Whispers in the Night (30 page)

“Who was she, Jim? Twenty years and we hadn't had one bit of trouble.”

He popped a wide melon-eating smile, clicked his castanets. “Ain't tell you a thing. Say I can do better . . . we
all
do better than dese minstrel shows. Teach me a line or two 'bout good things.
Imagination
, by Phyllis Wheatley. Colored men doin' Ot'hello by Mr. Shakespeare. Writin' dey own shows, own music. Mo'dem poems. Ain't Olio songs fo' ig'rant niggahs to prance to. Not 'bout habbin' money!”

Spittle was flying. I couldn't help myself. “She said all this, huh? When—the hotel last night? And where're these handbills about some Negro play, Negro show at some church?”

“Ah's sober now, Scratch. Curtain call soon. President and all dem big white folk be waitin' . . . waitin' on
Mr. Bones
.”

Artful, he wasn't. And his story about that woman made no sense. He was hiding something, though. Irish Quinn shooed the white girl out and said we had two minutes to curtain, so what was I to do but trust him?

 

 

Fanfare. Chickens and mules down on the farm; cakewalkers prancing in the town. Me, stage right. Him, stage left. We slayed. Act two. The Olio. I was calmer and everything was going better than I'd dreamed. Titty Pigeon Pea and Mr. Bones nailed their final duet, “Darky Sweeties,” and even I shed a tear as I wiped off my makeup. Act three. Mr. Bones, alone. Our finale. Hushed crowd as he entered, stage right, tambourine in one hand, clicking “bones” in the other . . .

And then that son of a bitch dropped the tambourine and those bones to his feet.

He took off his hat. That syrupy bass crooned a song I'd never heard. It was about a little boy's nightmare. Blood. Fire. Pain. Shame. And a dream. Redemption.

Oh no. Oh, shit no . . .

More shame, this time aimed at the audience. A black finger pointed at them all, from the middling folk in the cheaper seats to the titans of industry and politics in the upper boxes. And a final song, like a nail dragged across tin. I wailed.

“Brudder gwine guide me home . . . bright angels gwine biddy me ta come . . .”

It was one of the Pinkertons who first saw the revolver. I guess he thought Jim was going to shoot President Cleveland, just like someone else, whom I knew, shot President Garfield some years before over a job the fool didn't get. The agent drew his weapon, got off a round at ol' Jim Trice. But Jim was dead before that bullet struck his liver—Jim having put one in his own head a split second prior.

People rushed the stage, but I backed into the wings, mind spinning, heart exploding with every beat. I could feel a look on my back. A stabbing look, but with pain worse than I'd felt in a long time.

I turned. He was there. The old tramp from the alley.

He stood plain as he did on the third day, when the stone was rolled away from the tomb. He was smiling. And the bitch I killed backed him right up, not a smear of blood on her neck. The tramp had some blood. Oh yes. Where it usually oozed. From his wrists. And there, soaking through his torn socks.

It wasn't fair. What did he care? Why stop me? Why save this piece of vomit who betrayed his own people just to save the bitch that sired him? And kept on betraying and made so much cash holding his people to ridicule—with those very people laughing right along?

My shriek pierced every human ear in the Orpheum. My skin broke from me and liquefied on the floor. My gums bled till my fangs erupted and my guts split open with worms. My tongue became forked and slimy, for this had always been my punishment. I was beautiful once. My songs bested the voices of a thousand million Jim Trices. I sang for God Himself and all my brother and sister angels until I betrayed them like a little boy who opened a fort's gate and let death ride in.

And in a flash of light I was gone. Scratch Jones. Whimpering. Brooding.

Waiting.

 

 

Not for long.

Deondré's mother was a nurse and his father was a senior mechanic for a Toyota dealership, and they loved him so much. They lived outside Washington, D.C., in a comfortable little house with cable TV and a PC. But he had to be hard and ran with some boys he shouldn't have. A girl and her date got shot as they stood in line for popcorn at a movie about black women in strip clubs and the thugs who desired them. Deondré went to a state boys' camp, charged as an accessory to the assault. And at that camp, I came to him in a wet dream. I was a honey-hued woman with pendulous breasts and a thick, sweaty backside and pouty mouth.

A promise was made. And Deondré would get his ticket out of that kiddie jail. He would see me later, in the flesh, as Tasha Brown, and I worked for the record label and knew all the right white people. Deondré composed such nasty, hot rhymes when he should have been doing his homework. His syrupy bass was intoxicating and his curses heartfelt. I hooked him up with my producers in Atlanta. Five years later, Deondré's parents forgot their shame, for they moved into a six-thousand-square-foot mansion.
Dirty South Hoes
, their son's debut album, had gone double platinum.

Oh yes, the bookstores big and small alike dropped Zora and Richard and Langston and Walter and Alice, and replaced them with Deondré's new line of pulp novels based on his “life stories.” You know—shit that never happened, like the hookers he turned into tricks themselves, and the weak men he turned out in prison (not a state boy's camp).

Girls fainted on
106th & Park
when he appeared as a guest.

His line of athletic and outerwear almost bankrupted North Face.

He sat in skyboxes at two Super Bowls, despite stabbing deaths at his pregame parties each of those years. I slept with star players on the winning football teams and they agreed to endorse his clothing line.

He headlined homecoming at the black college his mother had attended, bragging about gunplay and sex with the cheerleaders and sorority girls. To mollify the college's president, he wrote a check to the school for three million and the music department got a new studio bearing his name.

They wanted him for movies. They wanted him for a sitcom on UPN.

The year he hosted the Video Music Awards he gave MTV its highest ratings in ten years.

He smacked Bill O'Reilly on Fox News. Bill thanked me off-camera for the highest ratings he'd ever had. A promise was a promise, after all.

Fools debate his worth to this day. I never did. From the first time I saw him, so weepy for not stopping his drunk-ass homies from shooting that girl in the multiplex parking lot. Pleading for God to have mercy on him. Well, my eyes glowed red as hot coals with nothing but love for him. And I had to think of a new stage name for him.

By the way, the new CD cover portrayed him just as in the video for the first track—which I wrote.
Niggas Holla Shoop Shoop Wow.
There he stood, muscles brimming through his white wifebeater. Lips red as new blood. The album was simply self-titled.

Can you hear me laughing, bright angels?

B. Gordon Doyle

T
onk had an eye for the bitches. And it all started with Tonk.

Once a month, the four of them, the whole crew, would roll out and seriously light it up. Usually, it was the weekend before a full moon, on accounta' Redbone's witchy moms tellin' him back when he was a young'un that a waxing moon favored beginnings.

Redbone was the first to get his license and a ride, so it was his call from jump. After that, it was just habit. Kinda like a ritual. The moon would start to gettin' full, an' the crew would start to grinnin' an' schemin' . . . .

They'd head down to the barbershop, get all cut an' clean, then drag out the fresh junk, the bling an' designer suits an' fake IDs, and step correct. They'd hit Solitaire's or Hardbar or Ascot and tear shit up, flashin' fat knots an' choppin' lines and tossin' drinks at anything with cleavage an' a thong. And it was all good, and straight-up righteous, considering wasn't one of them, not Redbone or Tonk or Lil' B or Young 'Dre even twenty years old.

But back to Tonk. And the bitches.

It was Friday late at the Ascot, an' the niggas was down, sweatin' on the dance floor, chillin' at the bar, when Tonk lamped her comin' out of the ladies' room. Tonk always kept his eye on the ladies' room door, 'cause he knew that sooner or later, every bitch in the house got to come through there.

“Gotta get that perv on, to get some swerve on, yo.”

That was Tonk speakin', and Young 'Dre listening.

“Yeah, dog. Uh-huh.”

'Dre was distracted; he was watching a low, busty, Latina freakin' redbone under the lights. That nigga could
keep
them light-skinned shorties on the leash. He had game. More fool they.

“
Got
damn. Check this shit out.”

'Dre followed the older boy's eyes across the crowded nightclub, and felt his heart thud in his chest.

She was tall, nearly six feet in her heels, with skin the color of honey and cream. Her hair was jet-black, straight and long, hanging down to the hem of the black, laced-up minidress that looked painted on. She wore no jewelry, save for a studded, black leather slave collar around her neck. She was fine-featured, with the generous lips and sculpted cheekbones that other women bled for. And she was looking directly at Tonk.

“Grab this, yo.” The older boy passed 'Dre his drink, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his hands. “And tell me she ain't lookin' over here.”

“Can't.” 'Dre watched as the woman moved away from the bathroom door, walking with the haughty confidence that only beauty can bestow. “I'd be lyin'.”

“Then I'm about it, nigga.” Tonk looked around for a mirror as he smoothed at his eyebrows and goatee, and pulled at his silk tie. “You wit' me?”

Young 'Dre had not taken his eyes off the woman; he watched her as she settled in at the bar, sliding easily onto a bar stool, crossing her legs with slow grace . . .

“Nah, nigga. You needs to check yourself.”

. . . and was joined by a man like a mountain. Big, black, and wide, like a mountain.

“Say what?” The older boy stopped preening, incredulous. “Check myself? Where dat bitch get to?”

Tonk searched the room for her, as 'Dre grabbed his shoulders and pointed him to the bar.

“Over there. An' she gots a friend.”

The black man at her side was nearly seven feet tall, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was bald and clean-shaven, dressed in a fitted tuxedo and was holding a black clutch purse under his arm.

“Don'
go
there, Tonk,” 'Dre shouted; the music was suddenly louder. “Just
don't
. That black bastid's big like Shaq.”

Tonk was silent. 'Dre could feel the thump of bass in his gut.

“Yo, niggas! Who died?”

Lil' B pushed his way through the throng on the dance floor, with a pretty brown club girl in tow. She was obviously drunk; as he joined them, B held her steady with a hand on the small of her back.

“Whassup, B?” 'Dre asked quickly, trying to ignore the fact that Tonk still hadn't said a word. He could feel it coming.

“Shorty here's whassup, yo. An' there some for y'all back at her table. Plenty plenty. Ain't that right, baby girl?”

“I's my birfday.” The girl giggled, smiling at 'Dre. “What's your name? Didn't you go to Banneker?”

Lil' B winked and laughed softly, keeping it mellow; he was feeling good in his Sean John an' steady pullin' down the shorties, the way it was supposed to be. Friday night. Drink a little, snort a little, freak a little. Maybe even get a little. Good times.

But no . . .

“
Fuck
that big mothafucka!” Tonk exploded. “He ain't shit! Bitch was lookin' right at me.”

The girl straightened, looked at Lil' B, and then back toward the dance floor.

“I'ma go check in with my friends,” she said, as she pushed away Lil' B's hand. “Your boy needs to chill out or somethin'.”

“An' fuck you, too, chicken head. Fuck you an' your—”

“
Tonk!
” Lil' B, never one to lose his cool, was furious. “The fuck's your
issue,
nigga? Yo, 'Dre, you needs to talk to this nigga 'fore I get all
gauche
up in here.”

“Shorty over there playin' him. Got his nose open f 'real.” 'Dre nodded toward the bar. Even as he spoke, the woman peered around her escort and smiled at them. She had eyes like a cat.

Lil' B watched her for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, at the bar in the black Bao Tranchi. She's like, come hit this ass an' that big nigga's like, don't even think it. Okay.” He paused, shrugged. “So, what you wanna do, Tonk? Stand here with your dick in your hand or make that move?”

“I jus' wanna talk to her, B. For a minute. I never seen nothing like her before.”

'Dre fought back a chuckle. No doubt. When he first saw her, the sight of her had taken his breath away. But now, well, she
was
fine. Real pretty. Just like a lot of bitches.

He was over it.

Not so, Tonk. He was utterly captivated. And to him, the big man at her side was more than an obstacle. He was a challenge.

Lil' B looked out over the dance floor, shaking his head. “A'ight, nigga. Let's do this. I'ma grab up Redbone an' go out to the ride an' get my shit,” Lil' B cocked his thumb and forefinger and placed them over his heart. “ 'Cause if you goin' over there, you better go strong, y'feel me? I ain't lettin' you go out like no punk.”

'Dre felt a chill on the back of his neck. It wasn't fear, but foreboding. Here, amidst the clamor and crowd of the Ascot, a life-and-death decision had been made. He needed to say something, before it all went bad. For good. “B, man. Hol' up. That's the liquor talkin'.”

“Nah, Young. This nigga already run off the bitches I hooked up. An' if we ain't gettin' no ass, then
fuggit,
we get a little bloody.” Lil' B shrugged his broad shoulders again and tucked his hand into his waistband, signaling to Redbone. The lanky, well-dressed boy pushed off from his partner on the dance floor and moved to B's side.

“Whassup, B?” Redbone clenched his teeth and sneered, going gangster. “We needs to go out to the ride?”

“Word. You niggas sit tight till we get back. We see if that big mothafucka's bulletproof.”

The two of them, Redbone and Lil' B, turned and jostled their way through the crowd. Tonk was shaking, and it wasn't from the blow.

The music was pumpin' sinister, like a horror movie sound track. Young 'Dre felt he had to do something.
Anything.
To stop what he knew was coming.

He did something.

'Dre turned, and picked his way slowly across the packed dance floor, fighting to keep his head on straight. He ordered a drink, waited while the bartender took his own sweet time, then walked down the bar until he was only a few feet away from the woman with the cat's eyes and jet-black hair. He took a long, slow sip, moved close enough to smell her perfume. The man mountain leaned forward and whispered to her, then raised a hand to shove him back as 'Dre declared:

“You gonna get somebody
killed
tonight.”

She laughed. It was like breaking glass; hard, sharp, and brittle.

“Wait, Julian. Not yet.” The woman turned on the bar stool, slowly uncrossing her legs, and placed her hands on her knees. “You are the only man to dare approach me tonight. And you approach me, only to tell me that someone will die? How delightfully . . .
piquant
. Tell me more.”

'Dre moved closer, so he wouldn't have to shout. Julian, the big man, raised his hand again and shook his head. 'Dre eyed him warily, set his drink on the bar beside hers, then continued. “My boy over there. He thinks you've been watching him all night.”

“Perhaps I have. He has hungry eyes.”

“You need to quit playin' him,” 'Dre said with rude bravado. “He's about to come over here an' start up some shit. An' your big-ass boyfriend ain't scarin' him.”

“Really?” she asked demurely, as she cocked her thumb and forefinger and placed them on her breast. “Not at all? Not even the
teensiest
bit?”

'Dre stepped back. There was no way she could have seen Lil' B give the high sign. Something was wrong here, way wrong.

“Now then,” she continued. “Here's what you're going to do. You're going to go back over to your little friend with the hungry eyes, and tell him I'd
love
to speak with him. And then, you're going to leave.” She stirred her drink, and smiled. “Quickly now! Before your . . .
homeboys
. . . return, and my Julian has to disarm them and break them into little pieces.
Teensy
pieces.”

'Dre could feel his courage slipping away. Draining away. He picked up his drink and quickly finished it.

“C-can't do that,” he stammered, wiping his mouth. “Can't leave a brother behind . . .”

“Just so. Julian?”

Quick as light, the big man leaned out and grabbed 'Dre by the lapels, turned, and pinned him against the bar. He stared down at the boy, pulled him close until they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. 'Dre swung at him, struggled, to no avail; he was like a stuffed doll in the teeth of a pit bull. He tried to yell for help, but before he could gather the breath, he peered into Julian's black eyes and saw . . .

A flicker of darkness. A veil lifted, a glimpse . . .

The three of them. Redbone and Lil' B and himself, lying in the alley next door to the Ascot. Lying broken in the alley, their limbs twisted at impossible angles. Lying in the alley, sightless eyes peering upward, with a red pool of blood beneath them that ran slowly into the gutter. Slowly. Slowly.

'Dre moaned unintelligibly as Julian dropped him to the floor. A couple at the bar looked down, saw him slumped along the bar rail, shook their heads, and went back to their drinks.

“Now, little one,” the woman hissed. “Go do as you're told.”

'Dre whimpered and got to his feet, staggered back across the dance floor, bouncing off bodies. He had to warn Tonk, had to tell him . . .

He reached the other side, fell into Tonk's arms. An overwhelming weakness flooded over him like a deluge.

“Nigga, you crazy!” Tonk said admiringly, reaching out to hold 'Dre up. “You got some heart, yo! What she say?”

'Dre tried to answer, but the words wouldn't come. There was something wrong with his head; he felt slow and dim.

“She. She . . . wan . . .” 'Dre slurred, shaking his head, trying to clear it. “Doan!”

“Yeah, man. I see dat. She wavin' me over.” Tonk shook him, squinted at him closely. “Damn, yo. You lookin' like you need some air. Go on out an' tell B an' Redbone that it's all good, a'ight? I check you niggas later. Much later.”

Tonk slapped him on the back and pushed him toward the stairs. 'Dre stumbled, careened off a table, and fell into a group of revelers who'd just entered the nightclub.

“That's it!” 'Dre heard a voice bellow behind him. “You are done!”

'Dre felt himself seized, pushed up the stairs and out the Ascot's front door. He turned, pleading with the doorman as he was rushed past him, but the words came out wrong. The downstairs bouncer looked over at his coworker, sharing a laugh at 'Dre's expense as he shoved the boy out into the street.

“Say when, rookie.”

'Dre staggered back to the curb and slouched down, his back against a parked car. He could hear the party kids lined up outside the club laughing. Jeering. Yelling.

Yelling. His name.

He raised his chin from his chest, looked up.

Redbone. And Lil' B.

Tonk was still inside. And it all started with Tonk. . . .

 

 

'Dre woke to the sound of a car horn, and the stink of vomit. The long light of afternoon filled the room. He was in his own bed, in his uncle's modest brick Colonial on Lincoln Avenue in Takoma Park, Maryland, still wearing his suit pants and shoes. His dress shirt, balled up on the floor by the side of the bed, was the source of the foul smell.

He sat up slowly, then moved to the window of his upstairs room. Outside, double-parked along the curb, with the windows up and speakers blasting Scholly D, Redbone's Toyota Celica sat idling. The car horn sounded again.