Larger Than Lyfe (22 page)

“Unless he can somehow manage to be in two places at one time,” Walter Bumgaarten stated, “it is impossible for him to have murdered Phinnaeus Bernard III because he was at his home during that entire time, meeting with me.”

“No further questions,” Larry Steinberg said.

Phinnaeus Bernard III’s widow burst into tears and had to be taken out of the courtroom.

“
B
abygirl, I must say that I am thoroughly, thoroughly impressed. Any man who can manage to take you away from that record label for three entire days and would not take ‘no’ for an answer when he did it, has got to be a keeper. I can’t wait to meet him. I guess somebody’s finally taking the advice of her five-months-younger, wiser, finer sister.”

Keshari rolled her eyes at her best friend. She and Misha had been kicking back in one of the dressing rooms at Gucci for well over two hours. Keshari sipped a glass of Perrier Jouët while Misha turned this way and that in front of the mirrored wa
ll, admiring her golden, size 6 body in a black number that plunged toward her navel in front and dared to plunge right down past her ass in back. The expensive fabric flowed over her body like liquid.

“Girl, that’s the one.” Keshari grinned. “Get it and let’s get the hell out of here. I have a business meeting to go over the finalized arrangements and expenses for the Atlanta auditions. Not all of us have the desire to dedicate our lives to shopping.”

“I work hard, babygirl. I play hard, too…and so should you. Black belt shopping is but one of the rewards for long strings of fourteen-hour workdays.”

Misha sauntered over to the door in a black La Perla bra and matching thong and waved to the sales associate to let her know that she was ready. Keshari shook her head. Her friend never did have an ounce of shame.

Since Keshari had missed the New York auditions, she was making it up to her crew by throwing a huge bash to kick off their arrival in Georgia for the Atlanta auditions. She’d hired Misha to put it all together at the Coca-Cola Roxy Theatre, the same venue as the Atlanta auditions. Mars was planning to fly to Atlanta for part of the week and was planning to attend the party. Keshari wanted Mars to meet Misha while he was there.

Jagged Edge was one of the groups booked to perform at the Atlanta kickoff party and, of course, the presence of the music industry’s sexiest, thugged-out, R & B twins, Brandon and Brian Casey, required Misha to go out and buy $2,200 worth of man-stealing, baddest-bitch-in-the-room caliber attire. There would be no competition when she went on the prowl that night and the dress that she’d selected guaranteed it.

Misha flopped on the loveseat beside Keshari and slid into her Mizrahi trousers while the sales associate took her platinum American Express card and went out to process the sale.

“Are you happy?” Misha asked. “You look happy.”

Keshari smiled. “I’m happy. I’m…very happy.”

“You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

Keshari was hesitant, feeling almost silly to acknowledge how she felt so soon into her new relationship.

“Girl, you’re talkin’ to me,” Misha quipped, “your sister. You can tell me how you feel. Hell, it’s written all over your face.”

“Yes,” Keshari answered.

“Is he in love with you?” Misha asked.

“Yes,” Keshari answered without any doubt.

“Does my brother know?”

“Yeah,” Keshari answered. “He’s the reason I’ve got the new Range Rover.”

She hesitated for a moment before telling Misha the rest.

“I also told Rick that I wanted out of the organization.”

“Oh, damn,” Misha said, knowing exactly what was involved and what could potentially happen in trying to walk away from where Keshari stood in the drug game. “Are you okay? Do you need me to talk to that bastard?”

“Yes, I’m okay,” Keshari said, “and, no, I don’t want you talking to anybody. I don’t want you involved in this in any way. I just can’t do it anymore and I can’t look Mars in the eye and continue lying to him.”

“Key, of all the people I know, you deserve to realize some true happiness…and peace of mind. Don’t worry about my brother. Fuck my brother’s business affairs, too. Take care of YOU and be happy…with Mars.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

“It IS that simple,” Misha said dismissively. “When do I get to meet my soon-to-be brother-in-law?”

“It’s not that deep yet,” Keshari answered, “but he is coming to Atlanta to meet you and if you embarrass me by interrogating him like you work for the police, I’m going to kick your ass.”

Mars was in the underground garage at ASCAP, on his way home to finish packing before his limousine arrived to take him to the airport, when he was approached by a young reporter.

“Mr. Buchanan, how does it feel to be romantically linked to the most powerful woman in the music industry? Is your relationship serious? Have there been discussions of marriage?”

“I have a great admiration for Keshari Mitchell’s accomplishments in the music industry. I also possess a great deal of respect for her privacy. I have no further comment.”

“It’s been rumored in the industry that Keshari Mitchell is connected to one of the most powerful crime organizations in the country. Are you aware of this? Are you involved in her illegal business dealings in any way?”

“Do you want to find yourself and whatever sleazy tabloid you represent knee-deep in litigation?”

“Nah, bro,” the young, overzealous reporter responded. “It’s not that deep. I’m just doing my job.”

“Then get the fuck away from me…and try to find yourself a real job. You call this fucking journalism?!”

Mars slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes and sped away.

L
imousines lined up outside Atlanta’s Coca-Cola Roxy as if it was Grammy night at the Shrine Auditorium. Misha, known throughout the entertainment industry, particularly in Los Angeles, for putting together some of entertainment elite’s most talked about parties, had flown to Atlanta days before everyone else to orchestrate every single nut and bolt of the night’s festivities. With a blank check from Keshari and carte blanche to do whatever she wanted, Misha promised her best friend a Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment party that would be nothing short of spectacular and, from the looks of the
night’s turnout, Misha had certainly kept her promise. Atlanta was the Los Angeles of the Dirty South. People loved to flaunt their success in every way that they could and without apology, from their world-famous, designer-labeled clothes to the cars that they drove, and even with the people they dated…sporting scantily clad women of mixed ethnic background on their arms like another piece of diamond-encrusted jewelry. The atmosphere both outside and inside the Roxy was pure excess, money and ego both vying with one another to dominate the evening.

Keshari’s limousine pulled up to the
front of the music hall and everything seemed to momentarily pause as she stepped from the car before photographers leapt at the opportunity to photograph her with Mars Buchanan. Keshari was dressed like a rock star as she stepped from the car and grabbed Mars’s hand. She wore
black, beaded, Armani short-shorts that gave full exposure to her killer legs, a matching, beaded bikini top under a black Armani tuxedo jacket, and four-inch Jimmy Choo sandals. A diamond belly chain that was a gift from Mars accentuated a toned stomach that would give Janet Jackson a run for her money. She was definitely a music mogul who operated by her own set of rules.

Mars sported black Armani as well. A single-breasted, black Armani suit with a black, silk knit “wife-beater” underneath. They had to be the hottest-looking couple in the entire music industry and it was becoming abundantly clear that whatever was transpiring between the two of them was not just casual dating. Mars couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of Keshari and Keshari appeared to be blossoming right before the eyes of the music industry and the curious public. She still maintained careful distance from the media, but, otherwise, her whole demeanor seemed to have changed, opened up and b
ecome much more three-dimensional since her romantic link to the super-handsome, West Coast general counsel for ASCAP.

Jermaine Dupri, who was an ATL native, and his longtime girlfriend, Janet Jackson, along with members of Dupri’s SoSoDef record label, arrived. So did rapper Ludacris and his sizeable entourage. Expensively customized Hummers, Mercedes-Benzes, Lincoln Navigators, Porsches, and Ferraris crowded the valet parking lanes. Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliot zoomed up in her trademark Lamborghini. Music video models dressed as minimally as Keshari strutted up the red carpet, trying to project the attitudes of superstars. The twenty finalists who had been selected in Los Angeles and New York were provi
ded with passes and airfare to attend the Atlanta party, and you could read the barely controllable excitement on all of their faces as they were treated with the star quality that they all dreamed of having one day.
Paparazzi were having a field day capturing photos of the incoming crowd, but they were kept at bay by very tight security and velvet ropes cordoning off the area.

In two days, the week-long Atlanta auditions would be under way.

Misha could work a room like nobody’s business. In the daring, black Gucci dress she’d chosen specifically for that night, she circulated from one side of the Roxy to the other, stopping to chat with party guests and accepting business cards from celebs and other high-profile Atlanta residents who wanted her to coordinate their next party, before she located a quiet corner in the packed party zone just for herself.

Brandon Casey of the R & B group, Jagged Edge, nursing a snifter of Courvoisier, followed her like an obedient puppy, his eyes intent on the switch of her perfect ass. Misha was like the Black version of Samantha on HBO’s
Sex and the City
. She was a magnet for men, she conquered them sexually, and then promptly dismissed them when they’d expended their usefulness in her life or had started to grate on her nerves.

She’d done an amazing job with all of the arrangements. Suede sectional seating was scattered all about. Dimmed, lounge lighting and potted palms set a comfortable, “VIP room” ambiance. Cristal, Courvoisier, Hpnotiq, and expensive cigars abounded. Unique, Southern cuisine and appetizers from a renowned Atlanta chef were there for the taking.