Dirty South

55

Tears ran down Teddy’s big cheeks while he answered the question from the BET VJ for 106th and Park. A camera and sound guy cornered him in his big leather sectional while the feed went out live. A few groupies lounged in Teddy’s pool in bikinis with margaritas, watching the sun set into a nice blender of oranges and reds. Louisiana Caribbean. I leaned against a wall by the open kitchen and drank a Coke. There were cheeses and wine, little quiches, fancy toast, and big bowls of caviar on his marble counter.

I didn’t like watching Teddy blasted with all those white-hot lights. I knew the showman in him had made him get back to work too soon after the death of his brother.

Has times been tough? Is the talk of the end of the Ninth Ward label true? Is there any truth that Malcolm’s suicide came out of some debt to a rapper from East St. Louis?

“Silkie,” Teddy said to the young bald man dressed in a baggy Fat Albert sweatshirt and stocking cap. “I think people talk about greatness. And my brother was great. It’s just hard for people to get over that he’s gone.”

What about what folks are saying about Malcolm’s relationship with the late, great Diabolical? That their relationship had been seein’ some dark days before Dio went missin’?

Teddy twisted a fat diamond ring on his finger and nodded. “Let people talk. Let ’em talk. I’m here to tell people that Ninth Ward is keepin’ on top. We goin’ out to represent all New Orleans like my brother’s dream. Ninth Ward, Sixth Ward. Calliope. Magnolia. We keep on rollin’.”

What about the feud with you and Cash?

Teddy shook his head and smiled. “Never was no feud,” he said. “People like to talk and divide us. People like to break us apart. But we all the Dirty South.”

Dirty, dirty. Now let’s send it back to New York with a new one from a New-Orleans-boy-made-good-in-Beverly-Hills, Master P.

The VJ shook Teddy’s hand and apologized if the questions got too personal. Teddy shook his hand back, clasping it long and firm, and then shoved the VJ in the chest with the flat of his hand.

“Get out of my house, you goddamn punk-ass nigga.”

“Hey, man,” the VJ said. “Fuck you.”

Teddy lunged for him.

I ran behind Teddy and pushed his swinging arms to his side. He stormed outside and slammed the French doors behind him. Outside, he smiled, leaned down to the pool, and flirted with a couple of women.

After the crew packed up and left, the VJ talking shit about a lawsuit, I took a seat in the leather sectional. Teddy came back and turned on a DVD of Goodfellas.

It was the scene where Pesci and De Niro were burying the body and laughed about the body parts being thrown around. Teddy laughed with them, his eyes glued into the TV world.

“Teddy?”

“What’s up?”

“We need to talk.”

“Wait till you see this,” Teddy said. “They go back to his mamma’s house for more spaghetti. Ain’t that some shit? Do you like spaghetti? Man, I could eat the shit out of Italian. You know, lasagna and fettuccini. Man, I had some eggplant with Parmesan that would knock your dick in the dirt.”

“Yeah,” I said. I stood and walked back to the table of food.

“Hey, man? Grab me a candy bar up there.”

“There aren’t any.”

“What?” Teddy said, leaping out of his seat. He stood over the table and frowned as if someone had served several helpings of dog shit. “Not even a goddamn Snickers. Shit. Sometimes I wonder what I pay people for. You know I got all these people round me on my payroll and they ain’t doin’ shit. Man, I should open my own goddamn catering business and have it done right. We’d have candy bars and shit and Pepsi and shit. Real food.”

“I’d skimp on the shit,” I said. “Want some caviar?”

“That shit got class, but man, it tastes just like fish.”

I smiled.

“Let’s ride,” he said, grabbing his keys and running for the door. I couldn’t even catch a breath.

Two minutes later, we were riding in the Bentley, top down and new beats cranked. He drove about eighty in a forty.

“That’s the one we cut the other night,” he said, sweat beading down his puffy jowls as he talked. “You remember. ‘Project Girl.’ Shiit. Man, that’s what it’s all about. It’s all about the ass. Can’t you see that ‘Project Girl’ pop that ass? You got to make them pop their ass. That’s what Malcolm used to say. Shit, pop it. Pop it. Can’t you see it?”

He let go of the steering wheel and pretended he was gripping two mounds of muscular butt. “Malcolm was a magician. Malcolm could make the crowd slow down, speed up. Pick up the whole world at the projects in Desire and have them roll with his beats. Man, I’m gonna miss those beats. Those crazy NOLA beats. Hard and representin’.”

“Where we headed?”

“Get me a goddamned Snickers.”

“Teddy, you ever have any problems with ALIAS?”

“What you mean?”

“He ever steal from you?”

Teddy turned down his stereo, the heated salty air rushing through the car. The clouds over Pontchartrain growing fat and pink in the soft evening, almost raw like a new wound. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and mint. Sprinklers misted over the trimmed grass.

He lit a cigar from his pocket.

“Yeah,” he said, thick smoke flying from his mouth. “Kid took two of my credit cards last year. Bought some things.”

“What?”

“Man, I didn’t want to talk about this shit. ALIAS is my boy. You know how he get to your heart, all that shit he been through.”

“What did he buy?”

“Aw, man. Who tole you about that?”

“Just tell me.”

Teddy sighed.

“Everything,” he said. “He worked those Visa cards hard.”

“Like what?”

“I’m talking like twenty thousand? Yeah, some shit like that. Crazy shit. Like bikes from Toys ‘R’ Us and five thousand worth of Air Jordans.”

“You think maybe he worked this con on himself to get it out of the trust fund?”

“Came to me a few times.”

“You ever think about mentioning it to me?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “How you gonna ever know?”

“You ever see ALIAS with a girl named Dahlia?”

“The stripper?” he asked. “I don’t know her.”

“What about Dataria?” I asked, pulling out the Polaroid with her and Bloom.

“Yeah, you showed me that shit.”

He stole a glance while driving, then pulled the car to the side of the road. Cars whizzed past us, honking, and Teddy lifted up his sunglasses to get a closer look.

“I ain’t neva seen that bitch,” he said. “But man, she could make a dead man’s pecker twist into a pretzel.”

“She has a way.”

He nodded, pulling out, and cruising down the road with two fingers. Driving slow. He turned into a space at the BP and killed the engine. A couple of teenage boys hung back and pointed at the Bentley parked away from the gas pumps. They knew him.

“Come on,” he said. “You want a Snickers?”

“I’m cool.”

“Zagnut?”

“I’ll take a Whatchamacallit.”

“A what?”

“Teddy.”

He laughed. “Man, I’ll be right back. Be cool.”

I sank into the rabbit-fur seats and watched Teddy bound into a Canal convenience store in his $2,000 Armani. He held the cigar in his right hand and clutched a dozen candy bars to his stomach with the other.

I watched him pay the cashier with a $100 bill from his diamond-crusted money clip.

He ate and drove, the cigar now smoldering in the ashtray. The Snickers taking the place of the Cuban.

“I heard you caught ALIAS with a woman in the back of your car one night.”

“Oh yeah,” Teddy said. “He was gettin’ him some. He’s old enough. Didn’t think much of it.”

“Could it have been Dahlia?”

He shook his head. “Man, I don’t know. I know some of my boys were talkin’ about it the next day. Said the woman was lots older.”

“Like Janet Jackson older? Or Eartha Kitt older?”

“Who’s Eartha Kitt?”

“Catwoman.”

“About double his age.”

I buried my head into my fingers, my elbow propped into his door. I didn’t want to see any of the road ahead.

“ALIAS says she was the one who conned him,” I said. “He says he didn’t know her.”

“Man, I don’t know what to think,” Teddy said. “Yesterday, he come over to see me and gets to talkin’ about y’all’s trip to Clarksdale. He said you wanted half of his money if you get it back.”

“I never said that.”

“For real?”

“Man, come on.”

“Kid’s workin’ our crank, ain’t he?”

“Looks that way.”

“Goddamn. Goddamn.”

The sky twisted into dark patterns forming a black-and-peach quilt over the lake. I couldn’t see the shore on the other side. Pontchartrain seemed to be an endless sea.