The Plot Against Hip Hop by Nelson George Page A

phone. From the building entrance, two equally young, equally red-garbed youths, came up and, without a word, frisked D and Ray Ray right there on the sidewalk. Ray Ray was going to say something but D shook his head. One of the two, about six feet, rail thin, with yellowed freckled skin, pulled out a Beretta from his waistband and gestured with it for his prisoners to move into the building.
    Wordlessly, all four walked past the lobby and up a narrow staircase—the taller Blood in back, the shorter, darker kid, solid as a fullback with big, broad shoulders, leading the way. D’s nose filled with familiar scents: rotting food in overflowing garbage bags and fried bananas, piss and pussy, too much perfume and not enough deodorant. For poor folks in cramped living conditions, the smells are always pungent and mixed up like bad gumbo on a Saturday night.
    Reaching the roof was a relief for D’s nose, though the visual was none too comforting. Three other Bloods, including the kid who’d yelled down—early twenties, cocky, smoking a joint—and a chubby, nondescript man of around thirty who had that flunky vibe. The third man was around fifty. Bald head. Some gray in a beard that was really just a thin line that curled around his cheekbones into a slender mustache. Clearly this was Ice.
    He looked at D but spoke to Ray Ray. “This is your man right here?”
    “Yeah. This D Hunter.”
    “So,” Ice said, turning to D, “you from 315 Livonia?”
    “Yes. Grew up in apartment 6C.”
    “You know Little Z.”
    “No. Not personally. But my brother Jah used to speak about him.”
    “Jah?” Ice surveyed D coolly. “What are the names of your other brothers?”
    “Matty and Rashid.”
    “They both dead, right?”
    “Yes. Right on the corner of Livonia and Stone.”
    “They call it Mother Gaston these days.”
    “Same damn corner.”
    Ice took a few steps toward D. “You know, your family’s kinda famous around here. At least to people my age. So you made it out. Good for you.”
    “It’s a hell of a way to get a rep.”
    “True dat. You got the money?”
    D reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a white envelope. He was impressed that neither of the two kids who frisked him had touched the envelope, a sign of discipline in the ranks. Ice gestured to the other older Blood who came over and removed the envelope from D’s hand.
    “Ray Ray says you can help me.”
    “Malik Jones. He died in a fire at Rikers about three years ago.”
    “What about the two kids who stabbed my friend?”
    “Can’t help you with them. But you ask some of your police friends about Malik Jones.”
    “What’s he got to do with my friend’s murder?”
    “You gave me some money and I gave you a name. Once you start asking about this man, there’ll be no turning back. Right now your friend is dead and you been cut up a couple of times. When you start asking about this man, it’ll get more serious for you. But you already know the streets are cold. That’s why I gave you this name. I knew Matty and Rashid.”
    “This Malik Jones has been dead so long.”
    “True dat. But his life will take you where you wanna go.”
    Ten minutes later D and Ray Ray were walking toward the Livonia Avenue subway station.
    “Ice had mad respect for your family.”
    “I was a child when they were alive. Don’t remember them as well as I’d like.” The sirens of an approaching police cruiser silenced them. D turned and watched the car scream down Livonia, under the elevated subway tracks, past the Rockaway station, and down toward the cavernous public housing.
    “What next?”
    “Ice knows those two kids who stabbed Dwayne. I’m sure of that. But Malik Jones? The name Malik has come up before. Is he just a red herring, a way to guide us away from the two kids? I gotta look this guy up.”
    “I don’t think Ice would have had this meeting if this wasn’t real.”
    “Good point.”
    “He wanted to check you out. Maybe he’ll come back