The Lost Treasures of R&B

by Nelson George

Night’s smile, the thousand-watt light that had once made him a successful hustler, was shining at his two UK fans, though his teeth were closer in color to American cheese than pearly white. D used the other woman’s cell to take a picture that captured their moment with the revived spirit of R&B.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, after a hundred push-ups, sixty sit-ups, some stretching, and another hot bath, D slipped on his black suit, ready for the night. His UK cell buzzed.

  It was Al: “Come down to the lobby in ten.”

  Sitting in the small lobby of the Berkshire Hotel was Amos Pilgrim, legendary black music power broker, successful former label head, and Night’s manager. The last time D had seen Pilgrim he’d punched the man dead in his face.

  “So,” D said, standing over the man, “I assume you are firing me.”

  “What makes you say that? Our history?”

  “Of course.”

  “Please sit down.” Reluctantly D sat across from Pilgrim. “Our history has nothing to do with Night. I’ve already invested well over $100,000 in studio time, rehearsal time, and tour support. I want to make that money back and you’re gonna help me. In fact, you’ve already helped me.”

  “And why would I help you?”

  “Cause I got a feeling I could help you with a few matters.”

  “The last time I saw you it didn’t end well. We supposed to be friends now?”

  “Well, my plastic surgeon was very happy for the work,” Pilgrim said, trying to break the ice. “Let that stay in the past. Some parts of the past are useful, some aren’t. D, I hear you are doing a great job with Night. I want that to continue.”

  “Glad you feel that way,” D said. “I won’t be working for you after this trip.”

  “Whatever suits you.” Pilgrim stood up and offered his right hand.

  D stood too, slowly shook Pilgrim’s hand, and then walked out of the hotel into the early-evening hustle of Oxford Street.

  A few minutes later he arrived at Shaftesbury Avenue after exiting the Starbucks next to the tube station, taking in the tumult of double-decker buses, folks with accents from Jamaica, Africa, and the West End, plus the universal hard-edged sound of hustlers talking shop, augmented by music from passing cars, shops, and leaking out of headphones. D sipped his chai latte and tried to suppress his disgust at this nasty turn of events. He knew Night could use his presence and he surely needed Amos Pilgrim’s cash and contacts. But D had quickly decided it would be enough to get his old friend through this brief tour.

  * * *

  Later that night, standing stage left at Ronnie Scott’s, D tried to let the music drown out his ill will toward Pilgrim. He could see the portly mogul at a table with two white Englishmen talking a mile a minute. The place was packed. R&B–loving London was in the house, but D’s mind was back in the USA, deep in unpleasant memories of friends and lovers dead—tragic events that Pilgrim, inadvertently, had helped trigger.

  By the time D refocused on the show, Night had finished his second encore, the small club was roaring, and the singer was soaking up the love. D manned the door to the crowded dressing room as UK soul heads, some of the most dedicated music fans on the planet, clamored for access.

  Kira soon appeared with two friends—a short, thick Nigerian woman with exceedingly dangerous curves named Gem, whose dark-chocolate skin glowed, and Solonge, a Somalian Amazon with brown eyes as round as Big Ben and a short dress that showcased long cinnamon legs.

  “We are taking you all out tonight,” Kira announced. “It’s all been arranged.”

  “No doubt,” D said happily.

  First stop was a club down the block from the Ritz hotel, which felt like a slick Big Apple spot except that the athletes in tight shirts played for Chelsea and Arsenal, not the Knicks and Giants, and the girls in stupendous heels and big hair were from Croydon, not Jersey.

  As Al and D watched like hawks, Night filled his cup with cranberry juice minus the vodka. Pilgrim sat with him, drinking Cokes in solidarity with his client, while Kira’s ever-growing crew of Brit beauties made up for what the drinks lacked. D, who stood at the end of the banquette, felt two soft hands embrace his head. A voice whispered, “See, we are being good with Night.”

  “Good girl,” he replied.

  “But you other guys do not party properly,” Kira said, after letting go of his head and moving in front of him.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “It’s still early. You have the rest of the night to make it up to me.”

  After ninety minutes at the club, Kira rounded up the Americans and a core crew of cuties for a trip to Mayfair, a posh section of London. Once there, they descended into a subterranean space where rich Europeans were carousing to EDM mixes of Adele and Ibiza hits by Skrillex and Avicii. The group squeezed through the main room into an alcove in a small, raucous private space.

  D stood to the left of the alcove, looking professional as a bacchanal of boogying butts bounced to bodacious beats. Kira and Gem danced in front of D, oozing like lava a foot before him and then rubbing back on him, enjoying the volcano they wished to erupt. Night laughed and pointed at D, as entertained by his bodyguard’s crumbling poker face as by the ladies’ gyrations.

  Hours passed, and at about three a.m., everyone was spread around the Berkshire lobby. They’d picked up three cheeky white girls at the Mayfair club and an ebony-and-ivory party was underway. Night gave D a look and soon the bodyguard was escorting Gem and one of the white girls up in the tiny hotel elevator, the singer intoxicated by lust and a few hits of herb as he cupped the asses of both his companions.

  Whatever the trio got into was none of D’s business, especially after he’d closed the door behind them and slid the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob. Feeling liberated, jet-lagged, and in need of privacy, D went back to his own room, plopped on the bed, and channel surfed until he found an NBA game between the Knicks and the Nets. He couldn’t tell if it was live or prerecorded, but it was soothing to hear the American accents. He closed his eyes and let the basketball commentary fill his ears.

  There was a soft, insistent knock. D tried to ignore it but the sound didn’t stop, so the big man stumbled from his bed to the door.

  She stood there, fluttered her eyes in a parody of coquetry, and said, “Good morning,” before pushing past him as if he was air. “It seems my friends have abandoned me.” Kira sat on his bed. “Tried to find an off-license taxi but had no luck.” She opened the minibar door, sliding out a small champagne bottle that she popped opened with a bartender’s aplomb. “Hope you don’t mind, but I figure you won’t drink it.”

  D finally closed the door and found a spot on the other end of the bed as he tried the impossible—not to be drawn to her powerful spirit.

  “I just want to sleep. Is that all right with you, luv?”

  “I dunno,” D said, and locked his eyes back on the Knicks and Nets. Soon he was horizontal on the bed and Kira was curled up, cat cute, on his chest, her eyes open but looking far away.

  * * *

  Morning light slid through cracks between the window and shades, dancing across Kira’s face as she slept. D slowly awakened to find he was topless and she had bits of her clothing off too. He had the acute sense he’d somehow missed the party. His right hand was cupping one of her ass cheeks; it was the sweetest, most tender thing. Then D found himself kissing it, feeling that skin on his lips and then tongue. Kira murmured, coming slowly alive, eyes closed but her mouth smiling and then open, gasping for air. His nose nestled between her ass cheeks as his lips lingered on the wet places between her legs.

  Several minutes later there were heavy feet outside the door and then a sliding sound. D tilted his head and saw an envelope had been slipped into the room. Kira turned and twisted, grabbed his head, and breathed so very deeply. D wiped his face and rose from the bed.

  It was an invitation-sized envelope with fine paper and a stamped seal—some new age–looking image that commingled an English li
on with a computer keyboard. Inside was a handwritten note:

  Welcome to London. You have been in my employ via the esteemed Mr. Lenox for some time now. I’d love to meet with you for tea and conversation. My driver will be by at one p.m.

  Yours truly,

  Sir Michael Archer

  “A royal invitation from the Queen?”

  “No, I think it’s from a count or duke.”

  “Nice. In London two days and already in with the royals.”

  “I thought you were the Queen.”

  “I am,” Kira affirmed. “I order that you bow down again.”

  “Kneel at your throne?”

  “Yes, head down, please.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  OTHERSIDE OF THE GAME

  There was nothing overtly sinister about Sir Michael Archer. He was a round-faced, red-nosed man with skin as ruddy as a well-trod country road; his eyes were steel blue and lined with red veins like cracked eggshells. It was the face of a pub bartender, D thought, not a master of any universe. And yet, he’d made millions.

  “There was a magical time in your country, a time when you had giants walking among you,” Archer said. “All this talent that came of age after World War II. You had Miles Davis and Chuck Berry. You had Mahalia Jackson and John Coltrane. Do you know who these people are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever listened to them?”

  “I have never heard much gospel,” D admitted. “I know Coltrane’s Giant Steps. I know Chuck Berry when I hear his music.”

  “Ignorant, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ignorant of your legacy is what I mean,” Archer explained. “A sad disease often prevalent amongst Americans, but now so widespread it’s like your people had nothing to do with all that great art.”

  “You need to stop that your people shit.”

  “But are you not one of the blacks of North America? Heirs to a great culture that you know little or nothing about?”

  “I’m no historian but it is our culture.” D was getting hot. “Our grandparents and parents made it and we can treat it any way we want.”

  “When something isn’t treasured, it is up for grabs, my friend. I mean, who really owns a thing after it’s out in the world—the creator, the heirs, or its owners?”

  “You don’t own black people or black culture any more than me wearing a bespoke suit means I own Britishness or whatever the fuck you call it over here.”

  “No need for anger, my friend. Let me show you something.” Archer rose and started walking, taking for granted that D would follow.

  The estate was forty minutes outside Central London, with a big ornate gate, a long driveway, a fountain out front, and endless rooms filled with drapery, portraits of dead ancestors, and an old suit of armor. It was a Masterpiece Theatre house that made D as uncomfortable as Archer’s arrogant demeanor.

  Down a narrow staircase and through a heavy door into a basement that was brightly lit. The hum of an air conditioner was loud. D hadn’t seen so much vinyl in years. Shelves of records from floor to the fifteen-foot ceiling. The stacks went far back, like the warehouse in Citizen Kane. In Kane, the valuables had been gathered from around the globe, a testament to his travels and money. These possessions had not been looted from third world countries, but were booty from not so long ago, when a man could traverse the world going from record shop to record shop. LPs, many of them still wrapped in plastic, were stacked in neat rows with little tabs every four or five feet identifying labels: Motown, Capitol, Stax, Blue Note, Atlantic, Philly International, and smaller tabs for individual artists.

  If you were seeking Coltrane, for example, you’d have to look under the Impulse, Blue Note, and Atlantic labels—the pedigree of the record company had as much weight in how these recordings were organized as the artist on the cover. It reminded D of the old Colony Records in Times Square but with greater detail. Even LA’s humongous Amoeba Music was no match for the immensity and meticulousness of Archer’s collection.

  “Would you like to see my 45s?”

  D just nodded, overwhelmed by the dedication—fanaticism, really—that this collection embodied.

  Through a red door with three locks and down a short, dimly lit corridor was a room lined with facsimiles of bank-vault security boxes, but sized to accommodate 45rpm records. There were over a hundred of them built into three of the room’s four walls.

  “Look at this.” Archer gestured toward the wall on D’s right. Every security box on that side bore the Tamla/Motown logo, with serial numbers underneath. “It is every one of their singles from 1959 to 1972.” He seemed awed by his own acquisitions. “A golden age never duplicated before or since.”

  Archer walked over to an eye-level box and, using a key, opened it, sliding out the first 45. He handed it over to D. It was the Miracles’ “Shop Around.”

  “Impressive,” D said.

  “Yes. That was Motown’s first hit record. My collection is vast, but it is incomplete.”

  Archer took the ancient Miracles record from D and slid it back in its place, then secured the box.

  “You see,” he said, turning to face D, “I’m not some evil man trying to control black history. I am just obsessed with keeping, no pun intended, a record. Very few people in the world care about this music and the culture that produced it more than I do.”

  “Or,” D replied, “you just have the cash to collect and build something like this and too much time on your hands.”

  “People think money is about objects,” Archer said. “So they fixate on buying the shiny and new. But what money is really good for is unleashing your passion. At least that’s what it is for me. It has freed me to be more of who I am.”

  “You could also say you are trapped by the past and this place is a very nice prison.”

  Archer laughed. “For a bodyguard, you have a rather dour view of success, D. Occupational hazard?”

  D looked around the 45 room, taking it all in since he expected to never see it again. Then he said, “Life experience.”

  “Would you like more tea, D?”

  * * *

  On the ride back to London, D took stock of his trip. It had been brief, but so much had happened in a few days. Night’s confidence was returning. Suddenly the scheming Amos Pilgrim was back in his life. Plus, he found himself working for another arrogant (damn near imperialist) businessman. And, of course, there was the disturbingly sensual Kira, who would surely dominate his dreams for years to come.

  He’d actually stopped thinking about all that mess back in Brooklyn. He hadn’t checked his phone messages or even looked at his e-mail. Ice, Rivera, etc. were an ocean away. He’d decided it would all stay over there until he returned home.

  After three nights at Ronnie Scott’s, Night and company headed north to Birmingham, a hard, working-class city that was now filled with West Indians, Africans, and East Asians several generations deep in the United Kingdom. Night was scheduled to perform two shows in one night at club in central Birmingham, a place that Al guaranteed would explode the minute that the singer hit the stage.

  On the two-hour bus ride up the M1 motorway to Birmingham, Night read the book Twelve Years a Slave, while Al and the band traded stories about their favorite tours. D listened and laughed at the tales, his attention sometimes caught by texts from Kira documenting her own car ride to Birmingham to hook up with them. She vowed she was “finally going to show all of you how to party properly” up north.

  “Yo,” Night said, as he saw D peering down at his BlackBerry, “you getting strung out on Kira?”

  “No, but I’d be lying if I said she didn’t have me a little open.”

  “Long-distance love is sweet,” Night said. “I’ve had a lot of it. A short-term thing can stretch out when it’s across the pond, you know.”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts, right?”

  “That’s true of everything, D. Shit, I’m trying to remember tha
t myself. I love the love I’m getting. I let it go for too long. But whatever, you know? I’m enjoying this right now. Right this moment. How long that’ll last?” Night shrugged.

  “You are back, Night,” D said reassuringly. “You are here to stay.”

  “D, you know I came from hustling. I did plenty of dirt. I had sex with a lot of people I didn’t give a fuck about and who didn’t give a fuck about me. Singing saved me from that. But whatever I had wrong with me before I got a record deal, it didn’t just go away. I did rehab. A few times, you know. I take pills for my mood and shit. I’m doing all right. But I ain’t really safe. I ain’t safe from myself.”

  “Who is?”

  “Yup . . . So Kira,” Night said, “just let it do what it do.”

  It was dark when they reached Birmingham, which was fine since its central area was mostly nondescript government structures and low-rent shopping strips with some old buildings maintained for a hint of tradition. The club was bigger than Ronnie Scott’s but lacked the London venue’s historic pedigree.

  The audience was as multicultural as Al had advertised, with D feeling like they were in DC or Atlanta. He had no idea what ethnic mix was in the house but the crowd was beautiful in a medley of browns, beiges, and yellows. Night, excited by all that loveliness, sang with a reckless abandon he hadn’t reached in London. The crush at the backstage door after the show was intense and Night befriended a statuesque Nigerian beauty queen named Osas who rode back with them to London later that same night.

  It wasn’t until they were pulling away from Birmingham that D realized he hadn’t seen Kira or any of her posse. A woman like that, D mused, could be anywhere doing anything.

  * * *

  There was a heavy knock on his door around noon the next day. D pushed through his persistent jet lag, yawned heavily, and tried to stretch out the cramps from the ride back from Birmingham. Al, Pilgrim, and a wet-eyed Night stood outside his door.

  “What’s up, gents?”

  “Kira is dead,” Al said flatly.

  D sighed so deeply that for a moment he wasn’t sure he could inhale again. He felt as if his breath was indefinitely suspended and might never come back. His body slumped and then sagged so that he found himself on the floor of the hallway, sitting there like a little child who’d lost his toys, crying, feeling silly and defeated. No love in this world for me, he thought. No love. It was an ugly notion but it was the only one he had.