The Plot Against Hip Hop (15 page)
D wished that he was smarter, that he had the skills to pull all the pieces together in his mind, the way Dwayne did in all his books. Instead, he was just a big man who was employed because
tall, dark, and scary
had currency in the culture. He wasn’t the brute that some saw when they glanced his way, but their view of his body and face paid the bills. It didn’t matter what he was—only what they saw.
The first tear fell down on the cover of the
January 2010
composition book. It was big and fat, and splashed when it landed. D searched around for a napkin and ended up using a blank sheet of paper from one of the books to blot his eyes and wipe his tear off the book’s cover.
There was a bathroom on the first floor by the kitchen. He headed there quickly, not wanting the widow to see him bawling. Once safely inside, D sat on the fluffy commode top and cried more silent tears, as much for himself as for Dwayne.
D
was packing for California when Pete Nash called with good news.
“We know the guy who killed Dwayne Robinson.”
“Oh shit,” D said, “when did this happen?”
“I’ve been tracking the case since we talked a couple of months back. Been asking around. It all came together in the last week.”
“You said ‘the guy’? Thought it was two guys who attacked Dwayne.”
“Well, it seems like one kid did all the heavy lifting and the other was more there to help corner your friend.”
“You have this guy in custody? I’d love to talk with him.”
“Unfortunately he’s dead.”
“What the fuck?”
“Yeah, pisses me off too. Tracy Morrow was shot out on Pennsylvania Avenue in East New York the other night as he tried to steal a bike from Percy Miller, a ten-year-old kid. Turned out Percy Senior, an off-duty housing cop, came out of their home just as Morrow wrestled the bike from his son. Morrow pulled a knife, and in defense of his son’s life, Senior fired his revolver once, fatally wounding the assailant. Subsequent DNA test found traces of Dwayne Robinson’s blood on the knife.”
“Excuse me for saying this, but he could have bought or stolen that knife.”
“Of course, D. But when the detectives from that precinct began talking with Tracy Morrow’s associates, one of them, a juvenile named Kenny Parker of the nearby Pink Houses, made an offer: he said if his brother Chris Parker, who was in Greenhaven on a B&E rap, was given early parole, he could connect Morrow to a murder. He claimed to be an eyewitness to a stabbing in lower Manhattan. He knew enough detail to convince a couple of DAs that he was talking about the Robinson murder. It came together pretty quickly.”
“Where is this kid now?”
“Somewhere with his family.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Neither of us can. He’s underage. But the case has been closed and everyone is happy.”
“I really need to speak to that kid.”
“D, we have the murder weapon, DNA, and a credible eyewitness. That’s as good as it gets for a murder case in this city.”
“And what about a motive?”
“This isn’t rocket science, or the Illuminati for that matter. It was supposed to be some kid’s gang initiation, but he froze up once they cornered Robinson and I guess Morrow wanted to show him how it’s done.”
“I dunno.”
“Listen. You’ve been thinking a lot about your friend’s death. What did his last words mean? What about his mysterious unfinished book? Sometimes a thing is just what it looks like. Hey, you should be happy.”
“I guess.”
“You know from watching cable that if a case isn’t closed in forty-eight hours or so, then most times we never find the murderer. The fact that the killer still had the same knife on him and then got his cap pulled like that is a fucking miracle. At least his wife will have some closure.”
“Has someone called her yet?”
“Earlier today someone from the Manhattan DA’s office did. D, I gotta go. Big show at the Garden tonight. Jay-Z and a bunch of guest MCs. Okay, D?”
“Yeah.”
It didn’t feel right to D. Was it all over? One phone call and it’s a wrap? Maybe it was two cases: Dwayne’s murder and the suppression of his books. Maybe the book stuff only started after his death with the robbery at his widow’s house. He wanted to call Fly Ty but the man was on vacation in Jamaica and, with the case officially closed, what was he gonna do from MoBay anyway?
In D’s dream that night, he was in the front row of a classroom. A teacher was writing on a blackboard with his back to D. There were no other students—just row upon row of empty chairs stretching to infinity. The teacher, a tall black man in a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, wrote in a very precise script, each letter linked with a chain of curlicued elegance.
Cash rules everything around me. Hard times are sweeping just like the flu. Broken glass everywhere. If it ain’t ruff, it ain’t right. Jesus walks. Let’s define the word called dope. Too cold, too cold. Are you the journal or the journalist? I told you I’d be true. You can’t fade me. All I need is one mike.
The teacher filled one blackboard panel and moved over to the next.
The overweight lover. The GZA. Hova. Uncle L. Louie Vuitton Don. The nigger you love to hate. The Ruler’s back. Esco. Weezy. Jeezy. Puffy. Puff. Puff Daddy. Diddy. Rev. Run. Cowboy, T-Roy, Jam Master. Eazy. Pac. Me.
The teacher faced D now and it was Dwayne Robinson. He smiled, cockeyed and corny. Behind his nerdy black-rimmed glasses, his eyes shined red as candy apples. D attempted to question him but no words escaped his lips. Dwayne returned to the blackboard and wrote in a hand perfect for greeting cards.
It was the joint until it was fresh and was stooped fresh, then stooped, then it cold got dumb, unless it was cold chillin’ in a hot spot with Big Willie’s so supa fly they used beepers to order their sky pagers and mobile phones, which they kept next to their BlackBerry when they weren’t shootin’ the gift with their Saturday night specials, Desert Eagles, and Mossberg twelve-shot guns at sucka MC bitin’ their stylee, while they hated on new swing and busted caps to the north, the south, the east, and the west.
Dwayne faced D again, his smile as radiant as a child. To his left was LL Cool J, bare-chested, seventeen, dukey gold rope and red Kangol garbed, and to his right Notorious B.I.G., massive in a multicolored Coogi sweater and black cap, diamond pendant around his neck. Both LL and Biggie moved their lips very slowly, as if D was an idiot, and said in tandem, “I’m going back to Cali.”
Then Dwayne’s head fell off and bounced with one big hop into D’s lap.
D
couldn’t tell if he was old or just had good taste in hip hop. As he stood watching two Memphis born-and-bred rappers (“rappers” because D couldn’t bring himself to think of them as MCs) rhyme about Sprite, the black-clad bodyguard decided it was both. KAG (a.k.a. Kountry Azz Gangzterz) were good dudes. They donned diamond-studded medallions, exposed underwear, the tat “sleeves,” but the members of KAG were both publicly married, claimed all their kids were from their spouses, and were planning on buying their mothers matching homes in the Tennessee countryside.
Still, D couldn’t overcome his prejudice. Despite the duo having sold millions of ringtones, listening to them made him yearn for real MC skillz. At his most generous, D gave them credit for making infectious dance records with sung/harmonized/rhymed hooks. But the verses were as empty of wit and art as any back-in-the-day disco record. In D’s humble opinion, the era of Tupac and Biggie had given way to lesser sing-song rap, just as great ’70s funk (Earth, Wind & Fire, the Ohio Players, Kool and the Gang) had yielded to dreck like the Salsoul Orchestra and Cerrone. D figured no one he said this to would get the references, but in his heart he knew the comparison was on point. Not that life would reward him for being a smart-ass. After all, old-school purist or not, on this day he was their employee.
“Hey, bruth,” Sneezy, one of KAG’s two members, said between takes. “Walk my seed over to the restroom for me, okay?”
D nodded. Sprite was paying him a ton to stand on a soundstage in Los Angeles, so why not? Normally, he would have said it wasn’t his job and advised one of KAG’s “roadies” to come out of the trailer, put down the blunt, and escort the “seed” to pee. But D felt sorry for Tobe (pronounced too-bee), a roly-poly seven-year-old who’d been stationed by the craft services table all day stuffing himself with enough sugar to fill a wedding cake. So he took the child, who had a head shaped like a football, by the hand and guided him to the restrooms at the far end of the soundstage. D worried that Tobe, who in keeping with family tradition had a huge diamond-studded necklace weighing down his head, would tip over onto his face if not steadied properly. There was no doubt in D’s mind that without his guidance those diamonds would swing into the urinal and pull Tobe with them, leading maybe just to embarrassment, but quite possibly a drowning.
So to preserve the boy’s dignity and maybe his life, D walked Tobe away from the buzz of the set, past the wardrobe trailer and various pieces of metal equipment. The men’s room had an aroma of light mildew and bleach, an unpleasant mix that was nonetheless superior to that of so many public toilets.
“It stinks,” Tobe observed.
“Don’t breathe then,” D said. “Now, you know what to do, right?
Tobe nodded, then walked up to the urinal and unzipped his Rocawear jeans. The kid was just tall enough that he could piss over the lip of the urinal. He was also just awkward enough to almost hit the back side of the medallion around his neck. D walked over to pull the medallion around to Tobe’s back when the bathroom door opened.
“You do it all, huh, D Hunter?” The voice was dry, amused, sarcastic, and decidedly white.
D turned to see a thick-necked, square-jawed man with the bleached-white spiky blond hair of a surfer and the Oakley shades of a jock. He had a strong athletic body squeezed into a fairly expensive dark-blue business suit.
“Excuse me,” D said as he moved between Tobe and the imposing, self-satisfied man in the doorway.
“I just meant it was cool to see someone dedicated to all aspects of his job. You don’t see that much these days. It’s a new century, yet professional standards are slipping all over the place. No wonder the Chinese are gonna kick our ass.”
“You finished, Tobe?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” the boy replied.
“Okay. Wash your hands.”
As Tobe walked to the sinks, D shifted over with him, never turning his back toward the stranger. He reached down and scooped Tobe up with his left arm so the boy could get soap and turn on the faucet, while still leaving his right hand free.
“Got your hands full, don’t you, D?”
“Do I know you?”
“No. I know
you
.” The stranger didn’t move, just stood there a step inside the doorway. His hands were folded at his waist in front of him. D decided the man had a military background. Marine. Navy Seal. Something that made him confident and strategic. He moved in to talk only when Tobe was splitting D’s concentration. He’d probably been watching D for a while and picked his moment wisely.
D set Tobe back on his two feet and gave him some paper towels to wipe his little hands.
“So,” D asked, “are you gonna move out of the way?”
The stranger ignored the question. “It’s good, you keeping that little ghetto boy clean.”
Tobe piped up and said, “I ain’t no little ghetto boy! I’m a balla.”
The stranger continued without acknowledging the kid: “Wouldn’t want him to catch a deadly virus or any kind of disease. Bet his father and all your other very enlightened clients wouldn’t feel safe having an HIV carrier watching their backs.”
“HIV?” It was Tobe. “You talking about ‘the package’?”
“Yeah, ghetto boy,” the stranger continued, “the package. D, you gonna tell him it means you shouldn’t have unprotected sex with widows?”
It wasn’t what he said, but the tone of his voice that shook Tobe. His petulance faded. Something was wrong. The little boy could feel that D was shook. “I wanna go see my daddy,” he said.
D didn’t say a thing. He needed to get his bearings. Finally he spoke: “Okay. You tell me who killed Dwayne Robinson and I’ll go away.”
The stranger grinned. He held up his wrist and looked at his watch. “You better call your office, D. Bad things happen to a man who doesn’t mind his business.”
Tobe headed toward the door, toward the stranger. D grabbed him by his narrow shoulders.
“You better make that call,” the stranger said, then turned and walked away.
D placed Tobe behind him and walked to the door, looking both ways before exiting back out onto the soundstage. And then his phone rang. Fly Ty’s voice flowed into his ear.
“D? Brother, you got robbed. Both your office and your house. Both tore up and cleaned out. You need to come back to New York and let us know what was taken.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll take the red-eye.”
D saw the stranger about to head out the door of the soundstage into the LA sunshine. He could run and try to grab him. But he still had Tobe next to him and maybe there were other folks around with bad intentions. Get the boy to the KAG posse. Then sort out his life.
D took Tobe’s little left hand and led him back toward the lights, camera, and action. With his other hand he speed dialed Amina on his BlackBerry.
“Hey, D,” she said, “so good to hear from you. You coming home soon?”
“I’ll take a red-eye tonight.”
“So when will you come back over to Jersey? We miss you over here.”
“I have some weird news.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think your home is bugged. Maybe even a camera.”
“Why would anyone do a thing like that?”
“I think you probably know.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” she said, and hung up.
