Chapter Twenty-Two

Suckers have been buying the Brooklyn Bridge since the day it was completed, well over a hundred years ago. It’s a beautiful structure with a medley of lean metal rods creating an intricate spiderweb linking several stone dominoes. It’s a sweet balance of complexity and simplicity that makes the other East River bridges look, at best, utilitarian (the Manhattan) or just plain old butt-ugly (the Williamsburg). If you were going to photograph a multimillion-dollar music video on any bridge in New York, only the Brooklyn would really do. Which was why at near the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning scores of disgruntled travelers were being rerouted at Tillary Street in Brooklyn and at Centre Street in Manhattan. For a few hours this beautiful structure belonged to Bridgette Haze.

“Five minutes to sunrise! Everybody in position!” Bee Cole’s first assistant director yelled into a bullhorn as dancers limbered up and the crew made hurried checks of the six cameras stationed to capture nature’s magic. In Bridgette’s trailer, her makeup was being touched up, her hair tweaked, and her legs massaged. Three skilled professionals were tending to Bridgette’s body, tuning her like a concert piano.

Jen sat quietly, watching her sister get ready to perform, just as she’d done hundreds of times before. Aside from the professional image-polishers, the Haze sisters were the only ones in the trailer. No manager. No publicist. No bodyguards. Despite all the fussy activity around her, Bridgette was outwardly calm, yet joyous inside. This was her comfort zone—her sister by her side as she prepared to rock the world. One day she would desire children. One day she’d seek out a husband. Right now, however, her only goal was to make her mark on history, to fulfill the fantasies she’d projected onto her bedroom ceiling.

There was a knock on the trailer door. “Come in,” Jen said.

D entered, looking refreshed by his ride downtown on the A train. “Fifteen minutes to sunrise, Bridgette. They need you in position.”

“Which position is that?” she said back, very flirty. Whatever anguish she’d felt up in Harlem was gone. She was back being the star, the ruler of all she surveyed. For her, D was a wonderful short-term addition to her life. He was tall, dark, handsome, and seemed to exist solely to keep her safe. Unlike most men around her, D’s desires seemed simple. They didn’t involve running her life or getting rich off her talent. He didn’t even seem that enthused by her attentions. Sure, he wanted to fuck her—the man wasn’t crazy. Still, he wouldn’t have made a move if she hadn’t pushed him. In a world of grabbing hands, slippery words, and constant flirtations, D’s reticence was incredibly attractive.

“On the bridge, Bridgette,” he said, smiling, and she rose to join him.

Outside, Bridgette put the crook of her arm in his and walked behind an AD from the trailer past the large percolating generator, up a dark staircase to the walkway that led pedestrians across the Brooklyn Bridge. Along the way they passed key members of D Security—the solid old-timer Clarence, his old buddy Jeff, and the lovely Latina Mercedez. Monday afternoon he’d have to sit down with all three. With Jeff and Mercedez to determine how many side deals they’d been cutting, and with Clarence to figure out what to do with them.

D knew once this shoot was completed and Bridgette was neatly tucked into her bed, there would be a lot to figure out: D Security’s future, his relationship to the woman on his arm, and how to tolerate his mother’s new man.

Bee Cole and the choreographer, a fey black man with a woolly natural, stood awaiting the singer. Bee gave his arm a squeeze and then walked Bridgette to her position in front of a phalanx of dancers. The sun began to edge out of the horizon.

“Roll playback!” Bee commanded, and then yelled, “Action!” Cameras rolled, dancers wiggled, and the sun appeared like a slice of orange peel on the horizon. All eyes were focused on Bridgette on the bridge. Bee sat behind her multiple monitors, savoring this iconographic pop moment that had come to her a week ago on the StairMaster. Ivy sat a few feet away, sipping coffee, no longer thinking about the past but of how he once again owned the future. Jen, both proud and bored, was watching her sister while contemplating her judgment in getting emotionally and professionally involved with a married man.

The sun was full but low as the song ended. The first AD yelled, “We’re going again!” as makeup and hair staff, gaffers, and electricians scurried to do touch-ups and make adjustments. In this brief space between takes one and two, not longer than forty seconds, D heard motorcycles. Many motorcycles. As everyone else gazed toward Bridgette and the bridge, D looked away from the set.

“I just heard motorcycles,” he said into his headphone. “Anyone have a location?”

“Nothing on the Manhattan side,” Jeff said, “but I’ll alert the police.”

“I heard them too!” It was Mercedez. “But I don’t see any down by the trailers.”

“I’m headed your way,” D said, and moved back toward the steps. The playback kicked in and everyone on the bridge refocused on making MTV history. By the time D arrived down by the trailers, Mercedez, Clarence, and several other staffers had gathered to meet him. “Okay, there are plenty of cops and barricades over here. Maybe they won’t make a direct attack but will try to swarm us as we get ready to move Bridgette . . .”

D was still talking when a large mobile generator exploded into orange and blue flames. His staff members dashed toward the fire, but D held himself in check and moved back to the bridge’s staircase. The sound of frenzied chatter filled his headphones. Sirens wailed. People screamed. And, buried inside those sounds, was another—the roar of motorcycle engines.

“Jeff, bring Haze to the Manhattan side!” he barked, but in the chaos, no one seemed to hear him. Here it was, the moment of truth for his team, and no one was home. “Bring Bridgette Haze to the Manhattan side!” D turned and looked up the stairs where crew members, dancers, and a certain pop star were stampeding down. Jeff had Bridgette and Jen in either hand. How he’d gotten across the bridge so quickly to grab them mystified D, but there they all were.

“Follow me!” D said. Both Haze sisters were bordering on the hysterical, asking questions in high-pitched voices. D grabbed Bridgette from Jeff and led them away from the chaos under the Brooklyn Bridge.

From three directions motorcycles pulled into view. The police had established perimeters, but someone had left barricades askew in several places and the bikes roared into the production area. A policeman had his knee shattered as he tried to intercept one bike. A female PA was run over when, in a panic, she tripped and fell into the path of an oncoming bike.

D didn’t see any of this. Along with Bridgette, Jeff, and Jen, he was in a mad dash through the streets of DUMBO, the neighborhood of converted factories and loft-living between the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges—the same area that Night and Tandi had been dropped off in by the kidnappers. Jeff pulled out a nine-millimeter from his waistband. D saw it, but this wasn’t the time to discuss the guy’s legal status.

If they could get around the base of the bridge, D figured, they could head up into Brooklyn Heights where it would be easier to hide. That early in the morning in DUMBO there were no cars on the street, nothing to flag down, nothing to escape in. D wasn’t letting that worry him. His adrenaline was pumping hot. He couldn’t believe how good he felt.

The heel of Bridgette’s right platform shoe broke and she fell to the ground. “My ankle!” D didn’t hesitate. He picked her up and cradled her in his arms. Part of him wanted to laugh at this movie-poster moment, but it didn’t last. A Suzuki could be heard roaring in their direction.

D put Bridgette down and turned to Jeff. “Give it to me!”

Jeff reluctantly handed over the piece to his friend. All four crowded low against an old, yet-to-be-renovated loft building. The Suzuki had a hefty male rider in a black ensemble. D aimed the nine-millimeter and fired two shots on the ground a few feet in front of the bike. The driver, properly spooked, lost control and skidded into the side of a parked van. Jeff sprinted across to the fallen driver, pulled back his visor, and slammed down his booted heel repeatedly in the driver’s face. D and the Haze sisters ran over and the men lifted the bike, which had some damage to the frame but was still running. D hopped on and motioned for Bridgette to join him.

“I’m not going without my sister,” she declared.

Jeff grabbed the singer by the waist and dumped her on the seat behind D. Before she could protest, her bodyguard had gunned the engine and pulled off.

Jen shouted at Jeff, “Where is he taking her?”

“Somewhere safer than this.”

D guided the Suzuki around the base of the Brooklyn Bridge and onto Old Fulton Street. They zoomed past the Eagle Warehouse building and then made a hard right onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway entry ramp. D could feel Bridgette crying, her body jerking involuntarily against his back. He concentrated on handling the bike (which he barely felt in control of) and figuring out his next move. Where would this woman be safe? Where could he take her that he wouldn’t be answering lots of police questions? An idea came to his head. A wacky idea but a damn good one. By the time the Wonder Wheel was in view, D had a plan.