ASK OF YOU
“I have a lead for you.”
D was coming up Flatbush from the Barclays Center where he’d just purchased a couple of Brooklyn Nets caps—one white, one black—and the windbreaker he was already wearing which fit real nice. His good mood was broken by the older man’s tired voice.
“That’s nice,” D said as he entered Woodland and eyeballed a lovely dark-brown woman with woolly natural hair. He gave her a big smile as she handed him a menu. “I was wondering if our employer was just donating to his favorite African American charity or really wanted us to find this vinyl.”
“Archer is generous,” Edge said through the BlackBerry, “but not that generous. He’d like some results.”
“Good. What’s the lead?”
“You heard of this tech businesswoman Faith Newman?”
“Don’t know her.” D sat down at a table by a window facing out onto Sixth Avenue and watched the slender hostess stride back to her station.
“I’m seventy-one,” Edge said, “and I know who she is.”
“I don’t watch reality shows.”
“I do. But that’s not why you should know her. She’s one of them Internet billionaire types. You know who Mark Cuban is?”
“The guy who owns the Mavs.”
“Faith Newman is Mark Cuban with a pussy.”
“That’s a highly unappetizing visual, my friend.”
“I agree, but I see you finally get it. She made a grip by selling a company that helped retailers do inventory better. At least that’s what I read in Forbes magazine.”
“This woman is a record collector?”
“More than that,” Edge said. “She’s a wannabe vocalist. Apparently she’s working on an LP. Sees herself as a sophisticated soul singer. Has idolized Diana Ross, Donna Summer, and various divas since she was a kid.”
“She sounds like a gay man. Anyway, you’re saying she got herself a rare Diana Ross record because she loves La Ross? Okay. This lead . . . is it based on any real information?”
“How would I know?” Edge said. “Motherfucker is paying us to ask some questions. So let’s ask some questions.”
“Hey, is there some kind of deadline on this search?”
“You got something else to do?”
“Lots,” D replied.
“Anything paying like this?”
“No.”
“When you find a better gig let me know, cause I’d like another one too.”
“How’s your health, Edge?”
“I’m okay, except I could use new hips, a revamped heart, and about 50 percent less sugar in my blood. Thanks for asking.”
“Once we find this record, or once he gets tired of us looking, what are your plans?”
“I got no plans.” The old man sounded amused by the thought. “My previous plan was to eat unhealthy, drink a lot, and find a willing woman too young for me.”
“That’s not a plan. That’s just bad behavior.”
“Maybe,” Edge said, no longer amused. “Listen, no rush on this, but just don’t do nothing. You feel me?”
“Gotcha. But how do I get a billionaire lady to talk to me?”
“Stay tuned,” the old man said, and clicked off.
A lean, bohemian black man, wearing a colorful wool cap on his head and black frames on his face, entered, walked over to the hostess D had been watching, and kissed her.
He’d eaten a salad and was finishing his grilled chicken when an e-mail buzzed on his BlackBerry. It was Faith Newman’s office inquiring if D was available to meet the next day at four p.m.