IQ(91)

On the other hand.

If Cal was to prematurely meet his maker, Bobby could release more albums the way Afeni had. Call them the basement tapes or the lost recordings or some other made-up nonsense. Greenleaf would be chomping at the bit when they found out there were over three hundred songs in the data vault. Add in remixes, tribute songs, live recordings, bonus tracks by other artists, and Bobby would have more albums than Cal could make if he was drug-free, ate barbecued tempeh at every meal, and lived to be a hundred. At that point, Bobby could either bid up the Greenleaf deal or walk away from it altogether. All he had to do was get somebody to cancel Cal’s ticket. Make it look like a drive-by, let the police chase Noelle or Kwaylud and come up with nothing. They still didn’t know who killed Tupac, or Biggie for that matter.


When Bobby was promoting raves back in Sacramento, Jimmy Bonifant was dealing ecstasy and what was the point of going to a rave without a double drop of vitamin X? The two hustlers shared a condo, ate breakfast at the Silver Skillet at three in the morning, and brought tweakers home and did them in the same room.

Eventually, they both moved to LA, Jimmy pushing weight by then, a lot of dangerous people in his circle of friends. Bobby asked him for a reference and Jimmy told him about a guy named Skip who raised pit bulls in the desert. He was crazy but always came through. Jimmy would hear about that. But by the time Skip came on board Cal had stopped leaving his house and Skip couldn’t set up on him for a drive-by or anything else. Then that lunatic turned that damn dog loose and brought Quintabe into the picture and he f*cked up everything. Skip falling into a coma was a lucky break. At least he couldn’t cause trouble but the deal with Greenleaf was deader than Tupac and Bobby’s creditors were calling every day. He could declare bankruptcy but Cal’s leftover songs were a company asset and he’d lose them unless his lawyers could figure something out. He’d already drained the company coffers, fired most of the staff, and moved the songs to a cloud within a cloud.

Now he was going down to Belize to check on his seven-figure emergency fund stashed in the Banco Central de Belice, the money launderer’s bank of choice. He planned to stay down there awhile. Lie on the beach, drink a few mojitos, sample the local talent, and think things over. He’d make a comeback, no doubt about it. Marion Barry, the former mayor of DC, was caught on tape smoking crack with a hooker. When he got out of prison he ran for mayor again and won with fifty-six percent of the vote. If he could rise from the ashes so could Bobby.


Bobby was at the office packing his carry-on when Hegan came in rubbing his crooked arm. Bobby thought the beaded dreadlocks looked ridiculous on a white guy, like a Japanese tourist wearing a cowboy hat. You’d think the man would have changed his style by now, quit clinging to the past. The days of Hegan the Hatchet Man Swaysie were over. Bobby was bringing him along to Belize. He knew too much and it was better to keep him close. Maybe he’d have an accident, get bit by a mamba, or fall into some quicksand. You never know.

“You ready to go?” Hegan said. “Traffic on the 405’s a bitch.”

“In a minute,” Bobby said.

“We’ve got to get through security.”

“I’ve been on an airplane before. Bring the car around.”


Hegan held his tongue. He’d deal with Bobby soon enough. Let him tap that emergency stash and then remind him who knew what. He wasn’t about to walk away from this mess with a handshake but he’d have to watch himself. Bobby ordered the hit on Cal without a second thought and he’d do the same to him if he got the chance.

“I’ve got to get my luggage out of my car,” Hegan said.

“Who’s making us late now?” Bobby said.


Bobby was looking for his passport when Hegan came backing into the room with his good arm up in the air. “What’s wrong with you?” Bobby said.

Now Charles came in with a gun aimed at Hegan’s head, Bug right behind them. “Whassup, Bobby?” Charles said.

“Did somebody wave a ham samitch?” Bug said. “I thought I smelled something.”

“What is this?” Bobby said.

“You taking a trip?” Charles said, looking at the carry-on. “What you got in there, Cal’s songs?”

Panic skittered through Bobby like a rat along a baseboard.

“Guys?” Hegan said. “Whatever you need to know I can tell you. I was the go-between, nothing else.”

Bobby gave Hegan the look of death. “Look,” Bobby said, “it’s all a misunderstanding. How about we sit down and I’ll explain everything in detail.”

“What do you want to do, Bug?” Charles said. “Do you want to sit down with Bobby, let him explain everything in detail?”

“Sho’ don’t,” Bug said. “I got too much blubber weighin’ me down. I can’t be listenin’ to all that.”

“Well, what do you feel like doing?”

“You know what? I feel like playin’ ball.”

In those initial moments of shock and confusion Bobby didn’t notice Bug had a Louisville Slugger slung over his shoulder. It was an aluminum model with a ventilated leather grip like a tennis racket. Bug took a few practice swings, the gusts ruffling Bobby’s hair and blowing papers off the desk. “Batter up,” he said.


Isaiah watched the news, vaguely dissatisfied. All that commotion and running around and to what end? What was the case about?