Larger Than Lyfe

by Cynthia Diane Thornton

  Mars went to the show’s opening night and truly enjoyed himself. He’d even dropped into the after-party at Skybar for a little while. Now, a month later, he was trying to reestablish a groove for himself. He sat on his terrace and began to go through the overflowing bin filled with his mail that the office of the building at his luxury, condominium community had graciously been holding for him. He called his best friend, Jason Payne, who he hadn’t seen in ages and told him that he wanted to get together and play some ball. He was also getting ready to get back into the swing of things at ASCAP and talked to his secretary several times that week to begin coordinating his work and travel schedule.

  In his burgeoning mail stack, Mars came across a postcard depicting Rio de Janeiro and its Corcovado Mountain with the huge, Christ the Redeemer statue for which Rio de Janeiro was most famous. The brief message from the sender said, “I miss you…SO much.”

  The postcard slipped from Mars’s fingers and fell to the ground. He sat there for a few moments as if someone had just sucker-punched him. It, for whatever reason, left him dazed and confused. With all of the speculation by the media, he couldn’t help asking himself the question: Was there any possibility that Keshari might be alive? Was there any possibility that there was truth to the media speculation?

  NO! he finally told himself. It was a malicious joke, just as he was starting to come out of his debilitating grief. Undoubtedly, it was Portia Foster, pissed at him for blowing her off yet again when she’d reached out to him immediately following Keshari’s death. He dropped the postcard on the cocktail table, grabbed his keys and his gym bag and went to meet his friend at the athletic club.

  He came home that night accompanied by a beautiful, Black and Korean sista that he’d met sipping mochachino on the patio at Magic Johnson’s Starbucks in Ladera Heights. She had the most interesting name, Ntozake, like the Black poet, and she looked a lot like Keshari. He didn’t ask a lot about her. She told him that she was a singer/songwriter and that she was working on a CD. In broad and slightly evasive terms, Mars told her that he was an attorney. In all honesty, he didn’t want to know anything about her and, that night, she didn’t appear to be very interested in getting to know him in any great detail either. There was a strong, physical attraction between the two of them and that was pretty much all that needed to be said. It had been a long time since Mars had had a one-night stand, even though the entertainment industry was the quintessential smorgasbord for them. For a time toward the beginning of Mars’s legal career, when the money started to get a lot longer and he was feeling his ego and himself like most of the other men in the industry, he’d been only too happy to indulge in them…no strings, no emotions, no complications. Things were different for him now, mentally and emotionally. One-night stands were not really his thing anymore. But with Keshari gone, his emotions were currently a “no man’s land” and a one-night stand was perfectly acceptable.

  Mars lit candles, he put a sample of everything good in the jazz and neo-soul genres on his CD changer, poured Ntozake a glass of wine, and then fucked her with complete and reckless abandon. When it was over, he went out onto his terrace and fell asleep and Keshari came to him again in his dreams.

  With her hands on her hips and that $40,000 sable coat swinging open, exposing the sheer perfection of her naked body, she whispered to him over and over again, “I’m still here…I’m still here…I love you.”

  Mars snapped awake and went into his bedroom. Ntozake was gone and he was glad. He hoped that he never saw her again. It was four in the morning and he sat in the middle of his living room floor, studying photographs of Keshari and him together, tracing the contours of her beautiful, smiling face with his finger. When he dozed off again, he was clutching a sterling silver-framed photograph of Keshari that usually sat on his cocktail table. He would love that woman forever.

  One evening while going through his mail, more than one month after receiving the first postcard, Mars received a second one. This time, a scene of wealthy, Brazilian sunbathers was depicted on an ultra-exclusive beach area in Ipanema.

  The postcard’s message said, “I’m still here. I love you.”

  Mars located the first mysterious postcard that he’d received and studied it. Then he carefully studied the second one. The interesting thing about both of the postcards was that they had been typed. Postcards from vacationers were not typewritten. Someone who did not want their handwriting and possibly themselves identified had sent Mars these two postcards. However, Mars did not know if this “someone” was an individual or a group.

  Both postcards had São Paulo postmarks. Mars studied every detail about the two postcards and thought of some of the conversations that he and Keshari had had prior to her death. There were times when she would get so philosophical and intense, telling him things that seemed almost locked inside a riddle. Then, out of nowhere, it all started to come together. Either that or he was truly losing his mind. The postcards had to have come from Keshari. As crazy as it sounded, Mars was certain of it. But he needed to try and get more confirmation.

  Mars went to David Weisberg’s office. Celeste, David Weisberg’s legal secretary, was extremely pleased to see him. The last time that she’d seen Mars, he had been an emotional basket case, grieving over the loss of the woman he loved like the world had ended. He’d been unable to function on even the most basic level.

  “You look really good,” Celeste told Mars, “and I thank you for the orchid and the roses and the weekend at Canyon Ranch. It had been a really long time since I had gotten spoiled like that. I think you made my husband jealous.”

  “You deserve to be spoiled,” Mars responded with a smile. “And I cannot thank you enough for all that you did for me.”

  “Just so you know, Mr. Weisberg is not in the office. He had a meeting with a client.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mars told Celeste, taking a seat at her desk and winking at her flirtatiously. “I’d really like to wait. This is important.”

  “Well, I was just about to go out for lunch. Why don’t I order something and have it delivered for both of us?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Mars smiled. “My treat.”

  David Weisberg arrived back at his office a little over an hour later and Mars was still seated at Celeste’s desk, enjoying their conversation and the pan-fried noodles and orange chicken that she’d ordered for lunch.

  “Mars, what a surprise! What can I do for you?” David Weisberg asked.

  The two men went into David Weisberg’s office and closed the doors.

  “Mr. Weisberg, what I’m going to ask you is probably going to leave you questioning my sanity. Even I am having to question my sanity every now and again these days. But, perhaps, if you look at this, you’ll better understand why I felt so compelled to come and see you.”

  Mars placed the two postcards on David’s desk squarely in front of him.

  “Is Keshari still alive?” Mars asked without hesitation.

  David Weisberg stared down at the two, typewritten postcards from São Paulo, Brazil and was instantly pissed at Keshari for being so damned foolish.

  “WHAT?!” he said distractedly, still staring down at the postcards. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. What exactly are you even suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Mars answered. “I’m asking you directly…is Keshari still alive?”

  “Of course not,” David Weisberg said again. “What you’re asking me clearly suggests that you believe I took part in a major impropriety and I can assure you that I would not jeopardize more than twenty-five years of legal practice to aid and abet a very serious illegality, no matter how much I cared for Keshari.”

  “So, who do you imagine sent me these postcards?”

  “I know nothing about your personal life,” David Weisberg said. “Therefore, I couldn’t even hedge an educated guess to answer that question.”

  Mars slumped back in his chair and buried his head in his hands. His life
was starting to come together again and a couple of postcards in the mail threatened to pull him back apart.

  “I’m sorry,” David said. “I’m so, so sorry. I know how much you loved her. I know that she loved you. But she’s gone. She’s dead. And it’s time for you to let her go and move on with your life.”

  “Before Keshari’s…passing,” Mars said, “we talked a lot about so much and she repeatedly seemed to be trying to tell me something. She kept telling me how her whole life was changing. There was a strange sadness, like she knew that something was about to happen, but it was too dangerous to divulge even to me. My heart, my mind, my gut tell me that Keshari sent me these postcards. I saw the expression on your face when I placed them in front of you. It was shock from recognition, followed by what appeared to be anger. I know that you’re not going to tell me the truth, but that expression on your face when you looked at those postcards said everything.”

  As if the entertainment newswire over the past several months had not already been a three-ring circus, Mars Buchanan stepped boldly and unapologetically back into the spotlight and promptly resigned from his position as West Coast general counsel at ASCAP. Some executives who knew him said that they had seen it coming. Mars hadn’t been the same since his return to work following Keshari Mitchell’s shocking suicide.

  When Keshari and Mars were still together, Mars had talked candidly about his desire to one day take advantage of his many industry contacts and inside knowledge and start his own artist and athlete management firm. The level of autonomy that he would hold as owner of his own company had always been tempting and could definitely prove lucrative. Keshari was his inspiration, he’d told her. She was a shining example that it could be done.

  In a press conference at ASCAP’s Los Angeles offices, Mars was strategically evasive about his future business plans and he assured the media that he was not leaving ASCAP on bad blood. After the loss of someone truly significant to him, Mars said, he’d come to realize how precious time was and he believed that he needed to dedicate his time and energies to new endeavors that were more in tune with the current phase of his life.

  Mars flew to New York and visited his family after the press conference. He had no desire to remain in L.A. and deal with the annoying harassment of the media pursuing him for a story. Mars’s father was shocked at his son’s completely unexpected resignation from his prestigious position, but he also knew how talented and determined his son had always been. He could do anything that he put his mind to and if he said that he intended to start his own company, he would, and it would, without a doubt, be a huge success.

  Before Mars left his parents’ home to return to Los Angeles, he told them that he was going to do some traveling for a few weeks before he actively proceeded to lay the groundwork for his new management firm.

  Mars’s sister asked him where he was going.

  “I’m strongly leaning toward Brazil,” Mars said.

  The next absolutely mind-blowing news to hit the streets were the rumored, ultra-private nuptials that had taken place between the new CEO of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment, Misha Tierney, and real estate investor, Marcus Means, who the press said had links to the notorious and now-deceased Richard Lawrence Tresvant. Misha’s New York Knicks fiancé rang every phone number that Misha had ever had and was unable to locate her anywhere. All that her assistant and the record label and her events planning firm could tell him was that she had taken a long weekend. All of it was a massive, “WHAT THE FUCK!” moment that sent Darian Boudreaux into tears when she read it online.

  When one considers that the combined annual revenues from the production, distribution and sale of cocaine equate to approximately one trillion, tax-free dollars, it is patently ridiculous to dismiss the very real possibility that the United States has a direct involvement in this illicit trade and is profiting from said involvement…royally. The United States possesses a lengthy and sordid history of lies, unethical practices, corruption, and imperialist greed. There is no way that the U.S., like Mexico and other less-developed nations, would leave the level of wealth generated in the cocaine trade to the common Black and Brown criminal to amass without securing a substantial slice of the pie for themselves. In short, America’s “war on drugs” is nothing more than one, huge FARCE, akin to leaving the fox in charge of the chicken coop.

  America’s “war on drugs” is a massive POLITICAL game more than anything. D.C. fat cats sit on Capitol Hill pontificating about the detrimental effects of illegal narcotics on the fabric of America, particularly on the public safety and American youth. They add insult to injury by referencing crime statistics and the ever-growing percentages of substance abusers, as if they are seriously engaged in a very real effort to destroy the problem when, in actuality, they either never do enough to get the problem solved or they fall prey to the corruption that pervades the entire system. They pound their fists vehemently and declare that we will win the war on drugs, no matter the cost. It’s so much lip service, political figures telling their constituents exactly what they want to hear to keep the citizens in their comfort zones, politicians saying what they believe needs to be said in order to gain votes.

  Bills are passed that look promising on the surface, but are thoroughly devoid of the ingredients required for positive and lasting change and are rife in just enough loopholes for the sophisticated, professional criminal to work right through and around.

  Law enforcement is overrun with flaws as well. Men who are just men and have taken an oath to “protect and serve” are expected to invoke the powers of the crime-fighting superhero and avoid the temptation of skimming off the top some of the ill-gotten spoils confiscated from drug-dealing thugs that sometimes equates to more than these law enforcement officers will earn over the entire duration of their careers.

  On salaries that are a gross disparity to the danger that most law enforcement officers confront daily, even the noblest officers of the law sometimes fall prey to the temptation of thousands of dollars in bribes offered by drug dealers asking them to just look the other way when a shipment arrives or overlook the sizeable “package” in the drug dealer’s trunk while the average police officer’s superiors make cozy bedfellows with the crooked mayors and other city and county officials to make their own dirty money on the side. Corruption in law enforcement is like a virulent disease, infecting every single area, no matter the rank, on police forces everywhere. And all accept it as par for the course, “everybody does it,” until scandal breaks out and these dirty officers of the law are tossed unwittingly into a news camera lens with their pants down.

  Politics absolutely comes into play when huge amounts of taxpayer dollars are allocated to law enforcement budgets and law enforcement is expected to satisfy citizens’ and legislators’ lofty expectations by bringing in major, drug-related convictions. When law enforcement drops the ball, then the blame game commences and someone must take the fall. The political game is never-ending.

  Even though Richard Tresvant was dead, the game was far from over. Thomas Hencken knew this as he boarded his flight to Washington, D.C., headed to face his superiors. They’d demanded a meeting. He’d quickly complied. Words were not minced when he arrived.

  “The agency would like you to firmly consider early retirement,” Robert Eickenberry, assistant director of the Western Division Organized Crime Unit, said carefully.

  “What is this about?” Thomas Hencken said. “I know that you’re not about to turn me into the fall guy for the Consortium mess.”

  “You overstepped the scope of your authority on more than one occasion in this nearly two-year, Consortium fiasco,” Robert Eickenberry said. “Two federal agents lost their lives while working under your direction and the agency allocated well over ten million dollars to a special task force that was under your direct supervision without a single, major conviction, not even the convictions of the murderers of the two downed federal agents.”

  “I feel very, very strongly that Keshari Mit
chell is still alive,” Thomas Hencken said. “I’ve been working this thing on my own time, night and day. This case can still work in our favor.”

  “You see!” senior agent William Thorne snapped. “This is exactly what we’re talking about! We have certified medical testimony confirming Keshari Mitchell’s death and you’re still determined to turn her into state’s witness. It’s OVER! Keshari Mitchell is dead! Richard Tresvant is dead! And you need to let this thing go and acknowledge the loss. A new task force is preparing to move forward on a top-ranking family in Los Angeles Yakuza. There is currently no firm leadership in place within The Consortium ranks. Therefore, they are not as great a threat and lower in priority now for the DEA. In a way, we have taken a small victory.”

  “You are a fifteen-year veteran with the agency,” Robert Eickenberry said. “You have an impeccable record. That is why you’re being offered the option of retirement in lieu of termination. Your pension shall be completely unaffected.”

  “I’m being made the fall guy for the failure of the Consortium case. I, ultimately, take my direction from YOU here in Washington, yet you’re not assuming any culpability for the way that the Consortium case turned out. I will fight this, you know,” Thomas Hencken said. “I’m contacting my attorney the moment our meeting wraps.”

  “Do what you think you have to do,” Robert Eickenberry said calmly. “The offer is on the table for seven days. After that, un-fortunately, the agency will have to proceed with your immediate termination.”

  Thomas Hencken angrily brushed out of the office and out of the doors of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s Washington, D.C. headquarters. Politics had reared its ugly head once again. But he was as determined as ever that he would take down the remaining Consortium players, as well as expose their suppliers and client base, even as the DEA tried to oust him from the organization that he’d zealously dedicated himself to for years.