The Mutafarrik: 4.8

17 Years Old

Karin spoke four languages, could shoot and liked leather. No wonder her daddy wasn’t worried about her. The lady had an eye for art. Eights and Doc swelled watching her finger a catalogue. An irresistible seductress, she conspired enthusiastically. Karin introduced the Mutafarrik to private gallery thefts. She dubbed these the quarter capers.
A Mutafarrik could speedball on the illicit thrill and righteous gratification involved in robbing the art right off the walls in some fat cat’s crib. The Mutafarrik crashed a party and stayed late. The marks drugged themselves—drinking, smoking, or shooting up. Once all non-resident guests were gone, or otherwise occupied, some one slipped off with the host and occupied him or her with intimate attention. The uncommitted Mutafarrik made the heist. The band could be miles away before afterglow wore off. Private hosts were less likely to notice or report a theft than a gallery or museum. Lots of them rarely paid any attention to their work. Much more consistently, private collectors had reprehensibly acquired art.
Karin began promoting the Mutafarrik. Captain of the street team, she served as liaison between the overworked, oversexed, preoccupied, sensitive, sincere, laconic, and ballistically minded Mutafarrik and their fans. Her charms won scores of private invitations.
The Mutafarrik need not know a single person upon arriving in town. By the end of the evening, they would receive the grandest welcome celebration a town could offer. Initially, however, with revolution as their primary preoccupation, Overworked, Oversexed, Preoccupied, Sensitive, Sincere, Laconic, and Ballistically Minded resisted. They were tired at the end of the night, and some of these parties were lame. The sex things were cool, but she could coast the clouds with the rest of that socializing and such. That is how Princess, IM, and Drum found themselves halfway inside, halfway outside the WC to an upstairs bedroom remarking at the familiarity of a piece hanging above the toilet.
“It’s a place of reverence in a black home,” Drum reasoned.
“July Song is Japanese,” IM countered.
“It has got to be Bayoc,” Princess held her hand to her thumping heart, “I swear. His style is so distinctive. How the hell could they come across some shit like that unless it’s stolen from a museum, or it’s some kind of relic? Is this us? Did we put this here?”
“No. But that’s the rub. What are we going to do? Sell it back to somebody just like her? We can’t sell stolen work to a museum. It’s against our praxis.”
“It will get press,” IM tempted.
“Naw, IM, this will get heat.”
“It’s worth a fortune. Then, I searched around the house. She got all kind of Garibaldi out in the sun porch. I swear, she has half an auction catalogue in this house. This shit has got to be hot, ya’ll.”
“Grace.”
“IM.”
“We oughta snatch the shit off the walls and--”
“—run out the front door,” Drum chuckled. “Right.”
“We could come back for it.”
“It ain’t worth it. She didn’t steal it. She bought it, stolen.”
“I don’t know, comrade,” IM countered, “if she knew anything about what she was—
“—She don’t know. She just likes how it looks. That’s forgivable right? I mean, the museum, the gallery, they have a responsibility to protect the right of the artists as well as the right of the gallery and the patron. If they are selling or moving stolen work, that’s one thing, but this dizzy, ass broad just bought a bunch of cool looking black shit.”
Grace spied Song approaching. “Here she comes. Ask her.”
“Hello, good evening. Everyone else is engaging in wild lovemaking, and you beautiful three, looking for a fourth, choose to admire my Jerry Lester. Are you out of condoms? That is why your Lieutenant sent me waddling out here.”
Drum and IM laughed out loud. IM recovered first, “where you get this shit?”
“Shit?!? If you don’t like it, you don’t have to laugh! A pre-Reparations slave painted this painting with brushes he made himself. I mean, okay, between you and me, it looks rudimentary. I mean, sometimes I walk past it and think…well, I rarely walk by it because I had to hide the thing up here to keep it from clashing with my walls.

"I spent a ton on it, too—Daddy’s. But, you know, I look at it right now and think, July Song, you are such a fetishist. I just bought this ugly piece of shit because this guy was a slave or something. And, I didn’t even check to see if the slave thing was true or not. I just assumed. I bought it at a slave arts auction. I hope I’m not offending…”
The desire to hear July Song continue this comically offensive tirade silenced any opposition from the three Mutafarrik. As she searched the drawers for condoms, she continued: “Oh, you all are artists and freaks, and blacks, did, historically, sympathize—isn’t that it? Oh, my! I’m so tipsy and satisfied. Your Lieutenant, mmm…And the big one from Harlem? My favorites! Although, I haven’t tried you, two, three…mmm… "Please forgive if I offend. There’s sake and plum wine. I’m blushing. Sweet wine. Blacks like that. My great, great, great, great, well way down there, he worked with a lot of blacks pre-Reparation. He owned hair shops.” From behind, July Song reaches her moist hand into unsuspecting Grace’s soft, springy hair. July sighs wistfully, “black hair, so many options.

"Anyway, so, yes: Jason Larry, Lester, Lestive. So the exhibit said they were selling slave things. Stolen, you know, from graves, or left behind when slaves were sold away, or earned by or owed to slaves but never actually given to them. I don’t even know how you come across a bunch of stuff like that except, oh yeah, the guy said he just put out an ad on the Net, and traveled, verifying that the things were actually stolen, actually from graves, and something to do with slaves. You like?” By the end of July Song’s spiel, IM, Drum, and Grace were nauseous at the thought of leaving their treasure in such careless care.
Grace, by reason of virginity, exempted herself from art grifting, so she and Drum concentrated on raiding shipping centers and robbing trucks of ARVS. Suave preferred the drug jobs as well, but the temptation of a lifetime for most heterosexual men came along for Suave every night. If people owned work that deserved to be liberated, it went home with the Mutafarrik. He couldn’t control what his friends did.
Knuc and Doc had a different spin on the scheme because they had such pedigreed fronts. While Grace, Drum, and Suave worked in distribution, the doctors held the health training classes. Though this was the legitimate work of the organization, Karin felt the boys weren’t plus-ing out their relationships. She began organizing private HIV home treatment classes, two or three a week. The classes were held in the homes of the society wives. Neither Knuc nor Doc intended to cop work when they gave home HIV courses, but they were well aware that they may be seduced by at least one of the women, and surely the hostess herself; for all the guys knew, these special services were included in the advertised package. Despite the fact that the home treatment classes required the society women to contribute a sizable donation, at the end, a host may, additionally, reward Knuc or Doc with a desired piece.
Lieu loved art, and so did Eights. They played the capers with zest. First, the Lieutenant or Eighty Eight would case the spot. If he liked the host’s taste, he would tour the entire spot, discussing the work with her in detail. They worked their jobs solo, quite often, and their women would receive the most elaborate love-making--to ensure that she remained asleep. For one Annie Lee, those fools cause a woman to scoff at her haters the next morning.
IM didn’t care too much for fake socializing. He conceded only if very intoxicated, and the mark both exceptionally tempting and peculiarly obnoxious. None of the boys shared a league with Karin. During one of her heists, the Art Bandits acquired the formula for the Dangerfield’s cure to SIV.

As the Mutafarrik entered the massive doorway, Karin tugged her fingertips out of the sweaty palm of the clearly captivated Dangerfield. The Mutafarrik targeted Dangerfield, and valued him highly as prey.

The Dangerfields were the bit of fact driving the lasting urban legend that Africans were responsible for spreading AIDS by having sex with monkeys. At some point, Pre-Reparation Science had traced the first transmission from SIV to HIV-1 to Africa. Dangerfield’s parents had bought the research from those studies and used it to cure Simian Immunodeficiency Virus. SIV did not plague monkeys as HIV did humans, so this cure was hardly of any practical significance. However, the discovery portended great promise; many people put their faith in the Dangerfields. The family became rich and famous; they received money in all the world’s currencies for the advancement of the SIV research. Years passed with lots of donations but no progress, and then Johnstontine pegged them for Alltown Council.
The kid was a known jerk. He owned that degree from Alltown Med. His parents earned it for him. His inheritance obligated him to acquire a medical degree in order to retain his trusts. Dangerfield’s decision to defy his parent’s authority and become an auction curator saved Southtown lives, but unlike his parents, who strived for heroism, Young Dangerfield siphoned value from the soil of humanity and sold it at exclusive Private Auctions.
Dangerfield considered himself an archeologist. He excavated graveyards, burial grounds, disaster sites, and sunken ships, removing the diamond remains of the intense pressure of time. Anything that withstood Repatriation Wars, World Wars, Civil Wars, Tribal Wars, and the constant hostile state of pre-civilization had some value, but perhaps would not sell at auction. If a thing had value when it was new, it had value at Dangerfield’s auction: jewelry, weapons, high value art objects, hand crafted furniture, and power figures from various forms of the occult. A disaster area didn’t have to be completely clear or a buried body to deteriorate, either. Dangerfield would excavate a morgue if he could break into it.

Dangerfield never tried to trace the lineage of the buried. Why? Screw the idiot who was so selfish he buried his valuables away from his children. Or, then, the things had been buried for posterity to, one day, claim and treasure. A simple DNA test could have traced any of Dangerfield’s crypt objects to descendants. A DNA test cost a hundred Yen, perhaps. If Dangerfield had studied a day in medical school, he could have done them himself. Either way, the expense in time and money cut into his lifestyle and profit margin.
Despite the fact that Knuc, Doc, and Dangerfield had all gone to school together, Dangerfield could hardly pick them out a crowd. He didn’t even recognize the boys as the musicians from the Mutafarrik. He had attended the show curious about the band’s buzz. Dangerfield approached Karin, who had tempted him with barely a look to acknowledge her role as the star of his fantasies. He didn’t invite Karin to the mansion; he begged her to come. When she insisted that the Mutafarrik all come, Dangerfield coalesced easily. He would have done anything to get that girl in his lair. The prospect of watching her have sex with one of the band members sweetened the deal. Karin selected Eights to co-star in the live action porn.
Thus, the Art Bandits reigned freely over Dangerfield’s grounds. The bandits explored every inch of the mansion except, of course, the Me room, occupied at present by Karin, Eights and Dangerfield. IM went through all the drawers in Dangerfield’s office--making detailed copies of upcoming auctions, safe deposit addresses, and account and pin numbers. Drum, Suave, Grace and Lieu raided the gallery. They liberated massive drums, ingenious wood pipes, and blown glass shakeras netted in dazzling jewels. Doc, Knucnuc and IM had time to hack Dangerfield’s computer system, plugging in the passwords IM found. They downloaded the entire database of research related to SIV. Dangerfield would never know that was gone.
When Dangerfield came downstairs scratching himself, and Eights followed carrying Karin piggy back, the Mutafarrik were sprawled out on the couches, looking relatively guileless--surrounded, as they were, by empty liquor bottles and cigar guts, wearing broad, satisfied grins.
The van grew smaller, and the Mutafarrik suffered more growing pains. Eights fell in love with Karin, and his personality tamed, accordingly. Lieu’s buddy now “romantically immobilized,” Eights’ term for his own earnest attempt at monogamy, Lieu spent a lot of time selling ARVs and working in the clinics with Knuc and Doc. IM had fallen in love, too, with Lily. He wrote Lily long letters and became particularly prickly when waiting for the messenger to send word from her. Drum maintained. Suave introverted for a while. Inspired to record the group’s adventures in conjunto, composing the Ballad of the Art Bandits absorbed most of his time.
Grace felt a problem forming. More and more she found herself dreaming about Lieu, in the night and in the day. Ever since the incident at the patio restaurant, she wondered if Lieu could love her in more than a brotherly sense. If Lieu wanted to go with her, how would he court her? What would he say? To where would they escape to be alone? If he were her lover, where would he kiss her? Would he show her how to reciprocate? What if she was scared? Could Lieu be patient?

Grace feared her affections were too evident. She coveted Lieu’s gaze. She stared a bit too long, sometimes, at his arms or his chest. She worried about the things she said when around him. She was intensely conscious of the messages she sent with her body.

Perhaps Lieu felt the change in Grace? Maybe, he knew before she did. Maybe he had begun to change. When Lieu wasn’t selling or off on a health site, he sat under Gracie like never before. Nowadays, they rarely argued. In fact, the more they talked, the more Grace shared Lieu’s outlook on things.

Did Drum know Lieu was such a philosopher? Did Knuc and IM know how much they inspired the Bad Lieutenant? Was his open-mindedness what made Eights tell Lieu everything, made Lieu say anything? How long had Lieu been saying the same thing as Suave but sounding so different that Gracie had thanked Suave and dismissed Lieu? Had she dismissed Lieu? Maybe she had just never understood him? Lieu could listen and respect. Those were qualities that Grace observed in few men other than her Uncle Know.
One time, soon after returning from Huntley, Grace had seen Lieu with one of his women. Peeking out the window of the bus, one night, a light flicking on drew Gracie’s attention. It was Lieu coming into a first floor motel room, guided by a handsome, statuesque woman. The shades were wide open. He went to close them, but she stopped him. Jealous fear froze Grace’s thinking. Heartbreak made her want to look away; passion yearned to know. He couldn’t possibly see her, but she felt like their eyes met, like he was looking in the bus window at her.
The woman was aggressive; Lieu seemed to like it. She pushed him onto the bed and began unbuckling his pants. She reached in and pulled out his penis. Grace gasped and ducked, as if she was afraid for it to see her. When she dared look up, the woman had it in her mouth. She sucked it sometimes, and she licked it up and down.

Lieu turned his head to the window, and Gracie could see his face. His eyes rolled back in his head. He smirked, a bit. The lady pulled away from Lieu, drawing a long line of liquid from the tip of his penis on her tongue.

After what seemed like a long time, Lieu grabbed the girl’s head and climbed to his knees. He then began pumping his hips against her face. She let her head relax into the cradle of his hands. Seconds later he threw his head back, pushed his hips forward, and then withdrew. The woman gasped or swallowed for air, Grace could tell, from the labor of her taught, extended neck.
The woman left Grace’s line of vision, but returned moments later with a towel. The woman gently lifted Lieu’s penis from where it lay limp against his thigh. Then she tossed the towel toward the window and began dancing and undressing--a striptease. Lieu propped himself on a pillow and crossed his arms behind his head. The woman had the kind of body Grace wanted, mostly because it was what Lieu liked most. Even after the woman kicked off her stilettos, she could have been an inch or two taller than Lieu. Her waist was thick and firm. The woman had full, heavy, swinging breasts, wide, ample hips, and strong, muscular thighs. Grace thought the woman’s body was perfect, like a stallion, what Lieu wanted, what Grace would never be.
The goddess straddled Lieu and began rubbing herself vigorously with her fingers. Grace imitated and soon found herself panting and moaning uncontrollably. Grace imagined Lieu’s noises and provided a full accompaniment. Diva tried to soothe Grace by licking the bottom of her foot. Chills shot up Gracie’s spine. Lieu’s dick began growing hard again; Grace watched amazed.

The woman unbuttoned the Lieutenant’s shirt revealing broad, brown shoulders, athletic arms, and a smooth stomach. The woman lowered Lieu’s pants uncovering his behind, something Grace had never before considered as an object of desire. A man’s ass? The way the woman stroked it, the face that Lieu made in response, Gracie sensed the satin of his skin on her soft hands. Then the woman removed Lieu’s pants.
When Lieu’s penis had become fully erect, again, he flipped the woman over and straddled her. He caressed her. He kissed her a lot, everywhere. Grace could not repress his name, “Lieu!” Lieu buried his face in the woman’s neck, and Grace collapsed. She went back to the beds. Since then, Grace’s crush had grown like a heroin addiction, making Lieu both the cause and the cure. She wanted, needed, out of the Art Bandits.