The Lost Treasures of R&B. Nelson George

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СКАЧАТЬ there was one looming decision to make: what to paint the walls?

      D got up from his sofa and walked over to the wall behind his flat-screen TV. He sat on the floor next to three cans of black paint, two brushes, and a large bottle of Poland Spring water. In his Manhattan apartment all surfaces had been black. Even the wall plugs and light switches had been painted black by the time he moved out. The sheets on his bed were a dark sepia. Over time he’d added a variety of charcoals. But the core of his self-created cave was “as black as the ace of spades,” as his mother once said dismissively.

      Was that what he needed in this return to Brooklyn? He’d only been back two days and shit was jumping off. Black probably wasn’t the move. At least not yet. He took a gulp of Poland Spring, clicked off the TV, took in the sun on this nice early-spring afternoon, and headed out into his new Brooklyn hood.

      Welcome home, D thought as he stood there on Washington Avenue. Welcome home.

      At that moment, two men in suits emerged from a car double parked on the street. One was big, burly, and white. The other was light brown with a porn-star mustache and an air of superiority that reeked worse than his cologne.

      The white one said, “Mr. D Hunter?”

      “Yes, officer,” D replied as he sized up them up.

      “I’m Detective Otis Mayfield and this is Detective William Robinson.” They did a quick badge flip for D.

      “Okay, officers,” D said, noting that they didn’t seem ready to arrest him.

      “We’d like to talk with you,” Mayfield explained. “Can we come inside?”

      “Officers, I was just going to get something to eat. You can join me if you’d like.”

      Mayfield and Robinson seemed cool about it. Didn’t come to play hardball, though D knew they would love to have been invited inside. D started walking and they flanked him, with Mayfield doing the talking.

      “Welcome back to Brooklyn, Mr. Hunter.”

      “Strange to be back,” D said. “Never thought I’d be living here again.”

      “Not the same place, is it?”

      “Yes and no. New people. High-rise condos. The Nets. But I feel like its core hasn’t changed,” D said. “At least not yet.”

      * * *

      D sat at a table at the Saint Catherine on Washington and sipped on a large chai latte. Facing him were the two detectives, with Mayfield again asking the questions.

      “Yes,” Mayfield said, “Brownsville is still Brownsville.”

      “I know.” D’s stomach got tight but he hoped his face hadn’t. Was this about the fight club or Livonia Avenue or both?

      “When was the last time you were in Brownsville, Mr. Hunter?”

      D decided to start with a lie. “A few days ago. I visited a young man who works for me sometimes. Raymond Robinson. Lives at 360 Livonia Avenue. Apartment 8G with his mother Janelle.”

      Mayfield smiled and looked at Robinson. “That’s very forthcoming, Mr. Hunter. When was your last time in Brownsville before that?”

      “That was awhile ago. I’d have to see my calendar.”

      “If you got Gmail it would be in Google Docs.” Mayfield was trying to sound helpful, D thought, but he detected a note of sarcasm in the detective’s voice. D could also feel some heat radiating off Detective Robinson, but clearly he was biding his time.

      “Have you ever done security work for Asya Roc?”

      “I’ve worked for A. Roc Productions a few times and, in so doing, had to put in some time with Asya Roc.”

      “So,” Mayfield pressed, “the answer is yes?”

      “Yes.”

      “We have eyewitnesses who put you at an illegal boxing match in Brownsville last night. You were there working for Asya Roc.”

      D didn’t say anything. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

      “You were there, weren’t you?”

      “Yes,” D said, “as I see you already know. Sorry I wasn’t forthcoming on that. I didn’t wanna get involved or involve my client.”

      “So what happened?” Mayfield was talking like they were friends now. “We know you’re not a bad guy. A lot of people in the department and in the entertainment business vouch for you. But protecting these knuckleheads can put good people in bad positions.”

      In response D told a detailed but imprecise account of the evening’s events. He explained that Asya had rolled to Brownsville on the way to JFK. When the rapper needed to use the restroom, some minor league gangsta types tried to stick him up. D admitted to punching one robber before pulling the entertainer out of there. The car took Asya to the airport and off he went to England. End of story.

      D omitted the guns, being chased around Brownsville by two thugs, and the subsequent shoot-out. He anxiously waited for the two detectives to ask him about Livonia Avenue.

      “Someone mentioned a possible gun sale,” Mayfield said. He plopped a mug shot down on the table. “We suspect this guy was the salesman.” It was a photo of Ice.

      “I know Ice. I saw him there last night. But I didn’t see any transaction of that kind. In fact, the only thing I saw Ice do was bet on a couple of fights.”

      Mayfield looked at him quizzically. “Wasn’t he involved in some sort of altercation?”

      “When we came out of the restroom there was a beef among some of the bettors. That’s to be expected. If I’d had my way we would never have even gone in there. Anyway, I got Asya out of that spot as quick as I could. He’ll probably write a rhyme about how he shot his way out, but believe me, I grabbed the little motherfucker by his collar and carried his ass out the door.”

      The two detectives laughed. This was good, D thought. But they didn’t say anything about Ice getting shot. Did they know? Would they tell D if they did? Maybe Ice hadn’t gone to a hospital?

      “So you went with Mr. Roc to JFK?” Mayfield asked.

      This was a big, dangerous lie. He knew Asya and his people wouldn’t cop to buying guns in a restroom. He’d be cool on that. But Asya would have to lie for D. He’d have to rely on that young MC to protect him. The kid would have a nice negotiating chip to give the police if he needed one later—he could toss D on the gun possession charges if he had to. But if D didn’t get in the car to JFK, where was he? He would have been in Brownsville during the time of the Livonia shooting, a much more serious affair. If someone showed those two cops D’s photo he’d soon be answering questions in a small room alongside a lawyer.

      As casually as possible D said, “No.” The detectives looked at each other, trying not to act surprised. “I went back inside the fight club and caught a couple more bouts before heading home.”

      “Okay,” Mayfield said.

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