Larger Than Lyfe (5 page)

“Page fifteen,” Andre said, directing Keshari to the professionally prepared binders that he’d arranged to have assembled for their meeting.

Keshari put on her reading glasses and scanned the lengthy list of meticulously organized itemizations until she reached the bottom line on the fifteenth page.

“Twenty million dollars, Andre? Fuck, most movie budgets are not this large.”

Andre chuckled. “Remember, this is a year-long promotional and recruitment project. That kind of undertaking does not come with a small price tag.”

“Yeah, and since this record label’s doors opened, we’ve never put this much money into a single project. I’m not going to hop in with both feet without looking at things from every angle.”

“Of course, this project can be done cheaper, Keshari. You know that and I know it. There are numerous areas where we could cut corners and narrow the budget…possibly by as much a
s five million,
but it would not be a true reflection of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment’s image. As far as the public and the music industry are concerned, we are the top of the food chain and we’ve got a reputation to uphold. Now, if it’s any consolation to you, I submitted the budget for this project to accounting for a prelim review. The findings of that review are on page thirty. Accounting appears to believe that I did a very satisfactory job. I didn’t leave a stone unturned. From airfares to advertising to venue rentals, all of it has been calculated into the budget. I put months of work and rewor
k into this before ever bringing it to you.”

Keshari flipped through the binder and skimmed accounting’s notations.

“I’m gonna review all of this for a couple of days. Are you prepared to go to press release?”

“You bet,” Andre answered.

“You haven’t told anyone else about this project, have you?”

“Come on. You know me better than that. Of course not. I’m as concerned about the risk of a leak on a project this major as you are.”

She reached over to the console and buzzed her assistant.

“T, what’s my schedule look like this Saturday?”

“The first half of your day is clear,” Terrence said. “Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

She tapped the console off again.

“I want you to come up to the house on Saturday. Nine o’clock. I’ll have made a firm decision by then. In the meantime, I want you to fine-tune the details of the proposal to get ready to pitch to Alton Harrington over at VIBE Network. He’s Cassandra Harrington’s son and the chairman of the network.”

“Sounds like you’ve already made a firm decision,” Andre said, smiling confidently.

“I really like your idea. I know where we can take it…particularly with this enormous budget…and I know what it will mean overall to this record label. But I need to be sure of what I’m getting into, so don’t go popping that bottle of champagne just yet.” Keshari smiled back at him.

She looked down at her watch. The two had
been in discussion for almost two hours.

“Shit! I’ve got to get out of here. Is there anything else that we need to cover?”

“We can certainly cover anything that I missed on Saturday. I’ll see you at Rasheed’s party tonight,” Andre said.

Keshari tapped the console on her desk and rang the garage. “Mario, bring my car around. I’m on my way down.”

M
isha Tierney keyed in the access code at the entrance to Keshari’s home. The gate sealing off the mansion’s entrance slid open, Misha waved to the two guards at the security office, then her silver BMW convertible cruised up the winding drive to the front of Keshari’s $9 million, Mediterranean-style home. The house sat high atop the cliffs of Palos Verdes, obscured from the view of passersby in front and wide open in back to a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean and boats sailing to Catalina Island in the distance.

Misha grabbed a garment bag and makeup case from her trunk and went into the house. Keshari sat on the floor in the large, glass-domed solarium, engaged in discussion with her record label’s accounting department over the speakerphone. A slew of papers were scattered around her and her open briefcase. She waved to Misha as Misha bounded up the staircase at the end of the foyer. “Marcus Garvey” and “Hannibal,” Keshari’s two purebred Rottweilers, were at her heels.

Keshari and Misha Tierney had been the very best of friends for more than fifteen years. They’d grown up together, living in houses right next door to each other in the Leimert Park section of Los Angeles. Keshari was an only child and Misha became the
sister she’d always wanted. The two girls were inseparable from the day they’d met when they were just starting seventh grade at Audubon Middle School.

Keshari was new to the neighborhood and Misha introduced her to all of her friends. Misha was the social butterfly of the two and Keshari quickly earned the reputation as “the brain.” Misha was always something of a bossy know-it-all. Keshari was very strong-minded and obstinate when she’d made up her mind and wasn’t having any of it. The two girls fought and sometimes wouldn’t speak to each other for days, but they always made up. They were fiercely protective and supportive of one another as only sisters could be.

Keshari became a permanent fixture in Misha’s household and, as she grew up, Misha’s older brother, Ricky, began to take notice of his baby sister’s friend. Some people have a certain aura about them, a charisma, something extremely special that even complete strangers seem to recognize and Keshari had that in a big way. Add her unexpected, green eyes in her flawless, brown skin and the fact that she seemed completely incognizant of what a stunningly beautiful, young woman she was growing into and Keshari was a force to be reckoned with even then.

Ricky was calculating and smooth in the way he went about inserting himself into her life. While he did not pursue her sexually, he did begin to take greater interest in Keshari’s interests and introduce her to new things. He brought her books and suggested jazz and conscious hip-hop that he thought she would like. Misha was smart enough to see what was transpiring and she hated Ricky for what he was doing. Misha’s brother was nearly ten years older than Keshari and he was a womanizer. He didn’t care about anybody except himself and he was just biding his time until Keshari turned eig
hteen so that he could fuck her up in
more ways than one. He’d been the black sheep in the family almost from the day he was born and Misha didn’t want to see her best friend get hurt.

Misha implemented every weapon of distraction that she could to keep Keshari and Ricky’s peculiar relationship at bay, but, with teenage hormones raging, combined with the thrill of having an older man like Ricky interested in her, Keshari was drawn to Misha’s brother like a moth to a flame.

Misha was well aware of the fact that her best friend had eventually gotten caught up in her brother’s illegal business dealings. When Keshari’s mom passed away, Keshari seemed, for a period of time, to be hell-bent on trying to kill herself. Misha did everything that she could to sway Keshari away from “the game” and when she couldn’t, Misha couldn’t bring herself to judge Keshari too harshly. Keshari had lost so much in her life at such a young age and she’d made some very self-destructive decisions because of it and because of Misha’s brother.

Misha Tierney’s love for Keshari was unconditional. If there was any person in the world who Keshari knew would ride or die for her, she knew unequivocally that Misha Tierney was that one.

“What’s up, girl?” Misha asked when Keshari joined her in the master suite’s bath.

“There’s not enough hours left in this day to cover all the shit that’s going on in my life right now.”

She sat down on the edge of the sunken whirlpool tub and proceeded to run herself a bath. She glanced over at Misha as she shook tea salts into the water and shook her head. Misha had stripped down to her bra and panties. She had Thaa Dogg Pound
on the CD changer in the bedroom and the music was blasting. She’d pinned her wrapped-straight, gold-highlighted, brown hair on top of her head and stood in front of the mirror over one of the dressing room sinks, applying an avocado mask to her face while shimmying her perfect size 6 ass to the music.

“I am exhausted,” Keshari said. “Feels like I haven’t slept in a week. Add the fact that I think I’m about to give the green light to proceed on the biggest, single project that Larger Than Lyfe has ever done, and a meltdown has got to be just around the corner.”

“Girl, please. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you weren’t working your tail off for that record label,” Misha said. “Exhaustion ceased to exist in your vocabulary probably your second year into this gig. You’ll be okay. What’s the project?”

“We’re about to do a televised, nationwide talent search. I meet with Andre again about it this weekend and we’re sure to go to press release in the next few days.”

“Damn! That is major.”

“Yeah…twenty million dollars major, and we’re pitching the project to Cassandra Harrington and VIBE Network to pick it up. Let’s just hope it’s not the one project that I live to regret. I want you in on this, so clear a portion of your schedule for me.”

“Cool,” Misha said. “Once again, my girl’s going to give the other record labels a serious run for their money. I can already see Puffy doing a remixed version of what you’re about to do for his own label. You know the number. Just give my office a call when you’re ready for my people to get to work for you.”

Misha was a well-known, Los Angeles events coordinator. From the Soul Train Music Awards and Grammy Awards after-parties to birthday bashes for NBA players to upscale soirées at powerful, Black politicians’ and businessmen’s homes, Misha knew
a thing or two about putting together big events with big price tags that everybody who was anybody wanted to be a part of.

“I went to see Rick today,” Keshari said matter-of-factly, changing the subject.

“And?” Misha responded dismissively.

“He goes to trial in three weeks. He’s still adamant that he’s been set up.”

“Like I give a damn,” Misha answered, rolling her eyes. “Ricky’s business is not my business and I make it a rule of thumb to keep his very existence as far away from my personal sphere as possible. Shit, I changed my last name to make it very clear that I want no connection whatsoever to that scum of the fucking earth. I will be so glad when you have the sense enough to do the same.”

“If only it were that simple,” Keshari said, slipping into the warm suds of her bath.

She put her head back and closed her eyes. She’d strongly considered telling Misha about the rest of her visit to see Ricky that day and what had transpired, but she quickly reconsidered. The timing didn’t seem right. If she told Misha about Ricky threatening her life, Misha would have gone ballistic and her attitude would have become entirely too funky for the two of them to go anywhere together that night. Keshari rarely discussed that side of her life with Misha anyway and she did not want Misha to worry about her unnecessarily.

Misha went into the bedroom to change the CD that was playing, then filled a glass at the wet bar with ice, Coke, and a lot of Bacardi rum. She wanted to be in just the right mode to get her “swerve” on once she arrived at Rasheed the Refugee’s party that night. Rasheed the Refugee’s “Land of the Lost” filled the room with Rasheed’s deep, laid-back, apocalyptic lyrical flow and basslaced, “sumthin’ you can ride to” rhythms.