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In partnership with Epic Magazine.
This is the first installment of a three-part story.
Patrick Jr. had shared late nights out with these guys before and always had a good time.
Im good right now.But you must!
Im all right, really.Just one more, my friend.
His shirt was torn, so Patrick Jr. shook it off and started walking.
Then he noticed Danilo following with Osvaldo in tow.
Patrick Jr. heard them running, and before he knew it, he was running too.
He kept turning corners, trying to lose his pursuers in the warren of small, dark streets.
He cut left, then left again.
Or maybe a drainage channel.
Submerged in the dark, Patrick Jr. was well concealed when Danilo and Osvaldo walked right by.
He waited and listened for the sound of Danilos keys to recede.
Neck deep in filthy water, he considered his situation.
A few months earlier, he had been a homeless heroin addict in New Jersey.
It was more complicated than theyd imagined.
The Alloccos couldnt leave until they paid back this guys money, which they didnt have.
They had been stuck in Angola for weeks.
And now Patrick Jr. was hiding in a sewer, completely lost.
He could hear people below talking in their houses.
And he could hear Osvaldo and Danilo every so often in the distance.
It was slow going on the roofs, which were thin and clanged easily.
Patrick Jr. treaded carefully, searching for beams until a misstep sent him crashing right through a ceiling.
There was immediate chaos.
He had landed in someones closet at 4:30 in the morning in his flannel boxers.
A father jumped out of bed, also in his underwear.
The entire household was awake instantly, yelling.
Im sorry about your roof!
Patrick Jr. said, dazed but uninjured.
There were children crying, there was an agitated grandmother.
Patrick Jr. tried to keep everyones voices down and offered to pay for repairs.
the father yelled, dragging Patrick Jr. to the door, where Danilo and Osvaldo were waiting.
Danilo knocked Patrick Jr. to the ground.
I knew wed find you, he said.
Patrick Jr. was still trying to understand what was even happening.
Osvaldo had been his friend.
Theyd gone to see movies, spent the day at the beach on Ilha do Cabo.
How much are you worth to your father?
Get us money, or youre never going home.
Now Patrick Jr. got it.Im already captive here, he thought,and now a shakedown?
Either way, Patrick Jr. felt betrayed.
I thought we were brothers, he said to Osvaldo.
Danilo wrapped his belt around Patricks arm to drag him along.
Tell your father we want a million dollars, Danilo said.
But Osvaldo knew his father didnt have that much money.
What about half a million?
I told you, they dont have that.
Soon, Danilos demand was $10,000.
Fuck you, Danilo said.
Get us that money.
Danilo dragged Patrick Jr. along the street.
Youre never going home unless I get that money, Danilo said.
Then Patrick Jr. saw that they were near the U.S. Embassy.
He knew there were Marines there.
Soon they were surrounded by embassy guards.
He didnt recognize any of the guards on this shift.
They tried to figure out the commotion: What happened?
He started to explain.
The guards just needed the basics.
My name is Patrick Allocco Jr., he said.
My father is Patrick Allocco Sr. And we are trapped in Angola.
Chapter 1
Patrick Allocco Sr. was downand out.
These days, there seemed to be more crisis than management.
An arrangement with the Barry Manilow of Spain had blown up in Las Vegas.
A tour with Juan Gabriel was successful until a double cross in Mexico.
It wasnt always that way sometimes hed done well for himself.
But Patrick Sr. had always seemed to choose fickle businesses.
Good money one year and nothing the next.
That kind of setback would paralyze most people.
Hed always had hustle.
He worked for congressmen, Senate candidates, New Jersey governor Tom Kean.
He was good at building relationships.
People liked talking to him.
And he liked talking people into things.
Another surprise, taken in stride.
Joellen was charming and lively and well liked, but she was in the early stages of addiction.
Shed disappear on benders and then have a go at make good at AA meetings.
Until one day she left him for someone from one of those meetings.
Patrick Sr. was crushed.
They divorced after a year.
For a time, they shared custody, but eventually Joellen fell into full-time addiction.
She lost her job, stole money, got arrested.
At one point, she took a police vehicle and was chased nine miles up the New Jersey Turnpike.
You rarely saw one without the other.
He followed that with McLean at Carnegie Hall.
Patrick Sr. made money on the former, lost money on the latter.
Nevertheless, he was drawn to the business.
Success in Patrick Sr.s new trade required pluck, luck, and cash.
It was a patchwork business, regionally operated, with strange characters and opaque rules.
To put together a show, you had to know people and know how to trade favors.
It was a place of prospectors and fast talkers.
Patrick Sr. fit right in.
Besides, she knew how much he loved it.
For a time, Patrick Sr.s company did well.
Or when he took Menudo on tour or worked with Julio Iglesias.
He helped organize a jazz festival in Tobago, where he booked Elton John, Shakira, and Sting.
(The Tobago Jazz Festival was not necessarily for purists.)
But the money could be inconsistent.
Still, the big gigs were the most enticing.
But then Michael Jackson signed a deal with AEG to do 50 shows in London instead.
And then he died.
He couldnt pay the electricity bill.
By the fall of 2011, he was $1.2 million in debt.
Hed also been going through a difficult time with his son.
Patrick Jr. had started drinking young, then followed his mothers path into drugs.
Patrick Sr. tried to help but was unsure how.
Its hard to say to your only child that he is unwelcome, but Patrick Sr. felt cornered.
For the first time, Patrick Jr. didnt put up a fight.
He took his things and left.
Patrick Sr. was about to lose the house anyhow.
(He never got the timing right.)
And in early December an opportunity emerged.
Patrick Sr. knew people in the music business had made a lot of money working with him.
Riquinho is a big spender, his friend Peter Seitz, a manager and agent, said.
Patrick Sr. also heard rumors that Riquinho could be difficult and unpredictable.
It was a long shot, but it was the only shot he had.
Using the internet at a friends house, he reached Riquinho.
I look forward to doing business with you, Patrick Sr. wrote.
He quickly discovered that Riquinhos first choice, Lil Wayne, was unavailable.
And his first few backups, like Nicki Minaj, were booked.
Incredibly, Nas was available.
Patrick Sr. spoke to Riquinho on the phone with a Portuguese-speaking acquaintance translating, and a deal was struck.
Two hours of stage time total for just over half a million dollars.
Patrick Sr. couldnt believe his luck.
Riquinho would pay up front and secure the venue himself.
All Patrick Sr. had to do was play middleman.
When payment arrangements came up, however, there was a hitch.
Riquinho had been burned before by musical acts who didnt show.
It was an understandable position.
Patrick Sr. was in a bind.
And yet he was tingling with desire to make this work.
Patrick Sr. couldnt turn on his lights.
The risk was enormous, but he was unfazed.
All he thought was:Where am I going to find that collateral?
Chapter 2
Patrick Jr. facedanother miserable morning.
He woke up in a tent, cold and already jonesing.
Patrick Jr. had gone there because hed heard there was free food.
And it was close to his drug dealer, which was convenient.
It was early December, and a deep cold snap kept everyone huddling together for warmth.
Although that didnt stop him from stepping out for a cigarette.
Patrick Jr. unzipped the tent and put on his one item of personal value, a rabbit-fur bomber hat.
He lit a Camel and wandered over to a tree.
The rest of the day was spent panhandling and scoring.
But Patrick Jr.s ragged condition couldnt completely hide his boyish, sympathetic face.
On a good day, hed make $100.
Eventually she asked: How did you end up here?
It was a good question, one Patrick Jr. wasnt sure how to answer.
his father had said, handing Patrick Jr. a dog that became his constant companion.
As a teenager, Patrick Jr. discovered the perks of his fathers profession.
What had happened since?
Like many addiction chronicles, Patrick Jr.s was a familiar tale and its own tragedy.
His parents divorce was acrimonious.
Bouncing between suburban life and a drug den created a kind of emotional whiplash.
By eighth grade, Patrick Jr. was smoking weed and staying out late.
At parties, he drank more than everyone else and would try any drug on offer.
His relationship with his father disintegrated.
It was Thanksgiving Day.
They ate turkey, tried to make the best of it.
Patrick Jr. was in a bit of a daze, probably from the detox medications.
But how much was there to say?
Both of them knew he was not interested in sobriety.
When his days were done, Patrick Jr. checked himself out and wandered off into the night.
Eventually, he showed up at the apartment of his sometimes girlfriend, Rachel.
They were an unlikely couple.
But she could not abide his drug use.
Rachels sole house rule was for Patrick Jr. to stay clean.
He protested that he had nowhere to go.
Characteristically direct, Rachel said: Thats not my problem.
It was his father.
Are you interested in going to Angola?
What the fuck are you talking about?
The best person he could think of was his son.
Patrick Sr. gave him the rundown: Patrick Jr. would go to Angola and make arrangements.
Riquinho would wire the money.
Nas would get his fee.
Patrick Sr. would join for the concert, and theyd both fly back in the chips.
So you want me to be the collateral?
Well, if you want to put it that way, Patrick Sr. said.
Patrick Jr. was not exactly surprised his father was always into some wild new scheme.
Youre out of your mind, Patrick Jr. said.
Patrick Sr. spun a bigger story about how this gig was going to change everything for the Allocco family.
Patrick Jr. could detox on the trip.
It would be a fresh start.
Youre still out of your mind, Patrick Jr. said and hung up.
He didnt tell him that it was just a random image hed found on the internet.
It will be like a vacation!
Fuck off, Patrick Jr. texted back.
In his mind, it made perfect sense.
His son had worked for him before.
He knew the ropes.
The show would need an advance man anyhow.
And Patrick Sr. really did figure the kid could sober up along the way.
Itll be like emergency rehab, Patrick Sr. told Abby.
Maybe this is just what Patrick Jr. needs.
When she said it might not be safe, he said, The drug dealers of Newark arent safe!
For a week, Patrick Jr. remained unconvinced.
He was on probation, for one thing, and wasnt supposed to leave the state.
When his dad called, Patrick Jr. would say he was happy with his tent and his drugs.
He was also hoping to patch things up with Rachel, although it was tough going.
One night, when Patrick Jr. was extremely high, she stopped answering his calls.
When he got to Rachels door, Patrick Jr. saw that another man was there.
Why the fuck is this guy here?
he demanded and burst inside.
What are you doing?!
Rachel yelled, getting between them.
The guy was just a friend.
He was there consoling her, she said, because of you.
Patrick Jr. stopped his brawl.
You never know which bottom is rock bottom, but this felt like a good candidate.
it’s crucial that you figure your shit out, Rachel said.
She and the friend got in the car and fled her own apartment.
His grand gesture had only pushed Rachel further away.
Patrick Jr. watched her taillights disappear into the night.
And thats when he called his father.
Lets go to Angola.
Chapter 3
Patrick Jr. touched downat Quatro de Fevereiro International Airport in Luanda on December 27.
Hed never before descended stairs from a plane onto the tarmac, as in the old movies.
It had been a rough trip.
There had been only a few days to get ready in New Jersey.
(Once for being so strung out he visibly sweated into a patrons chicken noodle soup.)
His flight to Luanda quickly went wrong.
He had a sweet hotel room and was tickled to discover the strange indulgence of the bidet.
After that, they let Patrick Jr. on the next plane to Luanda.
Immediately upon arrival in Angola, Patrick Jr. was pulled out of the immigration line and ordered to wait.
He called his father, anxious.
Just sit tight, Patrick Sr. said.
Im sure it will be fine.
To his relief, Patrick Jr. was cleared at the Angolan immigration desk after an hour.
It did seem strange that the officials kept his passport, but he made no protest.
Hed been homeless in New Jersey, but hed never seen true poverty.
Now we are coming to the city center, Zeca said.
Patrick Jr. saw a different Luanda rise up around him.
He couldnt make sense of it.
The city seemed like a peculiar mix of Miami and a UNICEF commercial.
Which, to some degree, it was.
Even to experienced travelers, Luanda can be a perplexing place.
Final independence from Lisbon was won in 1975.
It had been almost four hundred years since the city was founded as a slave port.
After independence, Zeca said, we had a long civil war.
Patrick Jr. asked what it was about, and Zeca said it was complicated.
For 27 years, the conflict was a proxy Cold War battlefield well funded and highly destructive.
Any infrastructure the Portuguese hadnt shipped to Lisbon was annihilated.
The countrys oil and diamond resources only made it worse.
More than a million people died.
Now, Zeca said, business was booming and he was excited about the future.
Zeca said that Angola was becoming more cosmopolitan.
We have more visitors, he said.
And yet Luanda was simultaneously one of the worlds most expensive cities.
Zeca pointed out the high walls of some of those expat citadels.
The lobby doors were guarded by men with machine guns.
On the roof was a pool with a view of the emerging city skyline.
Patrick Jr. could feel the creep of withdrawal and had no idea what to expect next.
When Zeca left him in the lobby, he told him only to wait for Riquinhos call.
He was disoriented but excited to be helping his father again.
I made it this far, he said.
Im going to see this through.
Patrick Jr. wanted to get this right.
There were, in fact, critical logistics to arrange.
That would be pretty cool.
He was not expecting a man as formal, serious, and physically imposing as Riquinho.
He was six-foot-four and wore a striking tailored suit.
Patrick Jr. was in his Dickies and a wrinkled shirt hed had since eighth grade.
When he shook Riquinhos hand, it felt like he was greeting a baseball catcher.
Yes, Patrick Jr. said.
We just have to get the travel documents and tickets in order and wire the money.
A Lincoln Navigator with chrome rims awaited them.
Inside, the leather was spotless.
Sitting next to Riquinho, Patrick Jr. felt ridiculous in his hobo attire.
He folded his arms to hide his track marks.
At one point, Riquinho gestured at the city like it was his dominion.
Any girl you want, he said.
They arrived at a cell-phone store that Riquinho seemed to own.
When he entered, the men inside shot to attention.
He was impressed and unnerved.
Out front, Patrick Jr. smoked a cigarette with one of Riquinhos men who spoke English.
Riquinho can get anything in this town, the man said.
Hes as powerful as the president.
Riquinho assembled what he said was the travel paperwork for Nas and his entourage.
They carried around duffel bags full of cash.
Then they wired nearly half a million dollars to New Jersey.
Back at the hotel, Patrick Jr. felt like he was being watched.
He often caught the hotel staff staring.
There always seemed to be someone nearby, cleaning windows or polishing floors, for hours on end.
Riquinho probably had eyes all over, he thought.
Hopefully, Patrick Sr.s grand plan would come together.
Hed be arriving soon, then it would all work out, right?
Patrick Jr. counted his Suboxone tabs again.
It had been quite some time since he genuinely looked forward to seeing his father.
Patrick Sr. wanderedaround a survivalist supply depot in New Jersey called Get Out Safe, gearing up.
Hed never been to Angola and didnt know what to expect.
It was December 28 Patrick Sr.s birthday.
The concert was just a couple days away, and the deal was still precarious.
From Luanda, Patrick Jr. kept calling with updates, positive but apprehensive.
His contacts in the music business remained skeptical.
(Ja Rule later characterized what transpired as a kind of good kidnapping.
DMX put it more plainly in 2015: He tried to kidnap us.
Riquinho disputes these accounts.)
I dont know about this, one former partner said.
This guy is dangerous.
But when the moment requires, Patrick Sr. can be very convincing.
If it went well, he could do more business with Riquinho.
Sure, hed heard those stories about supposed kidnappings, but thats only what happened when something wentwrong.
His optimism seemed warranted when the first wire payment came through the next day.
There it was: $400,000.
Why would they not board the flight?
Besides, it was too late to back out now.
Every promotion is a frenzy until it works out.
Patrick Sr. had delivered big, successful shows in the Caribbean.
Hed also had his entire box office stolen in Mexico.
People he knew had done plenty of shows in Angola.
Ludacris had just played there, and it went fine.
Usually, though, Patrick Sr. would have had the act sitting right next to him.
In the rush, there had been no time to arrange that.
Patrick Sr. thought about all that sand below, a single desert the size of the entire United States.
He recalled his pitch to Abby about how Africa was a neglected market.
It really could all be the start of something new.
He was forced to wait, and his passport was confiscated.
On the other side of security, Patrick Jr. was waiting.
Patrick Sr. was proud of his son, how hed handled the work in Angola well.
Very funny, Patrick said.
No, his son said.
Nas did not board the flight.
No one is coming.
Patrick Sr. stopped smiling.
As they left the airport, Patrick Jr. discreetly disclosed the alarming news of the past few hours.
At first, Patrick Sr. thought it could somehow be fixed.
But at a certain point, the clock was against them.
Even if Nas agreed, there was not enough time for anyone to fly to Angola.
Riquinho yelled, so loud that Patrick Sr. held the phone away from his ear.
Now, all those stories about Riquinho could not be waved off.
Eventually, one deal did go sour.
(Riquinho disputes this account.)
It was a little past 3 a.m. when the inescapable reality of their situation dawned on Patrick Sr.
They were at Patrick Jr.s hotel, which still felt full of spies.
My son and I have no passports, he said.
We are in danger.
But Josar understood: The State Department had warned music promoters that working in Angola was unsafe.
Patrick Sr. had not seen it.
(Who ever reads the travel advisories?
he later said.)
He told the Alloccos to be at the embassy, bags packed, at 9 a.m.
They waited for daybreak, hired a driver, and were soon heading through the streets of Luanda.
Patrick Jr. was shuddering with withdrawal.
Then, without warning, the driver pulled over, got out of the car, and walked away.
You stay here, he said.
By now it was clear they were not going to the embassy.
The driver had delivered the Alloccos right to him.
This is his turf, Patrick Jr. said to his father.
We gotta run for it.
