Lovey sits in a barber's chair at Masta Kutterz, reminiscing about how he and 15-year-old Jason Mizell ran wild in the Hollis streets. Now a rotund, balding 38- year-old with fading tattoos on his arms and a day job, Lovey recalls those years with pride and fondness: "Me and Jay grew up together on 203rd Street. I was the first person he met when his family moved to 203 in the late 1970s."

Growing up, Jay was a good, if rambunctious, kid, a member of a close-knit family. He was expected to speak proper English at home and developed an early interest in music -- first learning the drums, then the bass. He also learned to navigate the neighborhood, and to feel safe he needed everyone to be his friend. As Jay explained to Bill Adler, author of the Run-DMC biography Tougher Than Leather, "If I was going to the store for my mother, all the wild guys would be there, so I had to be their friend in order not to be scared of them."

"When he was a kid, Jay was cool with a lot of drug dealers," says Lovey, "but he never sold anything for them." Jay may not have dealt drugs, but he was involved with a junior burglary crew that broke into houses in Jamaica Estates. "Me and Jay and Randy Allen and Randy's brother Frankie all used to rob houses together," says Lovey. "That's what we did." Others in the shop say they were joined by Ronald "Tinard" Washington and a guy everyone called Yaqin.

Lovey's revelation is significant. Every surviving member of the crew later figured prominently in stories about Jay's death. While Jay went on to legitimacy and success, his friends -- whom he never abandoned, despite the trouble they might have caused him -- went on to lead hard lives.

The fledgling posse targeted wealthy white neighborhoods -- you don't get rich robbing the poor. Frankie Allen would stake out a place, often hiding in a tree or bushes until the residents left. Then the crew would head inside.

"We'd take everything," says Lovey. "Jewelry, guns, money, drugs, stereo equipment, televisions -- even food for a meal afterward. Jay had a strict father, so we tried to keep him out of a lot of stuff, because we knew his mom and pop would be angry. But Jay held stuff in his basement, where his parents didn't go."

Whenever the others allowed it, Jay tagged along. In Hollis, crime is practically a rite of passage -- the occasional heist or drug deal does wonders for your reputation.

"One time Jay decided he wanted to come with us," remembers Lovey. "He wanted his own money. So we took him on a score." As they were leaving a house in Jamaica Estates, a private security guard spotted them and fired several shots, one of which nearly hit Jay, says another of the crew. "That was his wakeup call," says Lovey. "He didn't want to do that no more."

When Jay's parents found out about their son's extracurricular activities, they were furious. Jay's mother burst into tears. Scared straight, Jay began concentrating on his true passion -- deejaying, which he practiced religiously in his bedroom.

The others continued down their crooked paths -- Frankie Allen died from an overdose and Randy landed in jail on a felony charge -- but Jay used his ill-gotten proceeds to set himself up as a professional DJ. He played outdoor parties at Two-Fifth Park, a concrete playground with a hoops court, situated just around the corner from his house. The new sound of hip-hop was rocking New York City's outer boroughs. MC after MC took the microphone to brag about pretty girls they didn't have or fancy cars they didn't drive. In the early 1980s the parties attracted crack dealers flush with cash and carrying weapons. It wasn't uncommon for the boisterous events to end with a mammoth brawl or gunshots. But at Two-Fifth Park, Jay's skills caught the attention of two up-and-coming local rappers, Run and DMC.

Run-DMC attained heights unimagined by any previous hip-hop act. They were the first rappers to be featured regularly on MTV. They were the only hip-hop performers to play Live Aid. The group's debut was the first hip-hop album to go gold. The second, Kings of Rock, eventually sold 4 million copies. Their third and best album, Raising Hell, sold millions more worldwide, fueled by "Walk This Way," the hit collaboration with Aerosmith. They played London, Tokyo, Sydney and Paris; they made as much as $150,000 a show. They also scored a major endorsement deal in 1986 when they signed a $1.5 million contract with Adidas. Jay was rich beyond his wildest dreams. So why was he virtually broke at the time of his death?

"Jay hadn't had a hit record in 10 years. Why would he have a whole bunch of money?" asks Russell Simmons, who managed Run-DMC in the 1980s.

Part of the problem was Jay's extravagance. He wore mink when the rest of Run-DMC wore leather. He had the most jewelry. He had the flashiest cars. Jay didn't drive one automobile but several -- a Lincoln Continental, a Mercedes, a Toyota Land Cruiser, a Jeep Wrangler and his favorite, a seven-passenger Lincoln Navigator. He also purchased showy rides for his sister, brother, mother, wife and at least two close friends. As his fame grew, so did his entourage. He thought nothing of dropping $3,000 a night on champagne at a nightclub.

"As far as I know, he had no effective management in the last 10 years of his life, which is not unusual in the rap world," says one industry figure who worked closely with Jay. "But he must have been profligate to die broke."

Jay's financial woes started early, according to Tracey Miller, Run-DMC's longtime publicist. A six-figure tax bill incurred during his Raising Hell heyday mushroomed over time to nearly $500,000. "Jay couldn't keep up with all the penalties and interest," says Miller. "It kept compounding and compounding. Eventually the IRS put a lien on his earnings. He was allowed to keep a portion to live on, but most of his performance fees went to the tax man. Russell Simmons was their manager and made millions. Why didn't he instruct Jay to manage his finances and pay his taxes?"

An angry Simmons retorts, "To say I made millions from Run-DMC is an absolute lie. Everybody got jerked. That's how it was for rappers in those days. Tracey is not in a position to know what I did for Jay. I did the best I could to advise him and to find opportunities for Jay. I'm not a business manager. I introduced him to financial managers, but I couldn't force him to pay his taxes. He was a grown man."

In 1988 Simmons sued the band's label, Profile Records, to break their contract. The dispute effectively put Run-DMC's recording career on hold for nearly two years, an eternity in the fast-paced world of rap. When they finally released a new album, their momentum had dissipated, and new rappers had taken their place.

According to their rhymes, Run-DMC were clean. But rap's first stars also had a dark side. Before he was ordained a minister, Run had a substance abuse problem, and DMC consumed eight bottles of malt liquor a day. As the group's record sales declined, Jay turned to side projects. He did solo gigs, helped start a turntablist school called the Scratch DJ Academy, bought a recording studio and formed his own label. In 1992 JMJ Records scored a huge hit with fellow Queens rappers Onyx ("Throw Ya Gunz"), but subsequent releases tanked.

Despite his dwindling fortunes Jay still had an ear for talent. In 1999 he helped get the then-obscure rapper 50 Cent signed to Columbia Records. But 50 Cent's deal showed that Jay was developing a reputation for ripping off his protégés. "My deal with Columbia wasn't a good deal," 50 Cent complained to the website AllHipHop.com. "It was for $250,000. I got $65,000 in advance; of that, $50,000 went to Jay and $10,000 went to the lawyers who negotiated the deal. I was left with $5,000. I was still selling crack." (After Columbia dumped him, 50 Cent hooked up with Eminem and his producer, Dr. Dre, and went on to release the platinum-selling Get Rich or Die Tryin'.)

It's an old story: A musician gets screwed, signs a bunch of his boys and treats them the way he got treated. "Jay was known for taking the lion's share of the money," says one music journalist, speaking off the record.

The police at first thought Jay was a victim of a simmering rap war. All roads led to the doorstep of Irv Gotti and Murder Inc. and a contemporary of Jay's, Kenneth "Supreme" McGriff. A convicted crack kingpin, McGriff gained notoriety in the 1980s as a leader of the Supreme Team, a murderous gang that controlled the drug trade in next-door Jamaica. The feds are investigating whether McGriff secretly bankrolled Murder Inc. with drug profits. There's also talk that he ordered the 2000 hit on 50 Cent that nearly took the rapper's life. After Jay's killing, the NYPD offered protection to 50 Cent.

Then Scoon's name hit the papers. When that lead turned cold, however, investigators focused on a felon believed to be the killer's lookout. In May 2003 Jay's mom vented her frustration with Randy in the press, publicly excoriating him for not visiting, not telling her what he saw the night of the killing and not helping the police. Then a new motive surfaced: Jay had been killed because of an alleged affair between McGriff and Jay's wife, Terri. This seems unlikely, since one would assume the FBI had McGriff under 24-hour surveillance and had his phones tapped.

The Greek chorus in Hollis connects all these developments with Randy Allen. The day after Jay's death, they say, Randy relocated his sister to Las Vegas, and he and Boe disappeared for three days, claiming they needed to rehearse for a Rusty Waters promotional tour. One family acquaintance says, "I was at Jay's mom's place, and I heard her say on the phone to Randy, ‘If you don't bring my grandson back, I'm going to call the police and have you arrested for kidnapping.'" The suspicion is that they were trying to get their stories straight. "A detective I know told me he wanted to question them, but they kept dodging him," the Mizell family confidant says. "They were being uncooperative. Each story Lydia told was different. Her stories and her brother's didn't match."

Hurricane (born Wendell Fite), the former DJ for the Beastie Boys and one of Jay's oldest friends, blames Randy -- who was best man at Jay's wedding -- for starting the McGriff affair rumor. "Terri is a straight-up lady," he says, "a good mother and an excellent wife. I never saw Randy grieve once at the funeral. A friend of his gets killed, and the day after burying Jay he goes on some bullshit promotional tour for Rusty Waters."