Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,31

it.

When the facts came out, the horror got worse. Mr. Cotsen had sued a Belgian company for producing an imitation of Neutrogena’s patented clear amber soap. The Belgian firm lost the suit, and its enraged owner had come to Los Angeles to murder Lloyd Cotsen. But the night he broke into the home, Mr. Cotsen wasn’t there. So, the assailant tied up Noah, our friend Chris, and Mrs. Cotsen before shoving them under the dining table. His plan was to confront Mr. Cotsen the minute he arrived home. But when Mr. Cotsen, who happened to be in New York, didn’t show up, the Belgian businessman panicked and shot Mrs. Cotsen and the two boys. Mr. Cotsen learned about the murders while he was riding in a cab. Ultimately, the police learned who had committed the crime, but before they could arrest the Belgian in Brussels, the man committed suicide.

At the time of his death, Noah was fourteen.

END OF AN ERA

I was sure that my grandfather would never abandon Bedford-Stuyvesant. Albert Roker loved being a homeowner in a neighborhood where he was seen as the unofficial mayor. He’d been there since the thirties and talked as though he’d be there forever. He walked the streets unafraid. He commanded respect wherever he went. And yet …

By the mid-seventies, things had changed. Grandpa had seen crime before. Gangs were a part of Brooklyn life, but gangs had never frightened him. The crack epidemic, however, was something else. It was lethal. Up and down the block, buildings that had once housed families turned into crack dens. Muggings were everyday occurrences. Crack was making people crazy. There were stories about crackheads murdering their own mothers. Anything to get money to buy the drug.

Grandpa was sure the plague would end, but the plague only got worse. Then came the last straw. He was walking his dog, Chubby, through the schoolyard and down Throop Avenue. Grandpa always liked to stop for a couple of minutes and watch the kids play. He was sitting on a bench when Chubby started barking and pulling on his leash. Grandpa didn’t understand why the dog was agitated. So, he got up and let Chubby lead him to a corner of the schoolyard where, under a pile of rubbish, Grandpa saw a pair of feet sticking out. He drew closer, pushed aside some of the garbage, and stopped in his tracks. He was staring down on a dead man. Grandpa didn’t know if the man had been murdered or had overdosed. All he knew was to call an ambulance and keep the kids away from the corpse.

When he told his daughter the story, Mom said, “Enough’s enough.” She wanted her parents to move to L.A. She wanted them living close by. They could keep their place in Bed-Stuy, but they needed to get out. Mom then bought them a pretty three-bedroom house in Village Green, a wooded complex just down the hill from Cloverdale.

I was so happy to have my grandparents nearby again. Grandpa provided me with that nourishing fatherly energy I needed. And to have Grandma Bessie within reach was the best. She’d cook my favorite meals, like pancakes and fried chicken wings for breakfast. And I’d get all her beautiful unconditional love. At the same time, I wondered how my grandparents would cope with California. For them both, it was a huge challenge.

After they had been there a couple months, Grandpa had a bout of depression. He didn’t know why, but he felt off. This was not in his character. That’s when his subconscious took over. He got in his car, drove to the Fox Hills Mall, and walked around for hours, purposely brushing shoulders with people. He realized that was what he needed. He was missing the basic human contact that a sprawling city like Los Angeles, with its isolating car culture, did not provide. He just needed to walk with people to feel whole again.

I’m sure Mom told him about my new spiritual path. I got no questions or pushback from him about my involvement with the Seventh-day Adventists. At the same time, we returned to the ritual we’d started in New York. I went with him to services at the Founder’s Church of Religious Science on Wilshire Boulevard. We also went to the City of Angels Church of Religious Science, where the pastor was Reverend O. C. Smith, who’d sung jazz with Count Basie before scoring his pop hit “Little Green Apples.” Smith preached that all human