Race

“What did they call this new thing?” Beadsworth said.

“Cal didn’t mention a name. He said they wanted to open shop at House of Jam and they were willing to give him a twenty percent cut.”

“Did Cal agree?” I said, testing him.

“No, of course not,” he turned to me. “We don’t do drugs, man. We make enough money doing our own stuff.”

“It’s hard to believe that someone would just throw away that kind of money?” Beadsworth said, trying to get more out of him.

“Don’t believe me. I don’t care. But let me tell you, drugs are bad for business. You have no idea how much business we lose because of Ecstasy. The police always showing up at the club, parents afraid to send their kids there, fights breaking out, you name it-it happens because of drugs. It’s just not worth it.” He stood up. “All we want to do is make music and earn some money. That’s it.”

Some money? I glanced around the condo.

Beadsworth said, “Why didn’t Cal call the police?”

“You know, I hate to say it, but drugs and music go hand-in-hand. You expect these types of things to be there. Cal is a smart guy. You don’t want a police cruiser parked in the front every time you open your doors, you know what I mean?”

“Did Cal describe these people?”

“Not really, but one of them scared the shit out of him.” He leaned over and whispered. “I’ll show you something.”

He disappeared and then came back holding several clear plastic sandwich bags. He placed them on the coffee table. We leaned closer. Each contained different coloured tablets.

“Those guys came down several times. They left these samples with Cal,” Vernon said.

I picked one bag and examined the tablet. There was nothing unusual about it. No distinguishing marks, symbols, or signs on it. To me it looked like a prescription drug your pharmacist would give you.

“The orange ones were the first sample they brought. The green second, and then the brown,” Vernon said.

“When did they bring the brown one?” I said.

“Last week. They said their drug was still in process.”

“Why leave samples with your brother-in-law?” Beadsworth inquired.

“They wanted to prove that they had a genuine product, I guess. They were refining it. I think they wanted it to be more addictive.”

“Have you tried it?” I asked.

“No way!” he spat. “You crazy? This stuff could be anything.”

“Why do you have it?” I asked.

“Cal didn’t want to keep it. What if he got raided or something? If the cops found it they’d shut down his business.”

“Why didn’t you get rid of it?”

“Cal wanted me to hold on to the stuff so that if he ever got in trouble I would give it to the cops.”

“Have they given samples to owners of other clubs?” Beadsworth said.

“Probably. But they keep coming back to the House of Jam.”

“Why is that?” I said.

He looked at me as if I had just crawled out of a hole. “You’ve never been to the House of Jam?”

I shrugged no. I looked at Beadsworth, hoping he hadn’t either.

“House of Jam is the hottest place in Toronto,” Vernon said. “Everyone goes there.”

I didn’t. Should I tell him I don’t get out much?

“Celebrities, athletes, business executives, everyone goes there, man. It’s the best place to build a diverse clientele.” Vernon leaned closer. “Drugs are part of the music biz. It’s the one place where people are more open to try new things.”

“We’re going to take these samples,” Beadsworth said, not asking.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“We would also like to visit the club,” Beadsworth said.

“Hey, man, no cops,” he stood up. “We don’t want to be part of this.”

“You’re already part of it,” Beadsworth said. I was amazed at how calm he always was. Is that a British thing?

Vernon scratched his head and made a twisted face.

“If this thing gets into the market, you better believe your business is going to suffer,” Beadsworth insisted.

Vernon nodded. “Come down Friday night. I’m playing there,” he said. “You can meet Cal there also.”

“What’s his full name?” Beadsworth asked.

“Calvert Murray.”

We got up to leave.

“One more question,” I said. Beadsworth looked at me oddly. “How can you afford a place like this?” I asked.

“You mean as a DJ?” Vernon replied.

I nodded. “Nice place. Expensive, though.”

“I’ll show you something,” he said and disappeared.

Alone, Beadsworth said, “Why did you bring that up?”

“Come on. You wanted to know, too,” I replied.

Vernon came back holding an album. He placed it on the coffee table and began taking out newspaper articles. There were articles from different countries in different languages. “I’m the best DJ in Toronto and Canada for that matter,” Vernon beamed. “I’m also the second best DJ in the world.” He pulled out one article, which was in a language I couldn’t identify. “In the Frankfurt Hip Hop Festival I came in second. I think it was rigged. They wanted the Swedish guy to win from the beginning. His beats weren’t crisp enough, you know what I mean?”

I nodded absentmindedly.

“But those German fans were wild. I had a blast.”

“Second best,” I said. “So you can make good money doing this?”

“Yeah, sure. But you gotta first find a new beat. Your unique style, you know. Each time you gotta take it a step further, elevate the music so that no one can do it except you. Master it, you know what I mean?”

I nodded. I had no idea what the man was talking.

“There are so many freestyle competitions around the world where you can make serious money.”

“Serious money.” I turned to Beadsworth. “That’s what I want to do. Make serious money.”

“You into music?” Vernon asked. “What kind?”

I stumbled. “Um, all kinds. You know, techno, jazz…opera.”

“Diverse.” Vernon nodded to himself. “You could probably do it,” he said. “Just come up with a cool name. Experiment and find your own style, man. That’s all.”

“Cool name, eh?” I said. I thought about it. “How about DJ Crimefighter,” I turned to Beadsworth and gave a thumbs up.

“How about DJ Bigmouth,” he shot back.

“Not bad,” Vernon said.

“We have to go,” Beadsworth said. “Tell your brother-in-law we’ll meet him on Friday.”

Back in the elevator, I said, “DJ Bigmouth? I can’t believe you would say that. I was serious.”

“So was I,” he replied.