SHIT, DAMN, MOTHERFUCKER
D was in his apartment watching flying dunks and long-range threes on NBA.com while sipping on a green juice when his BlackBerry rang. It was Ray Ray’s mother. Surely that meant bad news.
“What’s going on, Janelle?”
“I wanted you to know that Ray Ray got picked up by the police.”
“On what charge?”
“It was some of that stop-and-frisk shit,” she said angrily. “They got him right in front of our building.”
“Was Rivera involved?”
“That bastard’s got his hands up in this for sure,” she declared. “I know that.”
“Ray Ray told me you two used to date.”
“Like that’s some of your business.”
It sounded like D had crossed a line. He tried to jump back. “Okay, so how much bail money you need?”
“I got it covered. You ain’t the only nigga I know.” She wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “You wanna help me, D?”
“Of course. I can come meet you right now.”
“No, stay the fuck wherever you are. You can help me by never, ever getting my son involved in any of your shit again.”
“I didn’t ask him to follow Rivera, Janelle.”
“That boy really loves you, D. You tell him something’s wrong in your world and he tries to help. So you may not have wanted him to do anything, but he did it because of you.”
“I hate to say this, but I think it’s also about you and Rivera. Whatever happened between you two, your son didn’t like it.”
“Fuck you, D.”
“Have him call when he gets out,” he said, but wasn’t sure she heard it before she clicked off.
He tried Ray Ray’s phone but just left a message. Now restless and suddenly hungry, D got dressed and walked down Flatbush Avenue to a tiny Spanish food spot near Seventh Avenue. He was eating roasted chicken, red beans and rice, and sweet plantains when a lanky black kid in a flat cap and the falling-off-ass pants uniform of the borough entered and came his way. D grabbed his knife and was prepared to jam it into the young man’s chest if he made a threatening move.
“D Hunter,” he said warily, “you don’t know me but we need to talk.”
“Why do we need to do that?”
“Cause I know everything, yo,” the kid said anxiously, “and I could use your help.”
“That’s a lot of words. Let’s start with one at a time. What’s everything?”
“Why Ice had guns in that bag at the fight club.”
D realized it was the kid who Ice had dissed that night. The one who looked like his Mini-Me.
“Is that everything? Doesn’t seem like it should affect my meal.”
“I was there when that writer friend of yours got murked.”
“What?”
“Skinny man with a gray beard. He caught it down in Soho. Can we talk now?”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“Freezy.”
“Freezy? Not Lil’ Freezy?”
“Can I sit down?”
“Go ahead, Freezy. My friend’s murder: prove you were there.”
He was clearly Ice’s blood, through he had none of his father’s intensity. There was a lot of weasel in his eyes, a nervous energy that suggested someone who lived for angles.
“Your friend, he fought hard. He actually got away from us—got around the corner. There was a gym there and these trainers came out, so we ran back to the car. And something you didn’t know: it was the driver who jumped out the car, took my knife. His was the killing blow.”
“What was the driver’s name?”
“Alan Mayer.” The name was actually Eric, but for D it was close enough.
“What did he look like?”
“White man. Older than you by a lot. Had a salt-and-pepper beard. Short. Army vibe. Dressed correct.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“He had a lot of guns. You need some steel, he’d hook you up. Said he knew everyone in the rap game. Used to show us photos—Russell Simmons and people like that.”
D gripped his fork tightly, contemplated jamming it down the kid’s throat. “If you know that Dwayne Robinson was my friend and you helped kill him, why the fuck would I help you? Also, did Ice know you were gonna kill Dwayne?”
“You wanna go somewhere else to talk about this?”
“Here and now, Lil’ Freezy. What did your father know?”
“He didn’t know I was gonna do that. I didn’t know either until we went to Manhattan. When I got in Mayer’s car I thought we were just gonna buy some guns. He handed us a roll of bills and some knives and told us to stick that man. He told me he’d give me an Uzi. It was beautiful, yo. But I didn’t know how to load it properly, and when I figured that shit out I saw that the white motherfucker sold me the wrong bullets.”
“Nigga, I could kill you right now.” His hand on the fork started shaking.
“I understand that, yo.” Freezy stared at D’s hand. “I get it. I just need some contacts and some help getting out of town.”
“Why the fuck should I help you?”
“I know that Ice murked Mayer and I know you were there, and I could tie you to it. Right now it’s a cold case. You feel me, yo? That said, I don’t wanna do that. I really don’t give a fuck about that white motherfucker and his bullshit. Truth is, I’m scared.”
“Of Rivera?”
“Of him and all the shit that’s going on. People treat me like I’m stupid, but I pay attention. Rivera and Mayer used to do business together. Well, really, Rivera taxed him for selling guns in Brownsville. After Mayer was murked, Rivera got Ice to take that shit over.”
D’s grip on the fork loosened. He was taking it in, wondering if he could trust the slimy young man before him.
“Ice told me he had the guns that day as a favor.”
“It was for me.”
“Yeah? Was he doing it for Rivera or for you?”
“For me, but he knew Rivera was involved. Thing is, Rivera is trying to cash out, get into buildings and shit. Real estate development, yo.”
“A real gangsta.”
“What?”
“Go on.”
“So they were gonna get Ice vic’ed. Guess Rivera was through with him.”
“How do you know all this?” D asked.
“I worked for the cop. I’m Ice’s seed. I keep my ears open, yo.”
“So you’re a killer and a liar and you betray your father. I should trust you, yo?”
“I can tell you what Rivera has planned for you at Night’s show at Betsy Head Park.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yo.”
“So what do you want for that info?”
“Like I said, I’m getting out of Brooklyn. I’m gonna end up in jail or dead or some shit like that if I stay in this piece. I need a letter from you for my PO that I’m working for your company and will be traveling with the tour doing security for Night. When he calls, you can confirm that shit. I need to get out of town and I wanna do it clean.”
D looked at Freezy like he was as crazy as his name. “Security? No way. I wouldn’t hire you to do security if you gained fifty pounds and five inches. But you could be a roadie, a gofer. That could work.”
“Whatever, yo. As long as you give me that paper and stand behind it, we’re good.”
“Me and you—we’ll never be good,” D said sourly.
“Okay. All right. Just hear what I have to say.”
Reluctantly, D listened. Then he made his own plans.