"Okay. Sorry, Dad," he said again.
"Out here in the streets, call me Sammy. You hear me? It's Sammy."
Yes, Jarvis was my son. My biological son. This was one of his first jobs working with me as an investigator. Some people referred to me as a hitman, but I preferred the term investigator. I had principles, procedures, protocol and bylaws that I adhered to like any other professional.
One might ask me why I would want to bring my son into this way of living. Well, it wasn't exactly my choice. It was tradition. My father was an investigator who killed, tortured and maimed, and his father taught him those skills which were eventually bequeathed to me. Still, I was hesitant about bringing Jarvis into this game. His generation was different. There was less discipline and initiative in these young men nowadays. Less was expected of them than in my day. His generation remained knuckleheads well into their mid to late twenties, whereas I was considered an adult at sixteen. There was very little room for child-like behavior in 1980s New York, my formative years.
Several months ago Jarvis was charged with first degree murder. He was accused of killing a 25-year-old man from Brooklyn over a dispute with a girl. Jarvis confessed to me that he was guilty of the crime. He killed the young man for physically abusing the girl, a girl Jarvis had been romantically involved with. The girl went to the cops after Jarvis told her he "took care" of her problem. I smacked Jarvis over twenty times upside the head when he told me the story. I chased him all over the living room of his apartment smacking him and kicking him to the floor, explaining to him the first rule of murder—never tell anyone what you've done, and especially not a love interest tied to the victim.
Because of the female witness and a solid motive and a ton of circumstantial evidence, Jarvis was set to serve life in prison. But I talked to Eliyah Golomb and he agreed to put his legal army on the case, as long as I agreed to teach Jarvis the trade of "investigating." After I forced Jarvis to murder the female witness—a deed I personally oversaw—the case was eventually dropped.
And here we were.
"Dad—I mean Sammy—are we gonna take out La'Renz today?" my son asked me.
"No. Eliyah hasn't given us the word yet. He wants us to watch him for a while, learn his locations and figure out the best place to hit him when he does give the word."
"Why does he want La'Renz dead so bad? Does he really think La'Renz can build his company back up to rival Mount Eliyah ENT? We all know that's impossible."
"History tells us that anything is possible. Sometimes you have to squash the little bug before he turns into a big bug."
"Did Eliyah really have Jazzmine Short killed? Were you the one who killed her?"
"No."
"Are you just saying that because you don't wanna tell me?"
"No. Shut up and pay attention."
I pointed across the street at the radio station, as security hauled La'Renz Taylor out of the building and shoved him onto the sidewalk. Jarvis laughed. A young girl was escorted out after La'Renz in a more civil manner. She was wearing a pink long-sleeved shirt and blue jeans, and she seemed to be asking La'Renz if he was all right.
"Who the fuck is that girl?" Jarvis said in a way that was clear he was attracted to her. "I’ve never seen her before. Is she famous?"
"No. I don't think so. She's probably some new artist he picked up."
"Do we gotta kill her too?"
"Maybe."
"Fuck. Can you ask Eliyah if I can keep her?"
"Jarvis, start the truck."
He cranked it over with a teasing laugh. My boy was showing me he had a sense of humor. I used to have one too. A long time ago, before I saw a man choke to death on his own genitals.
A Volvo SUV pulled up to the curb to pick up La'Renz and the girl. With my digital zoom-lens camera, I snapped a burst of pictures of the Volvo and its license plates. I didn't get a shot of the driver but I had a good idea who she was. We followed the Volvo for miles, as it winded through New York City and ended up in a very nice neighborhood in Brooklyn Heights on Willow Street. Once the female driver stepped down out of the truck, my suspicions were confirmed.
"That's Sundi Ashworth!" Jarvis exclaimed.
I nodded. "Yes, that is."
"What is she doing with La'Renz? Doesn't she still work for our boss?"
I snapped pictures of the group—Sundi Ashworth, La'Renz Taylor, and the young girl—as they headed into Sundi's townhome. Then I set the camera in my lap. Eliyah Golomb wasn't going to like this. He wasn't going to like this at all.
"Let me see your phone," I said to my son.
GabbyTV: You won't believe this people, but I have more news on La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor. He had an interview on 104.1 Revolt an hour ago where he showed his ass! There's video floating around the web of La'Renz beating Liam Bashor over the head with a microphone. Sources say the former mogul nearly killed the co-host. Now we all know Liam is an instigator, but that gives La'Renz Taylor, convicted murderer of an R&B legend, no right to do what he did today. They need to lock La'Renz right back up. Right now! And throw away the key. And before the fight started, La'Renz brought along a little girl whom he introduced as his new "artist." This girl had the audacity to compare herself to Caylene Hope! Little bitch, how dare you?! Though the girl can sing, she's no Caylene Hope and never will be. It seems as though La'Renz is trying to turn this girl into the new Jazzmine Short. I don't see it happening. I'm not buying it. And I hope you guys aren't either.
Chapter 21
La'Renz "Buddy Rough" Taylor
"La'Renz, what the fuck were you thinking?!" Sundi hollered at me. "I can't believe you fuckin' attacked Liam Bashor! You told me you changed. Are you back on cocaine again?"
"No, Sundi. No. I'm clean. I been clean and I'm staying clean."
"What you just did wasn't clean. The media isn't how it used to be, La'Renz. You can't intimidate people and you definitely can't put your hands on people. Now when Liam sues you we'll never get off the ground!"
"Are you out?" I asked her.
She stopped pacing and glared at me. "I should be. I'm jeopardizing my job at Mount Eliyah to help you and commit to you and Taylor Music Group. But I'm not gonna leave Mount Eliyah if you're just gonna throw your future away."
"I fucked up, Sundi. I'm sorry."
She started scrolling her thumb on the screen of her smartphone. "The blogs are fuckin' goin' nuts right now. We might not be able to recover from this." She tossed the phone at me. It hit me in the stomach kind of hard. "Look at it," she ordered. "Look at all the shit they're saying about you. They're calling for you to go back to prison."
I didn't look at the screen. I set the phone beside me on her bed and looked up at her. "I don't care what the blogs think. Since when have I ever cared about the media?"
"It's different now, La'Renz."
I stood up and put my hands on her shoulders. She turned her head, not wanting to look at me. But I still told her how I felt.
"I may have let my feelings get the best of me today, but I promise I won't let you down again. Okay?"
"La'Renz, I don't wanna hear it."
"It's the truth. I have more than my own life at stake here and I promise to keep that in mind at all times from here on out."
She finally looked me in the eyes. "And what about Kirbie? That girl just signed a contract with us. She's probably sitting in the guest bedroom scared to death right now. She's probably trying to figure out how to escape us."
"She wasn't scared. She actually tried to push one of the security guards off of me."
"That doesn't mean she isn't scared."
"I'll talk to her."
"This is so fucked up, La'Renz. Goddamn. This is not the kind of attention we need."
"I know. But we've been through worse scrutiny than this. Remember?"
I was speaking of our sex tape and the ensuing public humiliation we all endured. Sundi pursed her lips at me for bringing that up.
I said, "We made it through that uns
cathed, didn't we?"
"Did we?" she countered.
"Yes, we did."
She broke away from me and left the room. I followed her into the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of red wine. She drank half of the glass in one gulp, then refilled it.
"You have no idea what I had to deal with while you were gone," she said at me, slamming the bottle down on the counter. There was a great deal of frustration in her eyes and voice. I stood and listened. "I was the most hated woman on earth. The headlines called me a whore, a homewrecker, said I single-handedly ruined Jazzmine's legacy. I had to face all of it alone. I had no one to turn to."
"I had to deal with a lot while I was in prison too, Sundi. Inmates didn't take too kindly of my case."
"I'm not talking about you! I'm talking about me!"
I kept my mouth closed, then waved my hand as if she had the floor and I wouldn't interrupt.
"After that mess, the only jobs I was offered was for posing in men’s magazines or having my ass out on TV. As bad as I needed money, I turned all of that degrading crap down. Nobody took me seriously. It took me a long time for that cloud to pass and for me to rebuild my name. Eliyah Golomb helped me with that. And you want me to leave his company for yours? You want me to throw my career away again for you? Because that's where this is headed. I think I need to stay my ass right where it was at Mount Eliyah."
"Eliyah Golomb is the devil."
"Is he? Or are you? You've caused me more pain than him."
"I can't do this without you, Sundi."
She sipped some more wine. "Go talk to your artist, La'Renz. See if she's even still on board."
"Are you gonna be okay?"
"Just go talk to the girl. Because if she leaves, then I just might leave with her."
I stepped toward her with my arms open for a hug. She backed away, then pointed behind me.
"Go, La'Renz. I'm serious."
***
As I was walking down the hall to the room that Kirbie was staying in, I noticed something on the sleeve of my white sport shirt. It was specks of blood. Liam Bashor's blood. I undid the button cuffs and rolled my sleeves up my arms to hide the violence from earlier.
I didn't know what Sundi was talking about when she said if Kirbie left then she was leaving too. Kirbie was going Nowhere, with a capital N. She signed a contract. And if she tried to get out of it, I'd make her life hell.
Stopping at Kirbie's door, I grabbed the knob and turned it quietly. I didn't knock on doors for artists who hadn't earned my trust yet.
Slowly, I pushed the door open and saw Kirbie standing by the guest bed with her back to me, wearing little to nothing. She had taste in undergarments, I observed—she wore a stretch lace bandeau top as a bra, with matching lace panties. From the towel draped over her left shoulder and the crinkly wet hair sticking to her shoulders and back, it was obvious she had just showered.
She didn't know I was in the room yet—it looked like she was typing on her phone— and this gave me time to study her frame. She had amazing curves. Better curves than Jazzmine ever had, and I wasn't being biased either. Kirbie's apple butt had the perfect roundness and lift. I could imagine it emblazoned on the side of a New York building in an ad for her debut album.
"I'm sorry about what took place," I said.
Startled, she turned toward me and dropped her phone. As she squatted to pick it up, I looked down at her cleavage and saw that she had more than enough to attract advertisers and sell a million records. It was hard for me not to smile.
Thank you Lord for bringing her to me.
"I didn't hear you come in," she said as she stood back up.
She shyly grabbed her drying towel and covered up her frontside. She splayed the bottom of the towel at her thighs almost like a dress. The rest of the towel was scrunched up top, concealing her brassiere. I remembered a game we used to play in prison. It was called "Guess the Nipple." No matter what Rated-R movie we were watching, inmates would call out sizes, shapes, and color shades at the TV that they thought matched the nipple of the onscreen actress. I never joined in the game ostensibly because I thought it was stupid; but I would sit on the sidelines with my arms crossed and guess in my head. I would almost always guess the women's nipple variations correctly before the movie revealed her breasts. For one, I had slept with a lot of women. For two, some of the actresses I had actually laid down with a time or two while—and before—they were famous.
From looking at Kirbie's soft, creamy brown nude skin, I'd guess that she had small dark brown areolas. I'd put money on it.
One day I'd find out.
"I'm sorry, I didn't knock," I said. "But I hope you don't mind me seeing you without clothes on. You're gonna have to get used to dressing and undressing in front of people you've never met."
"I know. I don't mind." She sat down on the edge of the bed and relaxed. The towel flopped into her lap.
"What's that?" I asked, nodding at her torso.
"What is what?" she replied, looking down at herself, trying to see what I saw.
"There's a scar on your ribs. What happened?"
"Oh." Her fingers found the mark and rubbed it. "An iron did this. It happened when I was a kid. My father ... he did it."
"Okay. Not to sound insensitive, but I'm just trying to gauge what your body would look like in a magazine spread. That scar can be easily smudged out in photo editing software. Do you have any other blemishes I should know about?"
She shook her head no.
"Cool." I scratched the back of my neck. "Uh ... I came in here to talk about what just happened at the radio station. I wanna apologize for my actions. That's not how a CEO should act, and I don't want you to think that's the type of behavior you signed on to and should look forward to."
"No, I understand. Liam was out of line. He deserved that."
"He might have deserved it. But I shouldn't have done it. That interview turned into a sideshow of my previous life when the focus should have been on you. That was a disaster."
"It wasn't a complete disaster," Kirbie said. "I got a chance to sing and they seemed to like it."
I smiled. "That's a positive."
"And I've been getting a crazy amount of friend requests on The Site. Thousands. It's incredible. That's what I was looking at when you came in. Some of them are calling themselves my fans already."
"Really?"
She handed me her phone and I saw all the friend requests from people across the world, young and old. As I scrolled down, The Site kept refreshing new requests instantly. They were pouring in. I handed her the phone back.
"Sundi thinks I scared you off," I said. "That's not the case, is it?"
"No. I'm in this thing. I'm not going anywhere."
"I wanna thank you for trying to get the security guards off of me. I noticed that."
"It was instincts."
I held my palm up and Kirbie gave me a high-five. I curled my fingers into her hand and we formed a single fist. We smiled at each other. Her hand was soft, and it reminded me of one of my first intimate moments with Jazzmine Short.
"I'm gonna make you rich and famous," I said to Kirbie, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Are you ready for that?"
"I've been ready for it my whole life," she said back.
Chapter 22
Kirbie Amor Capelton
After La'Renz left my room, I accepted a few of the friend requests and then set my phone down and started pulling on a pair of silk pajama bottoms. I was throwing on an old Care Bears t-shirt that supposedly once belonged to my mother, when my phone rang. I thought it was Archie calling me again. He'd called about nine times since I left Revolt, but I didn't answer because I knew he was going to say something negative about what happened there. I was certain he'd heard or seen the footage on the internet as it was happening or shortly thereafter. All the blogs were covering it. I didn't want to answer his call because I didn't need his hating point of view right now. I could predict what he'd say. Kirbie
, what kind of shit did you get yourself into? I thought you were doing music, not UFC. Bring yo ass home before you make a fool of yourself!
But when I checked my phone it wasn't Archie calling. It was Coras Bane.
I picked up. "Hello?"
"I watched that Revolt video like twenty times already," Coras said with amusement. "No you didn't push one of the security guards." He laughed.
I was blushing. "You saw it?"
"Yeah, I saw it. And so did the rest of America."
"I think I started off on the wrong foot, Coras."
"No, you didn't. This is good. All the blogs are talking about you."
"They're saying I can't sing."
"That's just hate. People don't know what to think of you right now. There's a definition for that. It's called xenophobia, the fear of something new. The blogs I've been reading are saying you have talent. Even GabbyTV admitted that you can sing, so it just depends on what blog you're reading. And you don't need nobody else's opinion on whether or not you can sing. You know you can blow. And don't you ever forget that."
"Thank you, Coras."
"You're welcome. And what an unforgettable first day in New York, huh?"
With the phone to my ear, I started walking around the room looking at the decorations. There was none, really, when compared to the Afrocentric designs in Sundi’s hallway and living room. This guest room was plain—plain bedding, plain furniture, plain off-yellow paint on the walls.
There was no inspiration to be gained here.
"Everything has been moving so fast since I stepped off of the plane," I said to Coras. "I'm just now starting to be able to relax."
"That's the life. It's gonna get faster."
"I know. But one thing that's been bothering me is the fact that I'm signed to Taylor Music Group and not Mount Eliyah ENT."
"Huh? You're signed with Taylor Music Group?"
"Yes. Sundi Ashworth works for La'Renz. Something fishy is going on. Because when I started to mention Sundi's name on-air La'Renz cut me off. I don't think no one knows they're working together. Coras, I thought you sent your mixtape to Mount Eliyah, not Taylor."
God Don't Like Haters 2 Page 11
