“I need you to replace my driver,” he said. “And I need it to happen today. And no, it wasn’t anything he did.”
It was something he might do, if Jamal let things slide. And he had no intention of letting anything slide.
The new driver’s name was Beckett. Almost as tall as he was, and with the solid physique of someone who worked out on a rigorous schedule, she didn’t smile when Jamal introduced himself. When he took her hand, she shook his with a grip as firm as any man’s.
And when he invited her to call him ‘Jamal’ instead of Mr. Turner, she said that if it was all the same to him, she would prefer not.
“I prefer to keep it professional, if you don’t mind,” she said, still unsmiling.
At that, Jamal nodded. That was why he liked the security firm they used. He didn’t even have to say the words, but clearly, once he explained his needs, the rep understood the meaning behind them.
Beckett was not going to be one for conversation, so Jamal put his ear buds in and found the radio station that SE used most when they began a media blitz to push out an artist. It was the early morning commute time slot, when most people were listening, and one of Harper’s new acquisitions was slated to come up sometime before eight-thirty a.m.
He tuned in just as the deejay was introducing Prentice Michel, and struggling—as Harper had warned Jamal people would—to find a genre to slot him into.
“So help me out, man. How you describe your sound?”
Prentice Michel laughed. “Timeless, boundless, mystical.”
The deejay laughed, but clearly was a little nonplussed by the unconventional response.
“Okay, tell me this then. Who are some of Prentice Michel’s influences? Who you listen to, coming up as a kid?”
“Nobody you’d know prob’ly,” Prentice said. His ‘o’s were full and rounded, betraying his Haitian-American heritage. Then he recited a few names, which, as he’d predicted the deejay had never heard of.
“Nobody my listeners know about, huh?”
“Nah. Prob’ly not. Not unless they’re from Port Au Prince, Jacmel … Gonaïves. And maybe if they’re from Jamaica, Queens.”
Jamal shook his head.
This one was arrogant. Reminded him of someone else he knew. He would have to tell Harper to sit Prentice Michel down, and remind him that he couldn’t talk down to his audience. And to get into his thick skull that if he wanted a career, the goal was to ingratiate himself with folks in the industry media, not alienate them.
“Before we put on your joint … how you pronounce that by the way?”
“M ap vini,” Prentice said. “In Kreyol, it means, ‘I’m coming’ or ‘I’m on my way’. This song is about how you ain’t seen nothin’ like what Prentice Michel is about to show you.”
Jamal sighed.
“Cool, cool,” the deejay said, “But before we check you out, lemme ask you one more thing: who you listenin’ to these days? Any artists out there you want to work wit’?”
“This one I know you know,” Prentice said. “Devin Parks. Had some studio time with that brotha and ain’t too many out there like him. That’s the raw shit, right there,”
“Ohh!”
“My bad.” Prentice Michel laughed. “It’s summertime though, yo. The kids ain’t up yet.”
“Yeah, man. But watch all that language … can’t have nobody pullin’ us off the air. But Devin Parks though. He got some… personal problems right now, ain’t he? Like some … identity issues?”
The deejay and his sidekick cackled for a few beats until Prentice raised his voice to talk over them.
“Can we talk about the music, bruh?”
“Jus’ sayin’ tho’ …”
“Bruh,” Prentice said again. “Bruh … bruh … can we talk about the music? ‘Cause if we gon’ be peepin’ in folks’ bedrooms, I ain’ here for that. I’m about the music. If I want to talk about all that, I’ll go on Maury Povich …”
“I feel you.”
“’Cause real talk, that cat? Devin Parks? Best I heard in a good goddamn while.” Prentice said. And then, “Wait … can I say ‘goddamn’?”
Jamal laughed out loud, and leaned back in the seat, relaxing to enjoy the rest of the ride.
~27~
“This one is cool. And look at this one …”
Makayla was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, next to her cousin, Candace, thumbing through family photos. Most of them were pictures of their grandmother when she was younger, and when they were kids. In a fair number of the photos Devin was there as well, with long, bushy hair.
“Dang,” Candace said peering closely at one of Devin and Makayla, both about five years old.
Devin’s knees were dusty, his shorts frayed and there was a scowl on his face. He looked angry.
“Why he look so mad all the time?” Candace said. “Must be ‘cause this was back in the day when they ain’t have ‘Mixed Kids’ hair products.” She laughed at her joke, and Makayla nudged her in the side.
“He was going through a lot.”
“How he doin’ now?” Candace asked. “Especially with that whole … did you know about that? That he was out there doin’ all that nasty shit?”
“He’s fine now,” Makayla said, avoiding the other question. “Not that I’ve seen him for a little while.”
Since their lunch two weeks earlier, he had been scarce, except for a couple of quick phone calls, and a few text messages each day. He said he was jamming with Prentice Michel, the artist Harper had shown Makayla pictures of; and that his bookings were up because of a shout-out on the radio.
‘You believe that’s all it took?’ he asked.
She could tell he was trying not to sound, nor to be too hopeful about what the boost could mean for him career-wise. So far it meant an uptick in gigs, later nights, less time, and more chances for both of them to try on what it felt like, not being together as much.
People were still talking about Tyree Scott’s claims, which Devin had never publicly confirmed or denied; but it had now receded enough that Makayla was confident that in six months or so, it would become internet folklore. In the Information Age, three weeks was practically a lifetime, and six months was an eternity.
Devin Parks was still on everyone’s lips, but now, more for his music, and for his rumored intimate relationship with her. Makayla didn’t care about the rumors and innuendo. Because the people who mattered knew it wasn’t true. It just seemed so odd, though, how relentless the stories had been, the gradual dribble of tidbits and “insider information” that never seemed to stop.
At school, people had begun to recognize her. Her friend Drina asked her questions about Jamal, about SE and about Devin; and others had become much friendlier, or much less so. Coming back here, to this apartment, where her cousin was living, and where she used to live with her grandmother reminded Makayla of simpler times and the much less complicated life she used to have.
And now that Jackson had disappeared on her, she needed something … someone like Candace. Devin could have been that person. And would have been, if she let herself call him. But she couldn’t do that.
The way Harper had broken them down that day still made her heart ache. Not because she had been cruel, but because she had been so completely, and utterly on point. Devin relied on her, it was true, but Makayla had relied on that reliance. The textbook definition of codependency.
That night, when she went to his apartment and Harper walked out, she pretended she didn’t know why, but she had. And part of her felt smug that Devin had chosen to stay with her, rather than to go after Harper. It made her sick to her stomach now, thinking about the emotional games she played—and Devin played—with other people’s hearts. They enabled each other. Devin allowed her to push Jamal away, she allowed him to pick her over Harper.
“It’s Labor Day soon,” Candace said. “You call your mother yet? About coming for the wedding?”
“I don’t know if I want her to co
me for the wedding,” Makayla said honestly.
“Your momma?” Candace said. “You’re not sure if you want her to come for your wedding?”
“Candace, this is my momma.” She stabbed a finger at a picture of their grandmother, with a tiny Makayla hugging her leg.
Makayla almost believed she could remember the day the picture was taken, but something told her that it wasn’t a memory of that particular day, but of many days where the emotions she had, mirrored those in the photograph. Her grandmother, always there, her shelter, her protector, that she could hold on to whenever she needed that.
“We should scan all of these,” she said. “So we don’t lose them. If we lost the prints, they’d be gone for good.”
“You can take them,” Candace said, shrugging. “Send me whatever you scan.”
Looking at her cousin, Makayla almost couldn’t believe she would part with them so easily, would let her take them out of this apartment. It seemed weird, to think of them anywhere else, but here where her grandmother had lived.
“They belong with you,” Candace said, as if she’d read her mind. “You were closest to her.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. And y’know what I seen on TV? Some people blow up pictures of people who passed, and have them at their wedding. You could do something like that. You know she would have loved to see you marry that fine ass man.”
Makayla laughed, still not mustering up the courage to tell her cousin that marriage to “that fine ass man” was very much in doubt these days.
“Okay, I’ll take them. But I’ll send you jpeg files of everything. Or put them on a CD or something.”
“Cool,” Candace said.
“I’d better go,” Makayla said. “I’m meeting my wedding person.”
She had planned, today, once and for all, to tell Claire that she no longer needed her. It was on her list to do for over a week, but part of her kept hoping that Jamal would thaw, and decide the November wedding was back on. That she would wake up one morning and his fist would be anchored in her locs, the way it used to be and he would say, ‘Baby, let’s do it. I love you, and I want to get married. Just like we planned.’
But now, almost September and he hadn’t budged. They hadn’t even talked about it.
Instead, they just meandered along, day by day, living next to, rather than with each other in the apartment. Ironically, Jamal was generally home for dinner three times a week now. His schedule had become fairly predictable. He still had evening engagements, which he had Gayle send her details of, but he never asked her directly whether she wanted to go; and she never offered because now, she wasn’t altogether certain he would want her along.
“I’m still the maid-of-honor, right?”
“Yup.” Makayla scrambled up from her position on the floor before Candace could ask more questions about the wedding. Today, she could only tackle one difficult conversation.
And that would be with Claire.
“Beckett, do you know all the other … drivers?”
“No ma’am. It’s a pretty sizeable company.”
Beckett, like Jackson, insisted on calling her ‘ma’am’ but unlike Jackson, she wasn’t approachable enough for Makayla to have the guts to ask her to call her anything else.
“Do you know Jackson?” she asked.
“I know two Jacksons that work for the company, ma’am.”
“Young-ish, Black guy. About my age, tall …”
“Matthias Jackson,” Beckett said.
“Matthias,” Makayla repeated the name and smiled.
It suited him. And she couldn’t believe she had never thought to ask him before, what his first name was. Maybe because just ‘Jackson’ seemed to fit.
“Matthias,” she said again. “Yes. Thank you.”
“It’s just been a very hectic time for him professionally, and for me with school and everything. So, we thought maybe it would be better to think of a date later out.”
It was pretty much an indication of what her life had become, that the only person besides Devin who knew that her wedding was being postponed was a paid employee.
“Oh,” Claire said, sitting on one of the kitchen stools. “But we’re so far along. There’s hardly anything left other than the dress, the tuxes. We’ve …”
“I know. And if sucks, but we just can’t … right now.”
Claire looked at her searchingly. “I hope it’s nothing that can’t … That it isn’t something irreparable.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Makayla said, struggling to keep her gaze steady. “We’re just swamped. And this was unexpected for us as well.”
“Oh, because I wondered whether it might have something to do with …” she lowered her voice as though there was someone else who might overhear them. “You know. Those blogs.”
Makayla felt her face grow warm. “Have you been reading them?”
“No! I mean, I have, but not as a habit or anything. A friend of mine had one of them open on her browser and I saw your picture, and mentioned to her that you were one of my clients for your wedding.”
Makayla blanched. “You mentioned to a friend that you were planning my and Jamal’s wedding.”
“Yes. Should I not have? Of course, I didn’t share any details or private information. Just that you’re a client. Was that …?”
Shaking her head, Makayla swallowed hard, remembering something. That damned non-disclosure agreement. She had never asked Claire to sign it.
“As long as you didn’t share anything about us, or about our home, or anything personal like that.”
“I wouldn’t.” Claire said. Her voice had hardened. “I told you. You and your fiancée are not the most famous people I’ve ever worked for.” Then, maybe hearing how that sounded, she smiled again. Except this time, it seemed false. “I mean, I know the drill about privacy and confidentiality of high-profile clients. That’s all.”
“Good,” Makayla said slowly. “But just the same, before we close things out, if you could sign something that we have all our staff …”
Claire snorted.
Makayla studied her face. “Is something the matter, Claire?”
“No. It just would have been nice to have a little more notice, that’s all. I guess you’re saying today is my last day.”
“Yeah,” Makayla said, still staring at her. “I’m saying that today is your last day. But you’re right. Since it’s unexpected, I’ll give you two weeks as severance. Does that sound fair?”
“Sure,” Claire said, in the same dry, hard voice.
By the time Makayla had written her a check, had her sign the belated NDA and then shut the door, her hands were shaking a little. Not because she was frightened or anything but because of how strange and unsettling it was to have someone like Claire, who had been almost cloyingly sweet for as long as she had known her, turn on a dime like that.
‘She’s fake,’ Devin had said upon meeting her. ‘Fake.’
If the Claire she had seen in the last few minutes had made an appearance even once in the past several weeks, Makayla would not have been so open, so liberal about having her work in the apartment when no one was home. Or have the concierge let her in early to wait when she was running late. And she’d forgotten all this time to have her sign the agreement. Makayla only hoped they worked retroactively.
She had only been pondering that question for about ten minutes when she heard the front door being opened, and startled at the unexpectedness of it. Heading out to the foyer, and seeing that it was only Jamal, her shoulders sagged.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I didn’t expect you this early. I just let Claire go.”
He nodded, then shut the door, leaning against it, and looking her over, his eyes narrowed. He was wearing a long-sleeved, lightweight Henley, his uniform of choice for the office. Suits and ties were a rarity for him, no matter the occasion. Makayla had been looking forward to seeing him dress up for their wedding, but she
doubted it would have any stronger an effect on her than seeing him like this did. His arms and chest were well-defined beneath the thin fabric, and even his abs, from some angles.
It used to be that when he came through the door like this, she would walk right into his arms. She hadn’t done that in ages. While he didn’t seem to miss it, she ached for it, even now, when he looked so unapproachable.
“Should I be asking you the same thing?” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on his, trying to read them. “Is something wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I got a call,” he said. “From a friend of yours.”
“Of mine?” She narrowed her eyes. Jamal didn’t know any friends of hers. She barely had any anymore.
“Matthias Jackson,” he enunciated.
“Jackson called you? Why?”
“Because Beckett told him that you were asking about him. Were you?”
“Yeah. Because he just disappeared without warning, and I wanted to ...”
“It wasn’t without warning. I asked for him to be replaced.”
“You did? Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Did he do something?”
“You tell me.”
Makayla shook her head from side to side. “What are you talking about?”
“Why were you trying to contact him?”
“I wasn’t trying to contact him.”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, maybe I was going to call the security company and ask whether they could put me in touch. But only so I could check that everything was alright, because he left so suddenly. But I don’t get why he would call you, and not me.”
“Because he’s a professional, that’s why,” Jamal said.
“I still don’t understand what ...”
Makayla was still shaking her head when he pushed himself away from the door and came toward her.
“You don’t understand? Let me break it down for you. These men and women who drive us around, are not minimum-wage workers. They’re not … chauffeurs. They’re extremely well-compensated, and apart from that, stand to get really, really good side-gigs from their top-drawer clients.
The Takedown Page 25
