15
Hannibal took a deep breath as he stepped out of his motel, for no other reason than that he loved the salty fresh smell of the ocean. He had booked a room in the Best Western Oceanfront. True to the name, his room did have a pleasant oceanfront view, despite the fact that the motel faced the even less impressive Budget Lodge and stood practically in the shadow of an Econolodge. But the view didn’t move him, in either direction. It was the smell of the seashore that made him smile.
It was clear that location meant nothing to Monte. He was hopping around like the dancing hamsters on the internet as they stepped out into the flashbulb-bright early morning sunshine. Hannibal wondered if he would be bouncing off the ceiling in the car.
“You know where you’re going, right?” Monte asked as they got underway.
“I have the address and the streets are numbered sequentially. I think I can find it.”
From 11th to 21st street was not far, but it would take them a while. Traffic wasn’t the only reason for their slow progress, although the streets were packed with both cars and foot traffic. Hannibal reflected that, geography aside, Washington D.C. was at heart a northern town, at least from a cultural perspective. The vast variety of restaurants, museums, and theater options hinted at that fact, but the true giveaway was the pace. People in The District had someplace to go and wanted to get there.
Virginia Beach, on the other hand, was a true Southern city. It was the biggest city in the state, but it still behaved and thought like a small town. That made the traffic very similar to driving conditions in Miami. Drivers were too busy looking at the people and shops they passed, and of course watching the ocean when they could spot it between the towering hotels, to be concerned with speed. It was as if there were no local residents, and everyone in town was on vacation.
As he headed up 21st it occurred to Hannibal that every seaside city must have been designed by a New Englander. The style of the buildings never changed. Then he passed Peabody’s, which had “the biggest dance floor in Virginia Beach” if their sign was to be believed. This was a bit more modern than the rest of its surroundings, but still had an air of that quaint small town feeling.
A few blocks later he pulled into a small parking lot behind a squat, unassuming building that could have been a residence that was just a little bigger than its neighbors. When they left the car Monte raced to the door, back to Hannibal and back to the door. Hannibal tried to remember what it was like to be a pre-teen boy. His memory failed him.
A tap at the door brought a very large, well-tattooed fellow to the door. He was perhaps twenty years old, with a huge forehead, dreadlocks and a questioning expression on his face.
“Hannibal Jones to see Huge Wilson. He’s expecting me.”
The doorman’s head moved backward on his neck. “You the nigger laid out Hard Dog?” Hannibal nodded. “Dayum!” He offered Hannibal a handshake that jumped into a series of movements, a more complex process than Hannibal could follow. It ended with the doorman pressing a fist forward. That part Hannibal recognized. He punched into the man’s fist and they all went inside.
Dim lights, dark carpet and plentiful mirrors promoted the illusion that the building was bigger inside than it was outside. The doorman led them through a narrow hall to a wider control room area. Hannibal recognized the large mixing boards that lined one side of the room and wondered how anyone could master the vast array of switches, knobs and slider pots. The board faced a glass wall, beyond which a solitary Black woman in a jogging suit and headphones stood speaking into a hanging microphone, reading from a sheaf of paper.
Monte saw none of this. He saw only one of the two men behind the board, a slight man with close cut hair and two armfuls of tattoos showing below the sleeves of his vintage tee shirt.
“Huge!” Monte said leaping forward. When the man turned toward him he switched to, “Mister Wilson. Holy shit it’s really you! Oh my God.”
“Chill out, man,” Huge said in his natural falsetto. “We’re working on something here. Give me just a minute.”
Huge was also wearing headphones and Hannibal realized he was hearing the woman’s words while the rest of the room was in silence. They stood watching the silent performance for another two minutes, until Huge raised a hand to signal the woman to stop.
“That was off the hook, Delicia,” he said into a microphone. “Now take five while I chat to a couple of visitors for a minute.” The woman smiled and left the recording room by a second entrance. Monte’s eyes were riveted on her impressive rear end.
“So this is your little friend you wanted me to meet,” Huge said to Hannibal. “He’s got a good eye for talent. Monte, right?”
“Ohmygodican’tbelieveit.”
Huge sat back in his rolling black leather chair. “Hannibal told me you were a hustler. Said you got your name from running a three card monte game and that the day he met you, you took him for a bundle. That true?”
“Well, yeah,” Monte said.
“Well you sure don’t look like a hustler to me. Why don’t you sit here for a bit and let T.L. here give you a quick rundown on what we’re doing here today. Delicia is going to be the next Missy Elliot. While you do that, Hannibal and me got some business.”
Huge stood, took Hannibal’s arm, and led him out of the room. They moved down the darkened hall to a small conference room. There was barely enough space for the simple cherry wood table and the eight chairs around it. As they entered Hannibal was struck by two conflicting sensations: the sight of a half-full coffee pot, and the smell of leftover marijuana smoke. Huge started pouring coffee before he noticed Hannibal’s reaction.
“Oh, you don’t blow the chronic, do you?”
Hannibal did a quick mental translation. “No, it’s not for me. Or Monte.”
Huge’s head bobbled like a sports figure doll as he handed Hannibal a Styrofoam cup. Huge was physically slight, but there was no denying the energy the man generated, the subtle sense of power, and his total comfort with the power he had.
“You told me your friend had no interest in school, right? Let me talk to him. I ain’t a gangster, you know. Never pretended to be, but I’ll tell you, the G’s don’t fuck with me cause I can give them the beats that get asses on the floor, and that lets them clock the dollars.”
Hannibal nodded, but didn’t sit because Huge was still standing. Huge wasn’t a gangster, or a “G” as he and his friends would say, but he commanded respect. On reflection, Hannibal realized that his relationship with Huge was in many ways similar to the one he had with Ronzini.
“So, you haven’t asked me about your Rod Mantooth problem,” Huge said, starting to walk around the table. “I love that name.”
“You’ll tell me when you have something.”
“This is my city, brother man,” Huge said, spinning to point a skinny finger at Hannibal. “You think it’s hard to find one funky white dude? Shee-it. But of course, your call last night made it too easy. We got one for you.”
“Got one? Who?”
“Lime,” Huge said, pulling a note pad from the hip pocket of his baggy shorts. “We got Lime.” From the pad he pulled a photo and two pieces of paper, which he dramatically slid across the table’s glossy surface. Hannibal scooped them up and examined them one at a time. The photo was a candid shot of a beautiful young woman with a cream complexion that could have made her part Asian, or Hawaiian, or Middle Eastern, or half a dozen other possibilities. Her hair was long, thick and naturally wavy, the color of balsa wood with blonde streaks. Bright green, slightly slanted eyes stared out above a tiny pert nose and full, challenging lips. This was the girl in the lime colored bathing suit. The other papers bore an address and details of the time and location of the sighting.
“One in the morning?” Hannibal asked. “And she wasn’t with Mantooth?”
“My man said she was patrolling the beach, still in that bikini. Not sure if she was dropping off or picking up, but it sure looked like a drug run to my partner. That was taken on the boardwalk just before shit started shutting down. He clicked a lot. I kept the rest. Man, I’d put her in a video in a heartbeat. And check it, she don’t look like a woman who’s been abused, do she?”
Hannibal saw as much strength in her face as in her long striding legs. “Maybe she likes it. Or, maybe she’s a
