GHETTO SUPERSTAR (22 page)

“And Johnny Wiz is a very powerful man. He called me personally to say that if I continued to play that song, he would pull his sponsorship money, the under-the-table payola, and forbid his artists to do promotion on our stations. He said he wouldn't allow them to perform at our summer concerts and he would no longer make sure we get his artists' music before anyone else. Damn near half the stuff we're playing on the radio are artists
that are under Johnny Wiz's umbrella. It would destroy us if we didn't have access to them.” Tonk didn't say anything, so Mike kept talking.

“I wish I could help you, because I don't even like the arrogant little fuck, but in this industry, Johnny Wiz is not a person to get out of favor with. My bosses would kick me in the street so fast it wouldn't even be funny. The man has at least thirty top-selling artists at any given time, and no disrespect to you or your boss, you only have one and she's still an unknown.”

“I get it.”

Tonk returned back to Richmond and reported to Casino everything that he'd learned from Mike Moss. When he got to Casino's new office at the Ghetto Superstar record label that he'd created, Tonk found his boss surrounded by boxes of pressed-up singles of Fabiola's song. Viola had told him earlier that they were having problems with distribution—even the mom-and-pop stores weren't taking the record.

Casino was sitting at his desk thinking about his next move, when he caught a glimpse of the man that was causing them all the trouble. Johnny Wiz was doing an interview on one of the video channels talking about an upcoming tour of his artists sponsored by Hypnotic. It hit Casino right then and there. “I know what's got to happen,” he said out loud.

First, he called Taz and began telling him what he had in mind. After briefing him, Casino added, “I need you to be able to get me an in-da-streets dj, not one of those industry chumps.”

“Then you want K-Slay or DJ Envy,” Taz said.

Casino didn't know too much about either one of the men, so he would have to take Taz's word. “You got a number and a relationship with one of them?”

“Sure do, I fuck with both of them. Good thorough cats that ain't on none of that shady bullshit.”

With one phone call, K-Slay was spinning the song as if it was no big deal. It was a hot song and that's what K-Slay did—play hot songs.

Casino wasn't finished. Now he had to put the fire under Johnny Wiz so that he could understand fully that the heat was on.

n Monday night, a rose-colored 500 SL Mercedes Benz pulled up in front of The Bridge Night Club amidst a sell-out crowd waiting to get in. The spot was located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and was the latest must-be spot in the city on Thursday nights; they had a different hot performer each week.

Royce and Petey exited the Benzo, giving the keys to the valet. “I still think we should have gone in from the back,” Petey warned.

“I want to be with my fans,” Royce said. “They love me and I love them.”

People started screaming, pushing, and shoving when
they saw Royce exit the Mercedes. “That's Royce over there!” someone yelled.

“That's my girl,” screeched another.

“Damn, that bitch is fine,” a dude said to his friend.

“Who's that clown she's wit?” the friend responded.

Royce wore a rose, tailor-made print dress that fit her petite frame to a tee. The dress matched the color of the foreign car she was driving and complimented her chocolate complexion too well. Petey took her hand and smiled. “That dress is strangling yo ass. Let's get you inside before I have to get the National Guard to keep these fools off of you.”

“You stepped on my shoe, nigga! Watch where you muthafuckin' goin', fool!” a two-hundred-pound plus-size black guy, who was standing near Royce and Petey, said to a light-skinned dude.

“First of all I'm Puerto Rican—not a nigga—and fuck you and your sh—”

Before the light-skinned dude could finish his statement, he was corrected by a straight right to his left eye.

“Oh, shit,” someone said. “Did you see that?”

“Hell yeah,” another person responded. “He knocked that muthafucka out!”

The light-skinned dude wasn't at the club alone, and when his friend saw him stretched out on the ground, he fired a punch at the man that had hit his friend. But the guy ate the punch and sent him to meet his light-skinned friend on the ground with a left hook. At that point all hell broke loose. It was like the Royal Rumble on one of those wrestling networks. Fists and feet were flying all over the place and no one was exempt—not even a superstar.

A chick dressed in Goth clothing snatched a handful of Royce's hair, pulling it clean off her head. Until that moment no one had known that Royce's trademark flowing black hair was a wig.

Underneath the wig Royce had on an old black stocking cap with a big hole on the side of it. “Y'all bitches then done it now.” Royce let loose with a punch of her own, grazing the cheek of the Goth chick who snatched her wig. “And get that fuckin' camera out of my gotdamn face,” she said.

When it was all said and done, eleven people ended up in the hospital, three in serious condition. Petey had to be flown away by chopper to the emergency room to tend to a knife wound in his side, but he would be okay.

* * *

The next evening, Johnny Wizard's controversial rap group Zinc was having an album release party in the civic center in Cleveland. It was a great turnout, and many old-school and new-school artists were in attendance. Everything was going fine until someone called in a bomb threat, causing the building to be evacuated.

“I'm sorry, but no one is going to be allowed to go back into the building tonight,” the fire chief announced.

“You can't do that,” the event promoter protested. “The Wizard spent over seven hundred thousand dollars to put this event together. It's being covered nationally. If you shut it down it will be a disaster!”

“I just did,” the chief said bluntly.

The next night, The Wizard's “Move the Crowd” tour in Chicago was taking place, which was a media-covered extravaganza. Everybody was interested in the hot, young multiplatinum gangster rapper from Compton—Death Wish. His songs “Fear Nothing,” “Got Dat Gat,” and “Felon” garnered him national attention. Were his songs art imitating reality, or reality imitating art? That was the question among most music intellectuals. Most real street toughs labeled him as a fraud, but Death Wish dismissed them as envy-filled haters who wanted to be him.

The stadium event was booked to capacity and everyone was on their feet when Death Wish was introduced to the stage. Then it happened. Gunshots roared through the air. “Get down!” someone on the stage yelled. The dj dove off the platform. People in the crowd were being stampeded or worse; some ran toward and others ran away from the stage. Meanwhile, random shots continued to ring out. It didn't matter who fired the first shot or what that person was shooting at—the stadium was now the scene of a miniwar. Chicago was a city of real gangsters and gang members who didn't need a whole lot of encouragement to buck their gats.

Death Wish dove behind a set of large speakers for cover and pulled out his phone.

“9-1-1,” the lady on the other end of the phone answered. “What is your emergency?”

“Send the police,” Death Wish choked out the words. “Somebody is trying to kill me.”

“Slow down, sir,” the dispatcher said. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Death Wish.”

“Is that your real name?”

“My name is Jr., Bartholomew Kitten, Jr.”

“Bartholomew,” the dispatcher repeated, “how old are you?”

“I'm thirty-seven.”

“And where are you right now, Bartholomew?”

“Why you asking me all these damn questions, bitch? I'm hiding behind a fuckin' speaker. I knew these niggas in Chi-town were crazy. They trying to kill me. I'm not like them, I grew up in the church choir—I'm no gangster.”

The dispatcher could hear the fear and desperation in his voice. “Don't worry, Mr. Kitten, the police are on the way.”

“It's about time. I am a tax-paying citizen,” he cried.

Later that night another Wizard artist suffered a setback: Jupiter Jazz's tour bus was vandalized. All of the tires were flattened and someone spray painted
JOHNNY WIZ IS A WOMANIZING PERVERTED BISEXUAL BITCH
on the side of the bus in neon-green script.

“And the disasters for The Wizard didn't end there,” the female correspondent featured on “Music Lifestyles” reported as she went through a laundry list of misfortunes that had befallen Johnny Wiz's artists that week. “Meanwhile, at the hotel of another one of The Wizard's artists, Slakey Jake and his entourage were robbed at gunpoint of all their jewelry. The estimated value of the stolen goods was over a million dollars.”

Johnny turned off the television in disgust, and was deep in thought when he was interrupted by his secretary's voice over the intercom. “Mr. Wiz?”

“What?” he yelled a little too loudly, startling her somewhat.

“I have Zink's manager on the phone. Also, Petey and Royce are here to see you.”

Johnny was in no mood to talk to anyone. “Take a message.”

“It's about the security, sir.”

“I told them that I have the best security money can buy,” he spat, “and shit just happens sometimes. This week was an aberration.” Now all he had to do was to convince himself of that.

Casino was almost in tears. He hadn't laughed so hard in a long time. “Job well done,” Casino said proudly to Tonk.

“Thank you.” Tonk smiled, glad he could be of assistance to his boss and longtime friend. “What do you think that nigga Johnny Wiz is doing right now?”

“He's fucked up, I'm sure.”

“You betta bet that Johnny Wiz is somewhere hiding, not taking one single phone call,” Tonk said. “He should know that you don't play with fire, because you will get burned.”

athan Walshenberg was a legend. With more than forty years in the music biz, Nathan's work was not only still relevant, but prevalent. He was responsible for launching some of the most iconic pop, jazz, and R & B stars of all time. The mention of his name garnered the respect and admiration from old-school, new-school, and up-and-coming artists alike. Most performers only dreamed of one day being in the same room with a man of his stature and greatness. Once a year in his hometown of Philadelphia they got a shot to rub elbows with Nathan.

It was Nathan's thirtieth annual red-carpet charity dinner for underprivileged children. At $50,000 dollars a table, all the heavy-hitting players were in the building to
show respect for Nathan and support the cause on this beautiful star-filled night. Held in an elegant, elaborate tent that was decorated like a sultan's castle, Madonna, Diana Ross, Diddy, 50 Cent, Sting, Elton John, Eminem, and Dr. Dre were just a few of the stars that were out and about that night.

Nathan and Casino went a long way back, but this was the first year that Casino was in attendance despite twenty years of personal invites from Nathan himself. Casino never had a real reason to rub elbows with any of the people in attendance. But Fabiola had entered his life at just the right time, and ever since the shooting he knew he wanted to take his life in a new direction. The $50K was a small investment for Casino, because it not only put him in a room filled with influential key players, it would also put him in the company of Johnny Wiz.

Johnny Wiz almost hadn't come; he was still trying to maintain damage control over all the disastrous events that had taken place last week. He may have appeared as arrogant and as confident as ever, but on the inside it was a different story. He was worn out mentally and in total despair. He was even worried about something crazy happening at this event; something that would cause him more problems—problems with Walshenberg. He was listening to the imaginary news report that was playing in his head of how something else related to him went wrong. In the middle of his thoughts, someone approached him.

“Johnny Wiz,” Casino called out, greeting the man in front of him eye to eye. Casino smiled and grabbed two glasses of champagne from the tray of a tuxedo-clad waiter. “How are you? You look like you could use one of these.”