THE ROOT

It was a beautiful day in Brownsville. The sun shone, the air was sweet. At Betsy Head Park families set up barbecue grills and there was much trash talk about who’s homemade sauce had more flava. Women wearing platform sandals and their best weaves (that imported Indian hair was shining like new money) hovered near the temporary stage. The Ville’s over-sixty residents came armed with fold-up chairs, creating an oasis of twentieth-century civility.

DJ D-Nice filled the air with old-school classics (Maze with Frankie Beverly on “Before I Let Go,” the Blackbyrds’ “Rockcreek Park,” Earth, Wind & Fire’s “That’s the Way of the World,” the Whispers’ “Rock Steady,” etc.) that were sure to make black folks smile, sip their sweet drinks (some laced with alcohol), and do the two-step. A white community-relations patrolwoman talked to little kids as they got their faces painted. There were whites scattered through the crowd, people undaunted by Brownsville’s bloody reputation, resting on blankets, nibbling on goat cheese.

D stood on the side of the stage gazing out at the Betsy Head field and smiling. Here was a spirit of love. It’s how you imagined your neighborhood could be: a place where everyone gathers and feels part of something.

D’s cell buzzed. The text read, 5 minutes away. He walked down the metal steps into the backstage area, which was basically three motor homes, a craft services table, and some deck chairs behind a few police barricades. A black Denali rolled onto the field and deposited Al and Night, along with Ride, who was on duty as Night’s personal bodyguard.

“Okay,” D said to Ride, “you know what to do.”

“I do. You crazy, you know?”

“That was confirmed way back when. Whatever you do, stay with Night. That’s your only job today, Ride. I can handle mine.”

“Thank you, D.”

“Do the job, impress Al, and good things can come out of this for you, including a trip to LA.”

Night came over with Al. Ignoring the screams of some older women from behind the police barricades, Night said to D, “So this is your hood?”

“It’s where I grew up. Don’t know if I could really claim it now.”

“Gonna give them a good show nevertheless. I like the hood love vibe out here.”

Back in the trailer, Night, who was already in his stage gear, did yoga to limber up as Al spoke with tardy band members on his cell. Peering out the window, D could see Brownsville filling up the field and hear D-Nice spreading sonic love. Despite the low rumbling in his stomach, D was still smiling. It was going to be a good day for Brownsville. Of that fact he was sure. He wasn’t so sure how it would work out for himself.

When there was a knock on the door, Ride opened it to find Cassidy Ronson and Faith Newman standing there.

D said, “They’re good,” and Ride bid them entry. The presence of the wannabe real estate mogul and the certifiable dot-com billionaire slightly transformed the room’s relaxed mood to one of light wariness.

Faith kissed D’s cheek and then moved quickly toward Night, who came out of a tree pose to hug her warmly.

“So,” Night said, “you gonna sing with me today?”

“Really? I’d be honored.”

“Just some background vocals. I wanna see if you can hang in the hood.”

Faith giggled. While this ebony-and-ivory bonding was going on, a different version was being played out by D and Ronson.

“It’s good to see you, D,” Ronson said.

“Congrats on the show,” D replied. “This is gonna be a great day in the hood and a good look for your company.”

“Well, I wanted you to know that Detective Rivera is no longer in the employ of AKBK.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You were right about him. In fact, it was worse than you said. His reputation is abysmal. Just letting him go is bringing a lot of good will our way.”

“Good for you.”

“D, would you like to help monetize that good will?”

“This is not the time or place for that conversation.”

By now, a crowd of several thousand had gathered for the return of the soul messiah. A handful of folks wore T-shirts bearing the image of Night’s butt from his famous video. Two very cute white girls sat on blankets holding up a Bring on the Night placard. In fact, since D had entered Night’s trailer, the number of white faces in the crowd had increased, drawn by the rarity of the singer’s free public appearance and the same pioneering spirit that made gentrification possible.

D glanced over at Faith, who was doting on Night, and he knew right then that even Brownsville, forsaken by the city for a century, could change. The realization hit him hard and reverberated through his soul. He’d listened to Ronson’s pitch and the rhetoric about public planning and none of it had led him to believe that Brownsville could change.

But looking out at the crowd awaiting Night, D was suddenly convinced. It could happen. It would happen.

“Okay,” Al said to Night, “let’s do this.”

D and Ride led Night and his band across the grass to the stage’s metal stairs. As “One Nation under a Groove” flowed groovaliciously from the speakers, elders and hotties alike stood and cheered Night’s arrival.

“Congrats,” D said to Al as they both stood in the wings watching Night, his arms raised, bask in the love.

“Couldn’t have done it without your help,” Al said.

“Listen, Al, chances are I won’t be here at the end of the show.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ll get word to you.”

“Huh?”

Without answering, D walked down the steps. Al watched him for a moment and then turned back toward the stage as Night began to sing. He wondered what was up with his friend, but this wasn’t the time for curiosity. Night cut Al a look and they both smiled. It was finally gonna be all right.

* * *

During Night’s third song, a bluesy tune called “Keep It Going,” Rivera walked up very casually to D with a small smug smile. D knew that face wasn’t good for him, and a moment later he felt the hard round edge of a silencer against his back. He didn’t turn around. Whoever it was, it didn’t matter—he was just a tool anyway.

“Come with me,” Rivera said.