Larger Than Lyfe

by Cynthia Diane Thornton

  Keshari didn’t even bother to respond. She wanted to sink into her bathwater until it covered her head. Sometimes Misha either intentionally dismissed or momentarily forgot who Keshari was.

  At 10 p.m., Keshari’s black Bentley convertible pulled into one of the congested valet lanes at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood. She had two Suburbans with professional bodyguards escorting her. She also had a team of undercover security agents working the crowd.

  Keshari had rarely traveled with the kind of security that many wealthy, prominent figures in the entertainment industry kept regularly in their employ. She had always been under protection of The Consortium’s security and they were as professional and as adept at detecting and defending against danger as any of Los Angeles’ most reputable security firms. The Consortium’s security also had an advantage. Because they were a part of L.A.’s criminal underground, they virtually always knew, preemptively, who to watch, when to watch, and what was being planned. However, after Keshari’s visit with Ricky that day, along with her desire to ultimately extricate herself completely and permanently from the affairs of The Consortium, she knew that she would have to begin implementing different measures regarding her security immediately. When Misha looked at her quizzically as they rolled out of the gates of Keshari’s home, heavily secured as if Keshari was the new Suge Knight, Keshari quickly brushed it off with an offhand excuse about the label advising it for the party.

  The two women stepped from Keshari’s car simultaneously and stopped the hotel’s parking attendants in their tracks as they walked past. Clad in a form-fitting, backless, chocolate-beaded, Valentino jumpsuit with matching, chocolate satin, Jimmy Choo heels that wrapped and tied around her ankles, Keshari was positively stunning. Misha, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wore a black, strapless, Calvin Klein column dress with spike-heeled Manolo Blahnik sandals. As always, she produced a diva’s attitude to match her drop-dead gorgeous look and worked a calculated, feline, almost sexual strut like nobody’s business.

  An assortment of exotic sports cars, Range Rovers, and limousines crowded the valet lanes. Jermaine Dupri, Damon Dash of Roc-A-Fella Entertainment, Nas and Kelis, Xhibit, Lisa Raye, Alicia Keys, virtually all of the artists on the LTL label, Jamie Foxx, Jay-Z, Snoop Dogg and his sizeable entourage, Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, Queen Latifah, LL Cool J, Fat Joe and members of Terror Squad, and a host of Los Angeles Lakers and Clippers were spotted in the incoming crowd. Keshari paused and smiled for the cameras, causing the cluster of photographers who’d received access passes to shoot the event to flash shot after shot in a frenzy, knowing that it was a rare opportunity to get her to pose for pictures.

  The media, as well as the public, were completely mesmerized by Keshari Mitchell’s mystique. She remained something of an enigma in the industry. In a business where entertainers and record executives thrived on feeding their huge egos by being seen, Keshari seemed most content steering clear of a lot of personal media attention. She promoted her artists and her record label through an extremely competent executive team, she allowed a magazine or television exclusive from time to time that depicted her meteoric rise to professional success, her attorneys sending a very specific list of topics and questions to the interviewer’s network or magazine in advance that Keshari absolutely would not discuss, and she worked to keep the rest of her life entirely private, which only made the media and the public hungrier to find out more about who she was.

  In the beginning, as Keshari and her newcomer record label began to rapidly achieve success, a few rumors circulated that the beautiful, Wharton-educated record mogul might have an organized crime affiliation. Keshari’s attorneys and public relations team threatened multimillion-dollar libel suits against virtually every form of entertainment media on the market before a story could ever be fully researched and drafted to reach the public and, thus far, no other renegade journalist had ever ventured into that territory again. Keshari was bound and determined that Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment would only be seen as the completely legitimate business enterprise that it was and anything else about her life that was not associated with her record label would never get the opportunity to be served up for public consumption.

  A handful of rappers in the industry did know that Keshari was connected…very connected…and it was a subject that none of them dared to touch. One of the biggest codes of the streets was SILENCE and they knew that talking too much could very easily jeopardize their lives. It wasn’t just about exposing Keshari Mitchell. Exposing her also, ultimately, exposed her very dangerous business allies.

  An elevator arrived at lobby level and whisked Keshari, Misha and Keshari’s bodyguards to the rooftop’s ultra-chic Skybar. The record label had booked Skybar, the outdoor living room and the pool area for their party that night and a remixed track by Rasheed the Refugee had the heads of the men bobbing back and forth and the women swiveling their hips to the beat as bottles of Cristal and Courvoisier circulated. Waiters passed through the crowd with appetizers and decadent, miniature desserts. Gift bags containing shiny, platinum-colored iPod minis, programmed with tracks from Rasheed the Refugee’s debut and sophomore albums, along with tracks from his now certified platinum third CD, were passed out to the VIP guests as they arrived at the party.

  “Girl-l-l,” Misha grinned, “you do know how to represent your label’s name. Who put this together?”

  “Andre’s team worked directly with the hotel’s event planners,” Keshari said, looking around, appreciating Andre’s usual attention to detail.

  She lifted a glass of the bubbly Cristal from the tray of one of the passing waiters and took a sip. Misha enjoyed a couple of the tiny canapés, then gulped a glass of the expensive, chilled champagne as she simultaneously began giving the eye to a tall, dark and handsome player for the Sacramento Kings.

  Definitely not a woman to waste any time, Keshari thought as she watched the familiar “mating ritual” go into effect. Misha’s latest conquest strolled over and exchanged words with her. He greeted Keshari warmly. Then he and Misha slid off toward the dance floor. Keshari laughed to herself as Misha shimmied to the music, teasing her rhythmless giant of a partner as she strategically rubbed parts of herself against him and then danced away again.

  Keshari spotted Rasheed the Refugee in a corner outside near the pool, giving an interview to a writer for VIBE magazine while members of his entourage sat at tables all around him. LTL’s PR department had advised Rasheed’s managers to have Rasheed do the interview that night at the platinum party for his hugely acclaimed third album, Ghetto Proverbs, where he could be seen basking in the overwhelming success of his creative work. Rasheed, dressed in oversized, navy military fatigues and expensive combat boots, possessed the calm, collected, and regal demeanor of African royalty. He was warm and engaging, a natural conversationalist. He wasn’t the bling-bling persona that seemed to prevail in current hip-hop. He was the West Coast’s version of the East Coast’s “Nas.” His music was all about Black consciousness. He gave a strong, unapologetic, political voice to the art form of hip-hop and he compelled mainstream America to think seriously, at least for a moment, about the state of things in the U.S. and beyond. He was one of the smartest brothas Keshari had ever met. He could speak with depth on everything from American politics and economics to Nostradamus and Illuminati.

  Rasheed had been a force in Los Angeles’ hip-hop underground for several years and had built a strong following before signing with Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment. His controversial debut album turned him into an overnight, nationwide sensation. He sold a record-making 1.5 million units in the first two weeks of the release of Land of the Lost. His second album made him a superstar. To date, he’d sold 1.6 million units of his third album, Ghetto Proverbs, and SoundScan was still counting. He was asked to make appearances on everything from The TODAY Show to Larry King Live to discuss his scathing indictments of George W. Bush and his entire family, racial profiling, affirmative action, reparations, and t
he September 11th tragedy.

  He stood poised as if he was prepared to do battle, a serious, contemplative expression on his face, the night lights of West Hollywood serving as the backdrop, while the VIBE photographer captured shots of him. Keshari couldn’t be any prouder of him. His success was her label’s success and they’d accomplished that success by dropping pearls of wisdom into consumers’ ears at the same time that they entertained them with lyrical genius and hit-making tracks from some of the hottest producers in the industry. Of all the artists on the LTL roster, Rasheed the Refugee was, hands down, her favorite.

  The party was the typical L.A. affair—too much money and ego concentrated in one place, executives networking, industry gossip everywhere, rap stars holding court with their entourages, nursing snifters of cognac while typing on iPhones, Sidekicks and BlackBerrys or arranging booty calls on their cell phones, and music video models sprinkled throughout, working the scene like professionals, hoping to leave that night with somebody with clout.

  Keshari began making her way through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries with music executives from other record labels.

  “Keshari Mitchell,” Sean “Diddy” Combs said, hugging her. “How are you?”

  “I’m good…I’m good.” Keshari smiled. “I’m so glad that you could make it to L.A. for Rasheed’s party.”

  “I had a couple of business meetings and I’m shopping for some property, so I’m kinda killing two birds with one stone. Ra’s party is the perfect place to blow off some steam. Congratulations, by the way, on your success.”

  “Thank you,” Keshari answered. “I’m preparing for the same success with my new girl group, so expect an invitation for their album launch party.”

  “I hear that you’ve been getting your feet wet for your own fashion line. One of my designers saw you at a show in Milan. I might be able to give you some pointers.”

  “Actually, the fashion line’s a ways out, but I’d appreciate your insight. I’m sure that it’ll prove invaluable. We’ll definitely have to get together about it. I’ve got another major project underway that’s going to consume the bulk of my time for the next several months. I’m doing a press release about it in the next few days.”

  “What’s the project?” Sean asked, his interest piqued.

  “Keep your eyes on the news.” Keshari smiled, not divulging anything. “Listen, I know that a table has been reserved for you and your people, but why don’t you join me at my table? I’d love to have you. Executives from RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America), if they’re not here already, should be arriving shortly.”

  “I’ll do that,” Sean said and shook his head as he watched the switch of her perfect ass walking away.

  Keshari spotted Misha still shimmying her hips to the music with her Sacramento Kings players on the transparent dance floor that covered the pool. Misha was wearing the hell out of her dress. She saw Keshari and waved to her. Keshari could tell that her friend was building up a nice, little buzz from multiple glasses of champagne.

  Dante Peterson, a writer for The SOURCE magazine, tapped Keshari lightly on the shoulder.

  “Ms. Mitchell, would you spare me a couple minutes of your time? I’ve been attempting to get in touch with you. I’d like to arrange an interview. I’m putting together a story on ‘power women’ in the music industry and the story certainly wouldn’t be complete without including you.”

  “Dante, you know the protocol for securing an interview. Contact my publicist. This is a party,” Keshari said, barely pausing long enough to fully acknowledge the writer’s presence.

  Shaquille O’Neal rushed up and picked Keshari up from the floor, grinning his 2,000-watt, trademark “Superman” smile. Keshari and Shaquille had been friends since Misha had introduced the two of them at a nightclub party that she’d promoted a couple of years before.

  “What’s up, girl? How you been?”

  He set her down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “I’m cool. Busy as hell.”

  “You look good. Damned good. Almost as good as me.”

  “You’re so silly,” she said, smacking him. “How’re Shaunie and the kids?”

  “Everybody’s good…can’t complain. They all just got back from Miami. I’m taking you to dinner next week. Where do you want to go?”

  Keshari laughed and shook her head. “NO” was definitely not a part of Shaq’s vocabulary.

  “Italian food…your house. ‘Street Ball’ on the PlayStation and make sure to order tiramisu. But let me call you. I’m gonna be in and out of town for the next few weeks. I’ll hit you the moment I wrap things up.”

  Shaq beamed. The giant, dark brown brotha had a smile that could light up a room.

  “Alright, girl,” he said, “but don’t keep me waiting.”

  He kissed Keshari again before moving off through the outdoor living room with his friends.

  Coming through Skybar toward the patio, a very familiar face smiled and headed in Keshari’s direction. A wave of uneasiness came over Keshari. It was Marcus Means. Ricky had to have sent him. Marcus Means, nor anyone else affiliated with The Consortium, had ever set foot inside Larger Than Lyfe’s offices nor any Larger Than Lyfe function since the record label’s doors opened.

  Keshari smiled back at him and waved him over.

  “Hey, girl,” Marcus said amiably.

  Keshari played it cool.

  “What’s up, Mark? Since when did hip-hop become a part of your repertoire?”

  “Maybe I’m expanding my repertoire.” He smiled.

  The two of them strolled over to one of the more secluded areas of the dimly lit outdoor living room and sat down.

  “So, what’s up? Are you alone? What brings you here?” Keshari asked.

  “Yeah, I came alone,” Marcus answered.

  They were both silent. Marcus took in the flashily dressed partygoers across the patio and their narcissistic party ritual. He appeared to be somewhere between feeling mildly repulsed and amused as he watched them.

  “I saw Rick today,” Keshari said. “Trial commences in three weeks. His attorneys are beginning to suggest that they, at least, consider a plea bargain with the D.A. Rick is livid and totally against it.”

  “I know,” Marcus responded. “A plea bargain wouldn’t happen anyway. This is a high-profile, first-degree murder case. The victim is a prominent, White attorney and the accused is a high-profile, Black, alleged gangster who’s managed to escape indictment for YEARS. The D.A. wouldn’t even consider plea bargaining with Rick unless he turned informant on every connection he’s ever had.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to Rick?” Keshari asked.

  “I saw him today.”

  Keshari knew that Ricky had to have told him about their discussion, about her wanting out of The Consortium. Marcus stared at her long and hard before he finally commented.

  “Be careful, girl,” he said. “You’re skating on thin ice. I’m very serious when I tell you this. Rick loves you. We all know this… but this is business and you know the business.”

  Keshari stared back at him, but didn’t respond. Marcus knew that she understood him and he made no move to further elaborate. A moment later, he was gone. Although Keshari was sitting directly under one of the heating lamps lining the chic terrace, goose bumps stood out on her arms. She could do one of two things. She could get through the rest of the evening and be confident that she could come to some acceptable compromise with Rick, or she could become so paranoid and stressed about her situation that she began making the kind of serious mistakes that could get her killed.

  “What in the hell are you doing over here alone?” Terrence, Keshari’s assistant, said. “You look like one of these fish tales just stole your man. This party’s fierce! You run this! Why don’t you get yourself in the mix and enjoy yourself?”

  “I just needed a minute to myself to clear my head,” Keshari said, smiling at Terrence reassuringly.
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  He sat down next to her and wrapped his arms around her. She put her head on his shoulder.

  “It’s been a long and fucked-up day,” she told him, “and I don’t even want to begin to try to tell you about it.”

  Terrence looked down at her with concern.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “You’re shaking.”

  “YES,” Keshari said emphatically. “I’m fine…I’m fine. I just need a good night’s sleep. I’ll be prepared to suit up and conquer the world again tomorrow.”

  Terrence wasn’t sure that he was convinced, but he let it go.

  “You’re on in about fifteen minutes,” he said gently. “Michael Webb and Christina Perlmann from RIAA just arrived.”

  Keshari, along with representatives from the Recording Industry Association of America, would be presenting Rasheed the Refugee with a platinum plaque for his third album, Ghetto Proverbs.

  “I’m ready,” Keshari answered.

  “Anytime you need to talk, I’m here,” Terrence said, reaching over and brushing back the curls that had blown into Keshari’s face.

  “I’m cool,” Keshari said. “Stop being a mama bird.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thanks for the concern, though.”

  “Hey, babygirl, that’s what I’m here for.”

  A sexy, dancehall track from Rasheed’s album featuring Wyclef Jean called “Respect Her” was playing. Terrence went to check on his date and Keshari started toward the cluster of VIP tables that had been reserved for her. Her BlackBerry had been ringing nonstop and she thought that she’d quickly check her messages and chat for a bit with the RIAA execs and Sean Combs before presenting Rasheed with his platinum plaque. Not quite paying attention to where she was going and still more than a bit preoccupied with Marcus’s unexpected appearance and the veiled threat that he’d delivered, she collided with a tall, broad-shouldered Boris Kodjoe lookalike and his full glass of champagne.

  “Oh, damn! I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”