The Plot Against Hip Hop by Nelson George Page B

with more.”
    “Maybe. But don’t ask anything else right now. Just lay back. You’ve already earned your money. I don’t want you stabbed up.”
    “I’m with that.”
    Ray Ray gave D a hug and then disappeared into Brownsville’s darkness.
    Standing on the Rockaway platform, D glanced down toward 315 Livonia Avenue. “Malik Jones,” he said into his cell.
    “Well, now we have a last name,” Fly Ty said. “Now it’s an actual lead.”
    After he’d put the cell away and watched the Tilden projects for too long, D turned and walked to the other end of the long platform. Thanks, Brownsville, he thought. Thanks for too damn much.

CHAPTER 16
    R OUND THE W AY G IRL
    I t was a cake gig. All chocolate with vanilla frosting. Every summer Russell Simmons held a soiree at his East Hampton home for his Rush Philanthropic arts foundation called Art for Life. On his large back lawn a huge tent was set up and held dozens of banquet tables, a dais, and a section reserved for a silent auction. You could bid on a night in the studio with a Def Jam artist or ten private yoga sessions at Jivamukti, the popular studio that Russell attended, or an abstract painting by Russell’s older brother Danny. All the items reflected the connection between hip hop and the Hamptons that Russell had helped foster in the mid-’90s.
    Not surprisingly, the crowd reflected that same cultural merger: chilled-out Hamptons habitues, city folk just in for the weekend, and celebrity drop-in’s from fashion, media, and film. The evening had some of the flavor of the event D had worked with Jay-Z months before. But this being the Hamptons and Russell’s home, it was considerably more laid back and very low-maintenance for D and his discreetly placed employees. There was the odd paparazzi getting a little too aggressive. Some guy couldn’t find his girl and asked D’s peeps for help (though D knew she had slipped upstairs with one of Russell’s Hollywood pals). Otherwise it was calm and quiet as a country summer night should be.
    Aside from keeping the peace even more peaceful, D had another mission this starry July night. He was on the hunt for Amina Warren-Jones, who ran a Rush Philanthropic Arts–affiliated charity in Newark, a successful catering business in the Oranges, and was one of the most beautiful widows D had ever seen.
    If Amina was a candy bar, D thought, she’d be a Hershey’s with tasty almond lumps repping her breasts and thighs. She was a lovely chocolate snack of a woman, sort of like Gabrielle Union with the kind of short, wavy hairstyle favored by young Halle Berry. The way she was dressed that day—sundress, dangling earrings, and mules, all in an olive tone—heightened the sensual impact of her brown skin. Amina carried herself with shoulders back and neck straight, as if she was determined to face the world head-on. Long curly lashes framed fierce brown eyes that quickly took your measure and made their judgment. They were smart, intuitive, and pitiless too.
    Living with and loving Malik all those years meant she was blissfully unaware of her husband’s (mis)deeds, knowing only what she wanted to—either that or Amina was a true blue ride-or-die bitch, a gal with a Beretta in her briefcase and C-4 by the front door. D wanted her to be righteously naïve, but her bearing and those penetrating eyes said the woman knew things. D was kind of afraid to find out what, but knew at some point tonight he’d have to try.
    This lovely woman’s late husband had been one serious piece of work. Malik Jones, a.k.a. Brother Malik, a.k.a. Jonesy, a.k.a. Marvin Johnson, had had many names and many identities over the past decade plus. He’d been a club promoter, owner/driver for an escort service, manager of singers and MCs, and had a couple of production companies. No felony convictions—just two marijuana possession misdemeanors. The only hint of violence on his rap sheet had proved fatal. He’d been arrested in Manhattan three