Chapter Eighteen

Hollis, Queens was the first of the many obscure black working-class enclaves to become internationally known via hip hop. Before Run-D.M.C.’s emergence in 1983 with the twelve-inch “It’s Like That” b/w “Sucker M.C.’s,” Hollis was the harder cousin of the more bourgie St. Albans. In the sixties and seventies, the adjoining hoods were a mecca for blacks from Brooklyn and Harlem seeking homes within the city limits that afforded their families a backyard, a parking garage, and a wood-paneled basement. Several generations of musicians called the Hollis/St. Albans area home, including James Brown, Count Basie, Roy Hanes, and Ivy Greenwich’s first client, Adrian Dukes. Dukes had purchased a nice two-story house in St. Albans just off Linden Boulevard for his wife Rowena, himself, and their anticipated family a year before his suicide. It was there that the R&B singer wrote songs on the living room piano, barbecued in the backyard, and hoped to conceive a son he planned to name Roderick.

This comfy, aging, yet well-maintained home with plastic covering the living room furniture and renderings of Dr. King and a blue-eyed Jesus in the dining room was empty this overcast early-spring night as D rang the buzzer. While he waited to see if anyone was home, he recalled how much his mother had yearned to move to Queens after his father had split. This was just the kind of house she had dreamed of. A place where her boys could play on grass, not concrete, and where the basement would be a playroom where she could monitor them at night. It never happened for the Hunter boys. They spent their lives stranded on the unforgiving streets of Brownsville.

“Nobody’s home,” Mercedez said.

“Yup,” D replied, still caught up in his thoughts.

A woman shouted from their left, “You looking for Rowena Dukes?” She appeared to be in her late fifties, carrying a Macy’s bag in one hand and pushing a shopping cart with the other as she came up the walkway to her home.

“Yes, I am, miss. I’m a record producer. My name is D Hunter. This is my associate, Mercedez. We’d sure like to talk to her about music.”

“Well,” the woman said, “every day about this time she’s usually over at the center. It’s a few blocks away, right across from what they used to call Andrew Jackson High School.”

“Thank you very much,” he said, then walked over to the woman and took the heavy Macy’s bag and carried it for her into the house.

Back in the car, Mercedez remarked, “I’ve never seen you so sweet.”

“You act like I’m a mean guy or something.”

“Well, you kind of are a mean guy, D. I know it goes with the job and shit, but you definitely aren’t the warmest, most welcoming person.”

“I’m as nice as the next man,” he said defensively.

“To an old black woman you are warm. To everyone else you can be chilly.”

“Then they must have had a cold when I met them.”

“Yeah,” Mercedez said, “that’s the D I know.”

The car rolled down Linden Boulevard, past two-family homes and small, modest commercial strips of grocery stores, pharmacies, and takeout food. D turned left at the old high school and spied a storefront that had a hand-painted sign that read, HOLLIS HAIR. But stenciled on the window in graffiti-influenced lettering were the words, HARPER’S SCHOOL OF RECORDING ARTS. A thick burgundy curtain hung behind the glass. In front of the building, chained to a fire hydrant and right under a streetlight, was a spanking-new Suzuki bike.

As he crossed the street toward the bike, D planned to open its glove compartment and take a look inside. But he dropped that idea when a solidly built and familiar young black man came outside. It was the guy whom D had encountered in various places over the last few weeks. They’d exchanged many a glance—most of them unfriendly. It was time for a showdown, D thought, and felt the muscles inside his shirt tighten and flex.

“This your ride?” D asked.

“And what if it is?” the surly young man answered.

“It’s a beautiful thing. Must cut through city traffic like A-I through the Knicks.”

The guy didn’t reply, just looked at D and Mercedez and pulled on his cigarette. D could see his gears were turning and was fully prepared for the young man to bum rush him or even reach into his pocket and squeeze off. D was about to try another conversational gambit when music erupted from inside the building. It was a live band playing the bridge to Slave’s “Just a Touch of Love.”

Just as quickly as it began, the music stopped and a woman yelled, “Roderick, are you through with that cigarette yet?”

Roderick, a.k.a. I-Rod, turned his head and yelled back, “Almost!”

“Hey, Roderick,” D said, and moved toward the younger man, “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m D Hunter. I work for Ivy Greenwich, the talent manager.”

Roderick’s face grew harder. He knew damn well who this man was and who he worked for. He was highly offended that D was going to play it as if they’d never met before. He didn’t respond to D’s outstretched hand. Ignoring the dis, D continued, “My associate Mercedez Cruz and I are looking for your mother, Rowena Dukes. We were told we could find her here.”

Roderick closed the door behind him. “You were told wrong.”

“Really,” D said with false innocence. “You mean to tell me that Rowena Dukes, widow of the singer Adrian Dukes, doesn’t run a cultural center at this location?”

Roderick gazed at him with that petulant sneer young men employ to intimidate their elders. It was nowhere near as effective as D’s battle-tested glare but one day it might ripen into something truly threatening. The testosterone both men were emitting through their flared nostrils was counteracted by the arrival of Rowena Dukes at the door.

“What is going on here?” She was five-foot-four, about fifty, with graying dreads, dark, almond-shaped eyes, and hellacious curves in a number 8 Sprewell T-shirt and Baby Phat jeans. What if Angela Davis had Betty Boop’s body? That was Rowena Dukes.

“Hello,” D said with an incandescent smile that stunned Mercedez. Her boss was showing her some heretofore unknown dimensions to his game. D moved past Roderick and introduced himself as “an employee of Ivy Greenwich, but not his representative.”

“Mr. Hunter,” she said, bemused, “I don’t get told too many riddles during my day, so I’ll give you a minute more than I’d originally intended, but don’t waste my rehearsal time.”

“Well, Mrs. Dukes, it’s a little complicated. If we could come in and chat, I think you’ll find what we have to say interesting.”

“This man is full of shit,” Roderick spat. “Ivy Greenwich is a thieving snake. This man works for him, so you know he’s got some trickeration up his sleeve.”

“Enough,” she said firmly. “If this man wants to speak to me, and he’s been respectful, then he’ll get five minutes of my time. Now why don’t you all come on in.”

Roderick stood aside as Mercedez introduced herself and then followed the older woman inside. Roderick continued to stare hatefully at D as he passed him by. Inside were two electric keyboards, a drummer behind a kit, and bass and guitar players.

For decades the site had been a barbershop that served as social center, haven, and gossip central for three generations of black Queens residents. It had gone out of business in the eighties and the site had subsequently been purchased by Derek Harper, a St. Albans native son; scion of the owner of Harper’s, the area’s largest black funeral home; and, briefly, an R&B star with his one hit, “Black Sex.” Derek had never enjoyed a follow-up success, so after beating his head against the record-biz wall (and his father’s death), he’d transformed the barbershop into a cozy little rehearsal space/demo studio that also served as a nonprofit community music school. It all looked inexpensive and cozy, some state-of-the-art equipment mixed in with old fixtures and echoes of its barbershop origins. In the corner was an old jukebox filled with ancient 45s, artifacts of a bygone musical era that made D happy. “Can this still play?” he asked Rowena.

“Oh, yes,” the lanky, bearded man behind a Roland 808 answered. “Every now and then we plug it in and jam like it’s 1979.”

“You’re Derek Harper, aren’t you?” D asked. When Harper confirmed this, the security guard continued, saying, “I loved your hit, man. It’s a classic. My man Night sang the melody on a mixtape and then recorded it on his first CD ’cause I stayed on him about it.”

“Well, then,” Harper replied, “thanks for helping me get that ASCAP check. So what do you do, D? You a producer, a songwriter, or a manager?”

“No sir,” D said humbly, “I’m a bodyguard.”

The roar of a motorcycle taking off sounded from outside. D and Mercedez exchanged looks. Rowena opened the front door and watched her son blast off into traffic. Her dreads shook sadly and she came back inside.

“Damn, Rowena,” Harper said, “guess we won’t be rehearsing with him anymore tonight.”

“Whatever,” Rowena said, and walked over to the electric piano and sat down. “Why don’t you wait a minute, D, and let us finish this piece. We’re supposed to be playing a wedding next week and the groom is a Slave fan.”

“No problem,” D responded and sat down on the floor against a wall near Rowena. Mercedez joined him.

“This has been an intense day, D,” Mercedez said.

“Oh,” D nodded toward Rowena, “it’s not even close to being over.”

* * *

D savored the iced tea in his mouth. Sweet as a sixteen-year-old on her first date and tart as a mouthful of lemons; D let the liquid roll around the sides of his teeth before it slid down his tongue toward his throat. Rowena sat at the head of her table with a Parliament cigarette burning in her left hand. Mercedez nibbled on a large piece of corn bread, trying hard to keep her hands off the candied yams sitting succulently on her plate. D put down his glass and began again: “There’s been a lot of tragedy in my family, and my mother always went back to ‘Green Lights’ whenever she was troubled. It was kinda like a hymn to her.”

“Like a hymn, huh,” Rowena said.

“For real. She’d play it over and over to give her comfort.”

“Do you like the song yourself?”

“Do I like ‘Green Lights’?” D stared into space and, with a frown, replied, “Well, it’s hard to say if I like it or not. It’s not about passing judgment on that song. It’s way past that. I know for you it’s just one of the songs your husband recorded, but to me it’s connected to my life in a real deep way . . .” D’s voice trailed off. He felt silly being this emotional around an employee, but he was sitting with Adrian Dukes’s widow, which put his inner life up on the surface.

“No, D, it’s funny about ‘Green Lights.’ It wasn’t just a another song for Adrian either.” She puffed on her Parliament and laid it in a plaster ashtray promoting an Atlantic City casino. “His father was a minister and his most popular sermon was about how embracing Jesus Christ was like driving a brand-new Cadillac to heaven, having green lights all the way. The way he preached it, people would all fall out and shout Amen.

“So one evening after a late Sunday service Adrian wrote that song. He told me, The good Reverend Dukes ain’t ever gonna make a dime off it, so I better help him out. His father wasn’t too keen on it. ‘Green Lights’ wasn’t a praise song, so it bothered him, you know. It wasn’t like today when there isn’t one bit of difference between church music and what someone in the street listens to. What Adrian made of that phrase was kinda dark and bluesy. But when those royalty checks came in, you better believe the good Reverend Dukes definitely took his share.”

She picked up her cigarette, used a puff for a pause, and then resumed the narrative: “I guess what I’m saying is that ‘Green Lights’ isn’t your typical song, Dervin. It’s got some history to it. It moved from a father to a son, like a family legacy. That song comes from a deep place. I suspect that’s why your mother felt it so. When Adrian sang from that particular place nobody was better than him. Not Otis. Not David Ruffin. And sure damn not Elvis.” As D and Mercedez laughed, she took a last drag and then squashed the life out of her cigarette. “My husband wished he could have sung through life instead of having to talk. Talk always got him in trouble. Me too.” Her smile was wan and melancholy, and Mercedez didn’t know if she should laugh or not.

D nodded and said, “I hear you.”

Rowena got up and went over to a closet in the hallway. Inside were various outmoded pieces of technology—eight-tracks and a reel-to-reel tape player along with a dusty cardboard Carnation milk box stuffed with tapes. With D’s assistance she placed the reel-to-reel player on the dining room table. “I’m gonna play you something you should enjoy.”

Rowena spooled a tape onto the player and clicked on the ancient machine. She picked up some dishes and left the room as the sounds of a crowd murmuring and the tinkling of glasses filled the room. Mournfully pitched horns, sad like a late-night drink, sounded first, followed by the piano, bass, drums, and a steely guitar riff that counterpointed the horns. Finally Adrian Dukes stepped up to the mic at some smoky club and started singing the words D knew by heart, yet interpreted here in a way he’d never heard them. More twists. Trickier inflections. A lower, huskier range.

“This,” D told Mercedez, “is Adrian Dukes.”

“What a sexy voice,” she said.

Sexy, sure, D thought. It was also a dead man’s voice. Then he caught himself and realized it was really a voice from the dead. He listened with his eyes closed. And then, before the third verse, a single tear dropped from his right eye. And then another and then another and then many more from both eyes in an involuntary spasm. Mercedez looked across the table and asked him if he was all right, but D had no words. He just sobbed quietly and lay his head on the table. It wasn’t until the live version of “Green Lights” was over and D had pulled himself back together that he noticed Rowena standing in the kitchen doorway, smoking and looking at him.

She turned off the tape player and sat down next to him. “I see you weren’t lying to me about how you feel about this song. You really feel it.”

“I do.”

“I like that. I like you, D. But you come in here and tell me you work for Irv Greenfield and then you want me to believe that my son’s a kidnapper. Well, Irv’s a thief and a nasty old bastard. He probably set this whole thing up to force me to release these tapes.”

“These tapes have never been released before?”

“No one’s heard them but Adrian, Ivy, the man who engineered the live taping, and me.”

“Well,” Mercedez said, “I hate to say this, Rowena, but that only makes it seem more likely it was your son. Why else would he play ‘Green Lights’ to torture Night? Why else would he have kidnapped Ivy’s new R&B star?”

“That’s not enough,” D cut in, surprising both Mercedez and Rowena with his answer. “I don’t believe he started all this to punish Ivy over some old songs.”

“Well, there’s the money,” Mercedez said.

“Listen,” Rowena began, “I’ve heard you talk about all this stuff my son is supposed to be involved in and it does worry me. He used to be serious about being a performer but something has changed. I do know that.”

“It probably started when he hooked up with Areea, didn’t it?” D said.

“You know her?”

“I’ve spoken to her once and encountered her a couple of times too many. My impression is that she’s the kind of woman who changes men.”

“Hmm,” Rowena said wistfully. “People used to say that about me.”

“Maybe that’s why your son is drawn to her. She’s a weak imitation of you,” Mercedez said.

“But she’s younger,” Rowena said, and looked over at Mercedez. “All men like ’em young.”

“But it doesn’t mean they’re right,” Mercedez replied.

“You sure right about that. So you think my son was behind that kidnapping?”

Mercedez tried to be diplomatic. “Well, as D said, we really have to get at his motives for doing it. He did seem bitter about Ivy when we talked.”

“Just think about it,” D said. “I haven’t told the police any of this yet but I will eventually have to. Now I have one more important question.”

“Okay.”

“Mind if I take home some of these biscuits?”