When I arrived at the studio, I felt I’d entered some type of medieval castle. A high chain-link fence surrounded the warehouse made of gold cinderblocks and a black tin roof. Saints colors. Young men in bandannas and stocking caps stood tough, their arms across their bodies, guns tucked into their fat belts. Wide-legged jeans down low. Some smoked cigarettes. None talked. They wore sunglasses, Secret Service-style, and held on to radios. Muscled and hard, they watched me as I parked the truck, my Creedence still playing loud, and walked up to the front of the building. They didn’t seem to appreciate John Fogerty the way I did.
A kid I didn’t recognize squashed a cigarette under his foot. He wore a thick platinum rope around his neck with the Ninth Ward “9W” symbol. The air was so hot outside it felt like radiation off the asphalt.
“You that white dude?” he asked. His skin glowed with a feverish sheen.
“That’s the rumor.”
White, red, and yellow roses had been laid on the leather seats of Malcolm’s Hummer.
“Teddy waitin’ on you,” he said.
Two of his rappers, or guards, escorted me into a backroom studio. The studio was dark and about thirty degrees cooler than outside. They’d set red and blue bulbs in floor lamps to create a mood. Thick glass hoodoo candles flickered in the air-conditioning. The air smelled like incense and weed.
“Where you been, man?” Teddy asked. His black silk shirt was rolled to the elbows. Pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons lay in huge piles on tables near the console. On the other side of the glass, I saw some kid with headphones on studying a small spiral notebook. He looked pissed-off with himself and kicked a stool across the room.
“Malcolm knew this was gonna be Stank’s ride,” Teddy said, watching him and shaking his head. “This thing called ‘Project Girl.’ He’d laid down this track straight on, sampling some ole Louis Armstrong shit. You know, workin’ that Louisiana sound like Mystikal? Man, he had it. But damn if I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’ and I’ve seen him work this shit all my life.”
I took a seat by him in the cramped control room watching Stank in a black muscle shirt and a hooded parka. I could smell Teddy’s Brut aftershave but it disappeared when he fired up a plump cigar. The room suddenly became clouded and thick. I wedged the door open gently with my foot.
Teddy’s face had grown gray and he sweated in the sixty-degree coolness of the room. Great bags hung under his eyes and his fingers shook around a big plastic bottle of Mello Yello. Stank tapped on the glass and startled me.
He circled his index finger in the air.
Teddy squashed the new cigar into an empty coffee can filled with roach clips and the beat started once again. He slid his fat fingers across the mixing board, that same bounce that every other rapper in the country had tried to copy ever since it had been born in the South. The sound track to every black neighborhood in the U.S. Women and ice. Cars and clubs. Stank took a deep stance, hat sideways on his head, and rolled into it.
I watched Teddy’s head bobbing up and down, almost hearing the cash falling from the sky in green rain as he moved with his arms. I smiled.
Teddy smiled too until he swung his big arm too close to his food and knocked the Mello Yello all over the console, seeping into all those tiny knobs.
The equalizer’s green and red lights dimmed and then shut down. The music ceased in the monitors above us and I watched Stank’s hands turn to fists. “What the fuck’s up?”
Teddy grabbed his Italian leather jacket and started dabbing off the console. I pulled the jacket from his hands and found some napkins near a pizza box. I wiped the metal and plastic clean but knew it was no use. He’d shorted out the system.
He stood and kicked open the door, leaving the room. I sat there for a while and watched the others clear out. Some more of Teddy’s men walked around, prowling, making sure I didn’t start any shit. I saw some accusing stares and I smiled back. These boys were in their late teens. Twenty if they were lucky. Their scowls and the hard-edged violence in their eyes reminded me of angular men who’d worked the Delta land and had been beaten down for generations. They were teens; they were old men.
I grabbed a cold Coke from a cooler and found Teddy in his office. Glass desk. Black leather furniture. Boxes and boxes of CDs obscuring the windows. He yelled for everyone to leave him the fuck alone. About a dozen men streamed from his office, a couple of obscenely beautiful women. Black with ringlets of soft hair, T-shirts cut off below their breasts.
I found a comfortable place on the sofa and lay down like you would in a shrink’s office. I noticed one of Teddy’s old game balls from the Saints and read the writing. It was a play-off game against Atlanta where Teddy had picked up a fumble and ran it back fifteen yards for a TD to win the game.
