area but lived in Los Angeles, and she performed in a medley of body-hugging, low-cut, Beyoncé-lite dresses that D found quite appealing.
In one photo Cassie was at the microphone with a honey-colored, natural red-haired singer named Eva who caught D’s eye. Though more modestly dressed than her friend, D thought her sparkling eyes and taller frame more beautiful. So he clicked on Eva’s page where there was a picture of a lovely California sunset and a profile shot of Eva with a reality star–level brunette weave.
In Eva’s photo albums there were a bounty of images sure to warm the heart of any soft-core cyberpeeper: workout shots in formfitting gear, bikini shots in Mexico, and selfies in various bedroom and bathroom mirrors. There was an album titled “Throwbacks” that D clicked on because of an adorable cover shot of a non-glammed-up Eva, probably taken more than five years earlier. Unlike the Los Angeles lifestyle shots that filled Eva’s other Facebook albums, these pictures were taken in New York and featured a chubbier, more baby-faced Eva in Baby Phat fashions.
Then, in a picture dated 2003, Eva sat on the hood of a car in the arms of hulking man in a blue Yankees jacket and matching baseball cap. D clicked on the photo but the man was listed simply as, My old boo! It appeared to be taken in New York and the huge brother definitely could have been Ride. A search of his wallet, desk, and the boxes accumulated since he’d moved back to Brooklyn didn’t yield the photo that Ride had given him in the Brownsville McDonald’s. He was supposed to meet Ride there again in three days, but now he’d be in London and he had no way to reach him.
D e-mailed Ray Ray a link to Eva’s page and told him to meet with Ride for him and to show him the Facebook page. It would be sweet, he thought, to have actually found something he was asked to find. Ray Ray, as it turned out, must have been e-mailing him at the same time, because he received two large attachments from the kid. Watching Rivera was the subject line. Ray Ray wrote: After what we saw at the beauty shop and your story I decided to follow Rivera around the Ville. I caught him ass-out a couple of times.
The first file was a video taken two days bef
ore on Ray Ray’s phone. Rivera came out of the AKBK Realty office at night with a sack over his back like he was some ghetto Santa Claus. He walked down Livonia Avenue and then up a side street, which had an empty lot and some crumbling homes. The detective used keys to open the back basement door of one of those unsightly structures. The camera was moving toward the house when it stopped suddenly and ducked down. Two teenagers on bikes appeared at the basement door and the video cut off. When it started again the camera peered through a basement window as the two teens fondled 9mm pistols. Rivera sat watching them while sucking on a vapor cigarette. Then the video ended.
In the second video, Rivera walked down Livonia Avenue with a small orange grocery bag in his right hand, the kind you usually brought vegetables home in. The camera followed him from across the street. At one point the cop made a furtive turn of his head that suggested he might know he was being watched as he entered AKBK Realty, right before the video cut off.
Two minutes later D was speaking harshly into his BlackBerry: “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I got that nigga, don’t I, D?” Ray Ray was bubbling with excitement.
“Did he see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I think he did,” D snapped, like a scolding father. “Does he know you?”
There was a long pause. “Kinda.”
“Kinda how?”
“He knows my mother.”
Does that mean he fucked her? D thought. “Shit. He ain’t sentimental. He’d shoot you or set you up as fast as the next man.”
Ray Ray wasn’t scared; he sounded righteous. “He’s selling guns out here, D. He’s arresting people and getting them killed at the same time. He’s making his own business. Somebody will wanna know that.”
“Promise me you will not follow this man again. This is more than enough.”
“Cool. But what should we do? Bloomberg ain’t mayor no more and Kelly ain’t top cop.”
“And Brooklyn has a black DA. Yeah. Yeah. It all sounds good, but between the people at the top and us at the bottom there are a lot of layers.” D was getting increasingly emphatic. “Do not show this to anyone else, okay? No one. Not your mother. No one. I’ll be out of the country one week. We’ll come up with a plan when I get back.”
The Lost Treasures of R&B Page 8