The Lost Treasures of R&B. Nelson George
take the gun,” Z-Bo said. D ignored him, as did Rajan.
D asked Rajan, “Your mom’s at work?”
“I guess . . . No, she home.”
“So you better call her.”
“No. She can’t see me in the gutter like this.”
D said, “Bet she gets here faster than EMS,” then looked at Z-Bo. “Stop talking pictures and call his moms.”
Z-Bo called, pulling Rajan’s mother away from the Kardashians’ latest drama. Rajan was getting dizzy, but the bleeding had slowed and he was moaning through the pain, which to D suggested the kid would live. D wondered if there was a reality competition show in guessing who could get to an injured ghetto child faster—NYPD, EMS, or a reality show–watching mother.
There was some blood on D’s right palm, most of it already dry. He hadn’t thought about why he’d walked over to help this stupid kid. Hadn’t he learned long ago that minding your business was the safest way to get through your day in Brownsville? But Rajan’s uncle, Damu, had done some security work when business was good and was now in the army stationed somewhere in the Middle East.
Now here D was with a bloody hand holding the pistol of a kid who’d shot himself in the leg. Rajan was lucky as hell that he hadn’t shot his own dick off. D glanced over at the onlookers and had a sobering thought: What if this kid has hep B or even C?
“Here comes your ma!” Z-Bo pointed down the block where an anxious heavyset black woman who looked to be in her early forties, in a shiny black-and-red bob and a pink sweat suit, was run-walking in their direction.
“You be good,” D said.
“You ain’t waiting?” Rajan asked.
“What for?” D said, and walked away.
Three blocks later he bent down and dropped the gun in a sewer. Then he pulled himself together and walked through the front door of Brooklyn Funeral Home & Cremation Services.
ASCENSION
D knew this place too well. All three of his brothers had had their services here, where their bloody bodies had been made presentable to the public. It was where he first encountered the news media when someone had tipped off the New York Times about a family with four boys, three of whom had been shot dead on the same Brooklyn street corner. A white man with a notepad had spoken to his mother and she’d given him Polaroids of her dead sons. It had all happened here in an office in the back.
Today he was a witness to someone else’s pain. He sat in the back as the wake began for Dalvin DeGrate, the Abercrombie kid who’d tried to slice him with a box cutter a few days ago. D didn’t really know what he’d learn at the twenty-two-year-old’s wake, but there was a lot about that night he didn’t understand and maybe he’d get some kind of insight into why the kid had chased him for a bagful of guns.
Mr. Elvin DeGrate had come up to Brooklyn from North Carolina as a young man, took a job with the Transit Authority, and now owned a home in East New York. In front of Dalvin’s body Mr. DeGrate talked of his son’s passion for football and how talented he had been as a high school wide receiver/defensive back, how dedicated he could be when given a task. Mr. DeGrate held himself erect and with great dignity even when he cried and had to be led back to his seat by a coworker.
Dalvin’s little brother DeVante, sixteen and lean as a New York streetlight, reminisced about his brother showing him the ins and outs of Madden NFL with religious fervor. A couple other speakers rose as well, friends of the family who recalled Dalvin’s childhood hijinks and sporting prowess.
But it wasn’t until the kid’s cousin Cedric Hailey came forward—a short, dark-skinned man with jail-built shoulders and a face of nicks and scratches—that facts surrounding Dalvin’s death were actually addressed.
“I know some people, even some of the people in this room—a lot of people in here—thought Dalvin was a gangsta,” Hailey said, surveying the room and waiting to be challenged. “Yeah, Dalvin is dead and he had did some dirt. But, quiet as kept, Dalvin had no choice. That’s right—no choice. He was under a man’s thumb and they squeezed him. That night wasn’t about vic’ing nobody. It wasn’t a job he had to take. So they can say what they want about him on TV. But the streets know.” Hailey pulled a small bottle of vodka out of his back pocket, took a swig, poured a bit on his cousin’s body, and then sat back down.
There were other speakers after that but Hailey’s talk pretty much shut the wake down. D had spent the last few years living with the fallout from a conspiracy theory about hip hop. He’d never paid much attention to such theories in the past (many black folks were obsessed with them) but now he gave everything he heard some bit of credence. Did his cousin really know something or was that just the vodka talking?
In Brownsville you were always being sized up—a threat, a mark, a future baby daddy or mama, a joke, or just plain corny. It was a place where danger and opportunity were often embodied in the same person. D knew better than to just run up on Cedric Hailey, who now stood outside the funeral home on Pacific Street with two do-rag–wearing homeys who looked more hardened than him. With his unfamiliar face and black suit, D rolling over to the trio to introduce himself and ask questions would just be a waste of time and, probably, a touch dangerous.
Suddenly D felt a shadow pass over the sun. The man was NBA-power-forward big and dressed very ’90s—Coogi sweater, baggy FUBU jeans, regular blue Yankees cap backward, dingy, once-white Air Force 1s, and a white do-rag.
“I seen you at the fight club. Am I right?”
“If you say so.”
“I do. My people call me Ride. You D, am I right?”
D didn’t feel like being bothered but this guy was too big to ignore. “Yes. D Hunter.”
“I also seen you with that fool youngster who shot himself. I was walking here and saw you. Am I right?”
“You are.”
“I like that. I see you out here helping people.”
“Glad you do, Ride. You a friend of the family?”
“Yeah, I know them. But check this—I know your family too. Your brother Rah. I ran with him a bit.”
“I don’t remember you, Ride, and I’m sure I would.”
Ride laughed. “You were a kid and Rah didn’t wanna bring his business around you.”
D nodded and then asked, “So when did you hit the bricks?”
“Shit,” Ride said, “I ain’t counting days no more. I’m out. That’s all I care about.”
As the two men spoke, Hailey glanced over at Ride, then smiled and came over to greet him. “Nigga, I didn’t know you were home.” He hugged Ride, as did his two thuggish friends, all three treating him like a fallen warrior miraculously come back to life.
“Yo,” Ride said, “this is D, an OG homey of mine. He’s from Tilden.”
“What building?” Hailey asked.
“315,” D answered, which seemed to satisfy Hailey’s curiosity, then added, “I liked what you had to say.” D decided to see if this introduction had possibly opened a door. “I just moved back to Brooklyn and heard about what happened and thought, New mayor, same cops.”
“Yeah,” Hailey said softly. “I shouldn’t have been putting it out in the street like that, especially in front of his father. They gonna do some kind of investigating and that could only get them in trouble. You go to the police around here and you never know who you talking to. They say the devil wears red but I know that nigga likes blue too.”
An older woman, one of Hailey’s aunts, walked over and started chirping at him about his comments at the wake and said Dalvin’s mother wanted