Damaged Goods (25 page)

When Marquita answered the door her eyes pierced Hannibal's dark lenses and somehow she knew. He could feel it. She nodded hello, opened the door wide and walked back inside. Sarge sat behind a tall glass, on a stool at the breakfast nook that separated the kitchen area from the living room. The glass' contents were topped with small green leaves.

“Markie was just showing me how to make a proper mint julep,” Sarge said. “Of course you're supposed to have a silver cup. No idea why. So, how'd things go today? I see you relaxed a little bit.” Hannibal had buttoned his shirt and pulled his coat back on, but left his tie in the car.

Marquita kept her eyes on her own glass, crushing leaves at the bottom with a spoon, releasing the fresh scent of mint into the air. “You saw him, didn't you?”

“Yes. Him and his whole party family. She's still part of the gang.” He slid the photograph across the counter. Marquita's breath caught in her throat.

“Damn you're good,” Sarge said with the robust energy of a fisherman who feels the big one hit his line. “So now we're
in business right? We waltz over there, rearrange his face a little, find out what he did with whatever he's got, then make sure he's in no condition to do this to any more women.”

Marquita grabbed Sarge's forearm and whispered, “No.”

“Baby,” Sarge began.

“No, Marquita needs you,” Hannibal rushed to say. “And your plan wouldn't work anyway, if I read the situation right. It looks to me like this guy's a lifelong player. I think this formula he stole from Anita's house is his one-time big score. No beating is going to make him give it up.”

“It'd be fun,” Sarge said.

“Hannibal shook his head, but he was smiling. “Yeah, it would, but we can't do this one for fun old friend. I'm going to have to get close to this guy, find out if he still has the prize and if so how he plans to cash in on it. If it's already gone, maybe I can track it down and recover it. Even if I can't I'd need to track down the money he got and get that to Anita as compensation.”

“Well, he won't like that idea,” Sarge said with a wink.

“No. In that instance, you might get your chance to be persuasive with the boy.”

A whirring blender stopped conversation for a moment. After ice cubes became crushed ice Marquita poured the result into her glass. Sarge took a big drink from his own glass, slurping through the crushed ice.

“So, I take it you've got a plan?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Hannibal said. “I'll start with the girl in the morning, and see if I can get invited to join the party.”

“Will you stay for a while, then?” Marquita said. “I would be happy to cook, and Archie said he would rent a movie for us to watch.”

“She still doesn't want to go out,” Sarge said in conspiratorial tones, as if Hannibal might not understand.

“We can make it an evening,” Hannibal said, “on a couple of conditions. First I have to get across town and recoup a certain little G before he gets adopted by the hip-hop nation. And we'll both be back for dinner and a movie or two, if we can order in. You don't need to always be doing for us.”

“Amen to that,” Sarge said.

A danceable beat rolled in a continuous loop inside Huge Wilson's studio at a volume Hannibal could barely detect. It seemed to move up through his feet rather than seeping into his ears. The mood was the same cheerful intensity he had left hours before. Sometime during the day Monte had changed entirely, except for the look of joy on his face. The youngster was showing one way hip-hop may have gotten its name. He couldn't hold still, and Huge seemed to be getting a kick out of seeing the boy so happy.

“Hannibal you would not believe it,” Monte was saying. “We recorded an entire track, from beginning to end. Man it's like science, only its music. Did you know you have to use a lot of math to lay down the beat? You got to know the number of beats per minute, and the notes, I mean, all music is made up of math.”

“You don't say,” Hannibal said.

“Seriously. And did you know that Huge went to Old Dominion University?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” Hannibal said, with a nod toward Huge. “I do like to know a little about my clients. And it seems you've become a young producer yourself. He's even got you looking the part.”

“Couldn't have my man hanging around here looking like he wasn't down with the flow,” Huge said. In fact, the changes were small but the look was different. In place of the generic tee shirt he had arrived in, Monte had on a thermal undershirt with the sleeves pushed up. White painter's pants replaced his denim shorts and a new Wizards cap sat on his head, backwards of course. The big difference to Hannibal's eye was a pair of suede boots where K-mart sneakers had been. Red laces reached only to his ankles, leaving the top half of each boot hanging open. Behind his smile, Hannibal thought, “You look like a bum. Is that the style?”

“Hey, what you see ain't all we got when we went out,” Monte said, dropping into the far corner, pulling forward a real surprise, a stack of paperbacks. “Look at all these. Huge says if I want to be a serious G, I need to get through these. I think I can get them all read before school starts.”

Now Hannibal was impressed. Among the music oriented volumes he saw
The Beat: Go-Go's Fusion of Funk and Hip-Hop
, a book that details the origins of Washington D.C.'s original music form. He also saw
Yes I Can
by Sammy Davis Jr. and
The Autobiography of Malcolm X
, both pretty hefty volumes he had read in his youth.

“You think you can get through all these during the summer?”

Monte brushed invisible dirt off his shoulder. “Man, Huge says I'm a young Black man on the move, and I can do anything. Don't you think I can?”

Hannibal glanced at Huge, feeling that he had misstepped. “Well, of course I do. Huge is right, a man can do anything he puts his mind to. Huge here could be a teacher if he decided that was what he wanted to be.”

Huge stood up, his arms wide. “Hey thank you man. I take that as a big compliment. And you know, you could be a rapper.”

Monte burst into high-pitched laughter. “Oh, yeah, I'd like to see that shit.”

“Language,” Hannibal said.

“What you saying, Little G?” Huge said. “The man got faith in you. You ain't got no faith in him?”

“Well, I get that stuff about doing whatever you put your mind to, but this is different. I mean,” Monte flipped a thumb toward Hannibal, “I mean look at him.”

“Hey, fellows,” Hannibal started, but Huge cut him off.

“That's cold, little G. My man here's pure street. I can see he's a soldier. Bet he's got soul he ain't showed yet.”

Hannibal shook his head in frustration. “Huge, you don't have to…”

“No way,” Monte said. “He couldn't even find the beat. You ever hear that crap he listens to?”

Hannibal had somehow been pushed out of this conversation about him. Trapped between reversing his position on self-determination, disappointing Monte and embarrassing himself, he could only stare with his mouth open when Huge clapped his hands in front of himself, aimed both index fingers at Monte and said, “Double or nothing,” in a challenging tone.

“Double what?” Monte asked.

“Hannibal raps, you finish a book every week through the summer, with a report.”

Hannibal stared down at Monte's hat, avoiding eye contact, praying that he would not accept the dare. Monte stared back at him, lower jaw jutted out.

“You're on, Huge. Sorry Hannibal, but not everybody can do everything.”

Fifteen minutes later, Hannibal was fighting to breathe deeply. He stood alone in the studio. A microphone, smelling of sweat, hung from the ceiling directly in front of him and large headphones pressed into the sides of his head. Half a dozen young men stood on the other side of the glass wall, including Monte who was clearly having the time of his life. He had taken small cash bets from the others about Hannibal's hip-hop debut. Hannibal closed his eyes and tried to remember a single rap song, thinking he could simple imitate someone else. Not one came to mind. There was that Will Smith bit from when he was a teenager. Was it
Parents Just Don't Understand
? It was hopeless. Raised on American Forces Network in Germany, Hannibal was a rock and roll fan, and in terms of music he was stuck in the seventies. Accepting the embarrassment he reached up to slide off his glasses.

“No, no, leave them on.” Huge's voice came from the headphones. “Those shades are part of who you are, and we want to capture that.”

“Capture what?” Hannibal asked. “Hey, can you hear me?”

“The mike's open, brother. Now face the mike but turn to the side. Don't look over here. Just listen to me.”

“Huge, I don't know how to do this,” Hannibal said, but he turned to his right. Music came into his head. Not music exactly, just a beat. It seemed awfully fast.

“Take off your shirt,” Huge said. As Hannibal pulled his coat off, Huge asked, “Do you listen to any kind of music at all?”

“Sure. All the time.”

“Okay, name three or four bands you like,” Huge said. “And put your jacket back on. There you go.”

Hannibal had never worn a suit coat without a shirt before. It was comfortable. “You don't know the bands I like.”

“Don't bet on it, bro,” Huge said. “I sample from every body. Just run some names.”

Hannibal thought as the beat slowed a bit. “Let's see. Aerosmith. ZZ Top. AC/DC. Whitesnake.”

“Judas Priest?” Huge asked. “Foreigner? REO? Journey?”

“Yeah,” Hannibal said, a smile stretching his lips. The beat seemed to spread out more, a pre-disco drum line dropped in and the base line strengthened and simplified.

“Now pick out a driving song,” Huge said. “Something that gets you over the Beltway.” Hannibal's head began to move back and forth a little, and with his eyes closed he mentally thumbed through his CD collection.

“So many good tunes,” he said, almost too low to hear.

“One with a sexy undercurrent. Lots of innuendo. Aerosmith is always good. Or…”

All of a sudden, Hannibal was mentally singing along to an AC/DC anthem that seemed to sit quite comfortably on top of the beat.

“Alright, you're in the car,” Huge's seductive voice murmured in the headphones. “You're all alone.” The beat got louder, stronger. “You're imagining how this song would sound if you just said the words instead of singing them.” Hannibal's whole body was moving now, and he was aware of being watched but somehow feeling isolated from the audience, invisible.

“Go ahead. I want to hear what's in your head.”

The beat was booming in his head, blasting, the words mixing smoothly with it, and Hannibal just wanted to join in. Not wondering how silly he must sound, he faced the ocean of sound and jumped in.

“She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean,

She was the best damn woman I'd ever seen,

She had me sanctified, telling me no lies.

Cause she was knocking me out with those American thighs.

She took a lover's share,

She had me fighting for air,

She told me to come but I was already there,

Cause the walls was shakin',

The earth was quakin'

My mind was achin'

We weren't faking, cause…”

At that point, Huge's falsetto joined his in the headphones:

“You shook me all night long, shake it baby, shake it baby, shake it baby.”

And in the distant background, he could hear Monte say, “Oh my God,” in a pained, plaintive voice.

Hannibal winked at Fay as he stepped out of his car. He didn't think she recognized him at first, which would have been no surprise. He had not been sure he recognized himself in the mirror that morning. After winning his bet with Monte, Huge had taken some delight in helping Hannibal get into character for his return to Mariah's place. Under Huge's stylish eye he had learned to tie a do-rag, knotted at the back of his head. When he said he was aiming at “low level hustler,” Huge had escorted him to what he described as the low-rent hustler's boutique: the nearest Wal-Mart.