A CHANGE IS GONNA COME

D worried that United Kingdom customs was gonna be a problem for Night. The singer’s various run-ins with the law in his lost years and being labeled a “hip hop artist” by the UK press had led to him being denied entry in the past. Snoop Dogg’s troubles came to mind as D, Night, Al, and the band took the long, winding walk at Heathrow Airport from their plane to customs after their overnight flight.

Al assured him that Night’s mystery manager had smoothed things out via the US State Department. Nonetheless, D was fully prepared to be detained with Night and put on the plane back to JFK. As they came into the wide customs room there were lines for EU passport holders and non–EU passport holders to small podiums manned by thirtyish agents wearing white quasi-military shirts and blankly bureaucratic expressions.

As the mostly white, well-heeled first- and business-class passengers led the way and the economy passengers filed behind them, Al guided his charges into the non-EU line, whispering to Night as they moved. Apparently the singer harbored the same fears as D, and Al, as usual, was a calming force.

Sitting in chairs to the side, looking forlorn with a mountain of luggage, were two African families in flowing traditional garb with plenty of kids in tow. There was also a Middle Eastern family with the mother in a blue burka; the father was talking to the two African men. They exchanged a few words and then quietly laid out their prayer mats and got on their knees. D wasn’t sure how they knew which direction faced east, but the trio, already detained for reasons unknown, were not shy about displaying their devotion to Allah even when it could be one more reason to deny them entry.

D watched Night walk up to the podium and greet the customs officer, a chubby white woman wearing too much early-morning eyeliner. She gave Night a once-over and then scanned his passport through a computer. She peered at the screen as D and Al nervously looked on.

“Next, please.” A different customs officer was gesturing for D to come forward. He had just asked D some rote questions (“What brings you to England? . . . How long will you be here?”) when they both heard Night singing Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come.” His tenor floated across the large space, turning heads, altering the room’s molecules.

The female customs officer was beaming as Night sang the civil rights anthem. A stern-faced supervisor stood close by, not amused, though most of his employees seemed pleased. “Change” isn’t really a clap-along song but a couple of travelers, enthused and off-rhythm, started doing just that. The claps spread around the room.

A feel-good moment turned magical when one of the detained African men began to sing with Night. D thought the man Senegalese or maybe from Mali because of his keening high-pitched tone. Night heard the guy and began to harmonize. One of the African’s daughters, a tiny thing in pink sneakers, tried to add her small voice but her mother hushed her quiet. The African didn’t know all the words but seemed to know the melody. The two men adjusted to one another in that awkward concert hall. It was a strange; it was timeless.

And then it was over. Night had run out of lyrics and was starting to riff off the melody when Al gave him the “cut” sign and Night shut it down. Charmed, the customs lady applauded and stamped his passport, her day made. The African father put his hands back in prayer and nodded to Night, who, genuinely moved, nodded back before Al escorted him down an escalator to baggage claim.

“What made you do that?” D asked when he’d caught up.

“Honey wasn’t sure about me,” the singer said. “I didn’t know if she was gonna let me in. My face—shit, my whole body—was a lot skinnier when I took that passport photo. I told her I was in England to sing. She said, Prove it. So I did.”

“See what happens when you do what you do best?” Al said.

“You think they gonna let that family in?” Night asked.

“Hard to tell,” D said. “I’m not sure him singing with you was his best move.”

“It worked for me,” Night said.

“But you are clearly coming in to entertain and make someone British some money,” D said. “That brother there, with all his luggage and kids, looked like he was there to settle down. Don’t think the Brits are checking for any more Muslims.”

“Damn,” Night said, “black folks catching hell everywhere.”

“Since when haven’t they?” Al said, wise white man that he was.

After his impromptu performance at Heathrow, Night fell asleep in the taxi into London. Al dozed off too. But D, who’d napped fitfully on the flight, was awake, a bit electrified by his return to London. It was about six a.m. and rush hour was just creeping to life. The ride in from the airport to Central London rolled across Brompton Road, past the Victoria and Albert Museum into the shopping mecca of Knightsbridge, tipping its hat to the vast superstore that is Harrods and past massive Hyde Park, where marble statues of lost empire loomed over passing traffic.

Heading around the park’s border toward Marble Arch, D spied men standing on small makeshift platforms railing against the British government, Jews, Muslims, Apple, Microsoft, the United States, and other evils. This was Speakers’ Corner, a venerable London tradition where on Sunday mornings folks filled with grievance attacked the powers-that-be and the powers-imagined-to-be. Years ago, when he’d traveled to London with Jay-Z, D spent a fun blustery morning watching Palestinians, Israelis, Serbs, Hindus, and Irishmen, all with British accents, drown each other out.

The taxi cut down Oxford Street, a popular strip of department stores, fast food, sidewalk vendors, and money exchangers that reminded D of Manhattan’s 34th Street. Across from the Bond Street tube station the taxi turned into a cul-de-sac, stopping in front of the Berkshire Hotel, a spot with small rooms, narrow beds, big bathtubs, and decent prices. It wasn’t a rock star’s hotel but a modest place perfect for a man rehabbing his career. Al handled the check-in and quietly slipped D a key to Night’s room (“Just in case”).

It was nine thirty a.m. when D’s head hit the pillow and three fifteen p.m. when his eyes reopened to the sounds of a busy Central London. After a hot, relaxing soak in a deep bathtub, D called Al. Soundcheck was at five thirty p.m. Al hadn’t called Night yet but figured they’d go round him up together.

When they knocked on Night’s door around five, they heard stirring and hushed voices. Al and D traded looks.

A petite, curvy, light-brown beauty opened the door and said, “Hello,” with the “H” missing.

“I remember you,” Al said.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m Kira Paris Sanders and I still run this town.”

“I’m sure you do.”

They hugged and then D introduced himself.

She turned to him and said, “You were here with Jay-Z, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” D said, surprised.

“I always remember a tall man.”

“I don’t know how I missed you.”

“Jay had you busy,” she said. “But it’s still your fault we never met.”

Night, to D’s further surprise, came to the door fully dressed. “You know what they call this girl? Kira is the motherfucking Queen of Clubs.”

“Okay,” D said, taken aback by her beauty and confidence, and the respect Al and Night accorded her.

In the van to soundcheck D got some of the woman’s backstory. Her family was from Eritrea, an East African country D had heard of but had no idea where it was. (Al explained that Eritrea is a little piece of land squeezed up next to Ethiopia and Somalia.)

Kira wasn’t known as London’s Queen of Clubs for promoting parties, but for having the city’s hottest posse of girlfriends, a group so fly she’d started a booking agency­—where her crew was paid for showing up at parties and sitting at tables loaded with complimentary bottles—and published a calendar featuring posse members in bikinis around London. Kira called the calendar “London’s Queens,” and it sported models with roots in Africa, the Caribbean, Asia, and even Eastern Europe. The calendar was cheekily subversive, as it suggested that twenty-first-century United Kingdom beauty was far removed from the pale fair maidens of yore.

Kira wasn’t shy about popping her collar, which amused Night and Al—though D was on the fence about her. Whenever you hit a new city on tour, it was good to connect with old friends and folks who knew what was happening (and what wasn’t). But Kira was a straight-up party girl and D was concerned that she might drag Night back into his bad habits.

Everybody loved playing Ronnie Scott’s. The venerable Soho nightclub opened in 1959 and had hosted jazzmen, soul stars, and rockers of every stripe in the ensuing decades. When Night was a young phenomenon, he’d played two historic nights at Ronnie Scott’s and recorded a live EP that included covers of the Ohio Players, Earth, Wind & Fire, and Eddie Kendricks that had the local press dubbing him “the future of soul music.”

It hadn’t quite worked out that way, but Al still thought it was wise to bring him back to the club, a place that would inspire good memories in a man who needed to recall how great he could be. Old hands at Ronnie Scott’s came out to hug and greet Night, but also seemed just as excited to see Al. He was part of a brotherhood of road dogs, people for whom the sour smell of dried spilled beer, the soft, mushy feel of dirty carpets, and the floating dust of rooms not meant to be seen in sunlight made them bark and wag their tails.

As the band set up for soundcheck, Night yawned heavily and began playing chords on the electric piano. D was settling in at a table by the bar to wait on the venue’s security head when Kira came over, pulled out her phone, and snapped a photo of him.

“I’m Instagramming you.”

“Really.”

“Yes, big guy. My friends want to see you.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Very.” A moment passed. Kira looked at her phone and said, “My friend Gem wants to know if you know how to party properly.”

“Listen,” he said sternly, “you seem sharp and like a fun person. I’m sure your girls are too. But partying properly is not what I’m in London to do and certainly not why Night is here. Partying properly is why he hasn’t performed here in ten years. You feel me?”

“Completely,” Kira replied. “I totally understand. I said to Night this morning he needs to be good. I’ve kept in contact with him over the years and have great affection for him. I brought him breakfast this morning and we talked about his life. For your info, we aren’t lovers. I’m just a good friend.”

“That’s between you and him,” D said.

“Well, now it’s between me and you, big man.”

The security chief came over and D left with him to tour the backstage area, but Kira stayed on his mind. She had crossed D’s personal line. Since he’d been infected with the HIV virus some fifteen years earlier, D had pretty much kept his dick to himself. His last real lover had been murdered a couple of years ago in a ghastly crime where a suicide had been faked and she’d been injected with the HIV virus in a sick message to D.

Kira’s approach disturbed him, particularly since he felt it was just a tease, the woman striking him as someone who wanted to seduce every man in her vicinity just to feed her ego. D was determined not to join that club. Good luck with that, he thought to himself.

The soundcheck went a bit long as Night and the band slowly pushed through jet lag. Night guided the band through some tunes as many as five times and was as hard on himself as he was on his players. Kira disappeared at some point, which lightened D’s mood.

Instead of heading right back to the hotel, Al took Night, D, and the band over a couple of blocks from Ronnie Scott’s to Busaba Eathai, a hip Thai place with healthy food, long wooden tables, and ambient lighting. As D downed chicken satay, brown rice, and a Thai salad, Al took a phone call and then leaned over.

“The manager’s gonna be here tonight,” he said to D. “He’s flying in for the show.”

“No name for me yet?”

“No,” Al said, “but I think you’ll be impressed.”

“His money seems good and he got me a trip to London. Unless he’s Satan or Elvis returned, I’m good.”

“Hey,” Al said, nodding his head, “check it out.”

A pair of redheads who looked like sisters in their early thirties, who were dressed like they were on their way to the theater, recognized Night and were apologizing that they weren’t seeing his gig at Ronnie Scott’s later that night.

The slightly taller redhead said, “We played ‘Black Sex’ until the CD skipped. It was so frustrating.”

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 lion 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.”