The Lost Treasures of R&B

by Nelson George

  “Gotcha, yo,” Ray Ray said. Then, in a small voice, “We gonna get him, right?”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t get us first.”

  FEENIN’

  That evening D got in a good workout at the Eastern Athletic club on Eastern Parkway near Grand Army Plaza, his new gym. He did a lot of upper-body work and then thirty minutes on the stationary bike for cardio. He didn’t usually do a ton of stretching, but knowing there was a long plane trip the next day he did some basic yoga poses and a shoulder stand. Walking out into the warm early spring evening, D felt really good.

  From where he stood D spied the black bars around the Botanic Garden. The guns were in there. D knew he should have just ditched them that night on Utica Avenue. He hoped he wouldn’t regret that decision.

  As he walked up Eastern Parkway he clocked some furtive movements in the passenger-side mirror of a parked Hyundai. After he passed the vehicles, a man emerged and moved swiftly toward D in sneakered feet. D slid one arm out of the backpack he was carrying his gym gear in, as if he was about to unzip a pocket. Instead, he twisted his torso like a kickboxer and flung it toward his attacker’s surprised face.

  The first bullet whizzed by D as the flying backpack obscured the shooter’s vision. A second bullet hit the sidewalk to his right, bouncing off the pavement and shattering the windshield of an innocent BMW.

  D came at the shooter in a bum-rush, launching his body and knocking the guy back onto the unforgiving Brooklyn concrete. The shooter’s lungs deflated like a balloon and the back of his head drizzled red like a broken ketchup bottle. The man, who looked to be in his early twenties with reddish-brown skin, wasn’t dead, but dude was far from healthy. Next to him was a Beretta and two spent shell casings, one of which was rolling toward the curb.

  Lights came on up and down Eastern Parkway and the car alarm in the BMW whined.

  “Who sent you?” D shouted. “Who?”

  D’s interrogation went nowhere as the shooter oozed out of consciousness. So he patted the pockets of the guy’s skinny jeans, finding a worn leather wallet with a 24 Hour Fitness membership, a New York State–issued ID card, and a Social Security card, each bearing different names (Akil Simpson, Ahmir Salmon, Alvin Sims). In another pocket was a roll of bills that, by D’s quick count, amounted to several hundred dollars. D slipped the wallet and cash back in his attacker’s pockets as the first patrol car pulled up.

  Though he had been the target of an attack, D soon found himself seated in an interview room of the local precinct with a chai latte on the table before him and one-way glass in front of him. He’d given his statement to a patrolman and offered the investigating detectives what little information he knew (save his quick inspection of Akil/Ahmir/Alvin’s pockets). A couple of phone calls later D had been asked to accompany the cops to the station and he’d agreed, figuring a police precinct sit-down had been in the cards ever since the fight club incident with the guns.

  So when Detective Mayfield appeared, in a blue-and-orange Mets T-shirt and baggy jeans, with a badge dangling from a chain and a file in his hairy hands, D actually relaxed. “Remember me, Mr. Hunter? Detective Mayfield. Hope you aren’t too shaken up to answer a few more questions.”

  “Not at all,” D said.

  A moment later a frowning Detective Robinson entered the room in a suit and tie, like a great night out on the town had been cut short.

  “Looking good, Detective Robinson,” D said.

  The cop leaned back against the wall. “Please don’t kiss our ass, Hunter.” His voice was acid. “Looks like you brought some Brownsville shit to Prospect Heights. We’re not having that.”

  “Well,” D countered, “I’m the victim here, detectives. Some fool wanted to mug me right here in New Brooklyn.”

  “Mugging Hunter?” Robinson said. “Feels like a hit to me.”

  “I have that same feeling,” Mayfield added. “Lots of guns go off around you, Hunter. You don’t seem to be so good at keeping yourself secure.”

  “You guys know more than I do, apparently,” D said.

  Robinson, smelling of CK One cologne, came over to the table. “Your pal Ice probably set this up. He knows you could get him sent away. The gun-possession laws in this town are pretty strong. Just say what you saw. Don’t make a thing up. Just speak the truth.”

  “Well, maybe you should speak to Ice and find out why he picked me.”

  “We will,” Mayfield said, “but we think you’re a little too smart to think Ice would let a guy like you have something like this to hang over him.”

  “Besides,” Robinson cut in, an edge of anger in his voice, “shouldn’t he be worried that you’d be spooked after this ‘random’ attack and then come in and make some kind of deal with us? Unless he has something on you, Hunter. Maybe you are the bad guy in all this.”

  D stood up. “Well, detective, I am not a lawyer but I got a strong feeling I have no reason to be here any longer. I gave my statement—can I go?”

  “Don’t make us wait too long, Hunter,” Robinson said.

  D momentarily wondered if he should have mentioned to the two detectives that he was about to leave the country, but then thought, Hell no, and ran back to his apartment in a hard sprint.

  A CHANGE IS GONNA COME

  D worried that United Kingdom customs was gonna be a problem for Night. The singer’s various run-ins with the law in his lost years and being labeled a “hip hop artist” by the UK press had led to him being denied entry in the past. Snoop Dogg’s troubles came to mind as D, Night, Al, and the band took the long, winding walk at Heathrow Airport from their plane to customs after their overnight flight.

  Al assured him that Night’s mystery manager had smoothed things out via the US State Department. Nonetheless, D was fully prepared to be detained with Night and put on the plane back to JFK. As they came into the wide customs room there were lines for EU passport holders and non–EU passport holders to small podiums manned by thirtyish agents wearing white quasi-military shirts and blankly bureaucratic expressions.

  As the mostly white, well-heeled first- and business-class passengers led the way and the economy passengers filed behind them, Al guided his charges into the non-EU line, whispering to Night as they moved. Apparently the singer harbored the same fears as D, and Al, as usual, was a calming force.

  Sitting in chairs to the side, looking forlorn with a mountain of luggage, were two African families in flowing traditional garb with plenty of kids in tow. There was also a Middle Eastern family with the mother in a blue burka; the father was talking to the two African men. They exchanged a few words and then quietly laid out their prayer mats and got on their knees. D wasn’t sure how they knew which direction faced east, but the trio, already detained for reasons unknown, were not shy about displaying their devotion to Allah even when it could be one more reason to deny them entry.

  D watched Night walk up to the podium and greet the customs officer, a chubby white woman wearing too much early-morning eyeliner. She gave Night a once-over and then scanned his passport through a computer. She peered at the screen as D and Al nervously looked on.

  “Next, please.” A different customs officer was gesturing for D to come forward. He had just asked D some rote questions (“What brings you to England? . . . How long will you be here?”) when they both heard Night singing Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” His tenor floated across the large space, turning heads, altering the room’s molecules.

  The female customs officer was beaming as Night sang the civil rights anthem. A stern-faced supervisor stood close by, not amused, though most of his employees seemed pleased. “Change” isn’t really a clap-along song but a couple of travelers, enthused and off-rhythm, started doing just that. The claps spread around the room.

  A feel-good moment turned magical when one of the detained African men began to sing with Night. D thought the man Senegalese or maybe from Mali because of his keening high-pitched tone. Night heard the guy and began to harmonize.
One of the African’s daughters, a tiny thing in pink sneakers, tried to add her small voice but her mother hushed her quiet. The African didn’t know all the words but seemed to know the melody. The two men adjusted to one another in that awkward concert hall. It was a strange; it was timeless.

  And then it was over. Night had run out of lyrics and was starting to riff off the melody when Al gave him the “cut” sign and Night shut it down. Charmed, the customs lady applauded and stamped his passport, her day made. The African father put his hands back in prayer and nodded to Night, who, genuinely moved, nodded back before Al escorted him down an escalator to baggage claim.

  “What made you do that?” D asked when he’d caught up.

  “Honey wasn’t sure about me,” the singer said. “I didn’t know if she was gonna let me in. My face—shit, my whole body—was a lot skinnier when I took that passport photo. I told her I was in England to sing. She said, Prove it. So I did.”

  “See what happens when you do what you do best?” Al said.

  “You think they gonna let that family in?” Night asked.

  “Hard to tell,” D said. “I’m not sure him singing with you was his best move.”

  “It worked for me,” Night said.

  “But you are clearly coming in to entertain and make someone British some money,” D said. “That brother there, with all his luggage and kids, looked like he was there to settle down. Don’t think the Brits are checking for any more Muslims.”

  “Damn,” Night said, “black folks catching hell everywhere.”

  “Since when haven’t they?” Al said, wise white man that he was.

  After his impromptu performance at Heathrow, Night fell asleep in the taxi into London. Al dozed off too. But D, who’d napped fitfully on the flight, was awake, a bit electrified by his return to London. It was about six a.m. and rush hour was just creeping to life. The ride in from the airport to Central London rolled across Brompton Road, past the Victoria and Albert Museum into the shopping mecca of Knightsbridge, tipping its hat to the vast superstore that is Harrods and past massive Hyde Park, where marble statues of lost empire loomed over passing traffic.

  Heading around the park’s border toward Marble Arch, D spied men standing on small makeshift platforms railing against the British government, Jews, Muslims, Apple, Microsoft, the United States, and other evils. This was Speakers’ Corner, a venerable London tradition where on Sunday mornings folks filled with grievance attacked the powers-that-be and the powers-imagined-to-be. Years ago, when he’d traveled to London with Jay-Z, D spent a fun blustery morning watching Palestinians, Israelis, Serbs, Hindus, and Irishmen, all with British accents, drown each other out.

  The taxi cut down Oxford Street, a popular strip of department stores, fast food, sidewalk vendors, and money exchangers that reminded D of Manhattan’s 34th Street. Across from the Bond Street tube station the taxi turned into a cul-de-sac, stopping in front of the Berkshire Hotel, a spot with small rooms, narrow beds, big bathtubs, and decent prices. It wasn’t a rock star’s hotel but a modest place perfect for a man rehabbing his career. Al handled the check-in and quietly slipped D a key to Night’s room (“Just in case”).

  It was nine thirty a.m. when D’s head hit the pillow and three fifteen p.m. when his eyes reopened to the sounds of a busy Central London. After a hot, relaxing soak in a deep bathtub, D called Al. Soundcheck was at five thirty p.m. Al hadn’t called Night yet but figured they’d go round him up together.

  When they knocked on Night’s door around five, they heard stirring and hushed voices. Al and D traded looks.

  A petite, curvy, light-brown beauty opened the door and said, “Hello,” with the “H” missing.

  “I remember you,” Al said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’m Kira Paris Sanders and I still run this town.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  They hugged and then D introduced himself.

  She turned to him and said, “You were here with Jay-Z, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” D said, surprised.

  “I always remember a tall man.”

  “I don’t know how I missed you.”

  “Jay had you busy,” she said. “But it’s still your fault we never met.”

  Night, to D’s further surprise, came to the door fully dressed. “You know what they call this girl? Kira is the motherfucking Queen of Clubs.”

  “Okay,” D said, taken aback by her beauty and confidence, and the respect Al and Night accorded her.

  In the van to soundcheck D got some of the woman’s backstory. Her family was from Eritrea, an East African country D had heard of but had no idea where it was. (Al explained that Eritrea is a little piece of land squeezed up next to Ethiopia and Somalia.)

  Kira wasn’t known as London’s Queen of Clubs for promoting parties, but for having the city’s hottest posse of girlfriends, a group so fly she’d started a booking agency­—where her crew was paid for showing up at parties and sitting at tables loaded with complimentary bottles—and published a calendar featuring posse members in bikinis around London. Kira called the calendar “London’s Queens,” and it sported models with roots in Africa, the Caribbean, Asia, and even Eastern Europe. The calendar was cheekily subversive, as it suggested that twenty-first-century United Kingdom beauty was far removed from the pale fair maidens of yore.

  Kira wasn’t shy about popping her collar, which amused Night and Al—though D was on the fence about her. Whenever you hit a new city on tour, it was good to connect with old friends and folks who knew what was happening (and what wasn’t). But Kira was a straight-up party girl and D was concerned that she might drag Night back into his bad habits.

  Everybody loved playing Ronnie Scott’s. The venerable Soho nightclub opened in 1959 and had hosted jazzmen, soul stars, and rockers of every stripe in the ensuing decades. When Night was a young phenomenon, he’d played two historic nights at Ronnie Scott’s and recorded a live EP that included covers of the Ohio Players, Earth, Wind & Fire, and Eddie Kendricks that had the local press dubbing him “the future of soul music.”

  It hadn’t quite worked out that way, but Al still thought it was wise to bring him back to the club, a place that would inspire good memories in a man who needed to recall how great he could be. Old hands at Ronnie Scott’s came out to hug and greet Night, but also seemed just as excited to see Al. He was part of a brotherhood of road dogs, people for whom the sour smell of dried spilled beer, the soft, mushy feel of dirty carpets, and the floating dust of rooms not meant to be seen in sunlight made them bark and wag their tails.

  As the band set up for soundcheck, Night yawned heavily and began playing chords on the electric piano. D was settling in at a table by the bar to wait on the venue’s security head when Kira came over, pulled out her phone, and snapped a photo of him.

  “I’m Instagramming you.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, big guy. My friends want to see you.”

  “Should I be scared?”

  “Very.” A moment passed. Kira looked at her phone and said, “My friend Gem wants to know if you know how to party properly.”

  “Listen,” he said sternly, “you seem sharp and like a fun person. I’m sure your girls are too. But partying properly is not what I’m in London to do and certainly not why Night is here. Partying properly is why he hasn’t performed here in ten years. You feel me?”

  “Completely,” Kira replied. “I totally understand. I said to Night this morning he needs to be good. I’ve kept in contact with him over the years and have great affection for him. I brought him breakfast this morning and we talked about his life. For your info, we aren’t lovers. I’m just a good friend.”

  “That’s between you and him,” D said.

  “Well, now it’s between me and you, big man.”

  The security chief came over and D left with him to tour the backstage area, but Kira stayed on his mind. She had crossed D’s personal line. Since he’d been infected with the HIV viru
s some fifteen years earlier, D had pretty much kept his dick to himself. His last real lover had been murdered a couple of years ago in a ghastly crime where a suicide had been faked and she’d been injected with the HIV virus in a sick message to D.

  Kira’s approach disturbed him, particularly since he felt it was just a tease, the woman striking him as someone who wanted to seduce every man in her vicinity just to feed her ego. D was determined not to join that club. Good luck with that, he thought to himself.

  The soundcheck went a bit long as Night and the band slowly pushed through jet lag. Night guided the band through some tunes as many as five times and was as hard on himself as he was on his players. Kira disappeared at some point, which lightened D’s mood.

  Instead of heading right back to the hotel, Al took Night, D, and the band over a couple of blocks from Ronnie Scott’s to Busaba Eathai, a hip Thai place with healthy food, long wooden tables, and ambient lighting. As D downed chicken satay, brown rice, and a Thai salad, Al took a phone call and then leaned over.

  “The manager’s gonna be here tonight,” he said to D. “He’s flying in for the show.”

  “No name for me yet?”

  “No,” Al said, “but I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “His money seems good and he got me a trip to London. Unless he’s Satan or Elvis returned, I’m good.”

  “Hey,” Al said, nodding his head, “check it out.”

  A pair of redheads who looked like sisters in their early thirties, who were dressed like they were on their way to the theater, recognized Night and were apologizing that they weren’t seeing his gig at Ronnie Scott’s later that night.

  The slightly taller redhead said, “We played ‘Black Sex’ until the CD skipped. It was so frustrating.”