Larger Than Lyfe (6 page)

“Well, Miss Thing,” Misha said as she stood in the mirror patting her face dry after rinsing off her mask, “I think this party will be exactly the distraction you need to take your mind off business for at least a little while. It’s going to be wall-to-wall brothas.”

“That’s the least of my priorities,” Keshari said without opening her eyes. “With Rick’s upcoming trial and this talent search project about to get underway, I’ll soon be playing both ends against the middle. I don’t have time for any romantic entanglements. Besides, I think you’ve got that little ‘hoochie mama’ routine hemmed up all by yourself. I’ll leave the brothas to you tonight. What would I look like trolling around through record label executives and would-be rappers for a date?”

“Like a normal, young, red-blooded, extremely successful, damned woman,” Misha said, glaring at her sarcastic friend’s reflection in repose in the tub. “Furthermore, perhaps you should reassess your ‘priorities’ from time to time and make more of an effort to get yourself laid. That might take some of the pressure off. Deal with the talent search project tomorrow and let that fucked-up bastard ROT
in jail for all I care. I haven’t seen you in anything remotely resembling a healthy, romantic relationship since you made the mistake of getting yourself involved with him. What? Ha
ve you decided to stand by your man and serve him up with conjugal visits while he spends the rest of his sick-assed life behind bars?!”

“Shit, Misha! Don’t start. I am definitely not in the mood.”

“You stubborn bitch!” Misha replied. “Tonight is the perfect opportunity for you to meet somebody…somebody fun…somebody who could very well prove worthy of you.”

Keshari didn’t even bother to respond. She wanted to sink into her bathwater until it covered her head. Sometimes Misha either intentionally dismissed or momentarily forgot who Keshari was.

At 10 p.m., Keshari’s black Bentley convertible pulled into one of the congested valet lanes at the Mondrian Hotel in West Hollywood. She had two Suburbans with professional bodyguards escorting her. She also had a team of undercover security agents working the crowd.

Keshari had rarely traveled with the kind of security that many wealthy, prominent figures in the entertainment industry kept regularly in their employ. She had always been under protection of The Consortium’s security and they were as professional and as adept at detecting and defending against danger as any of Los Angeles’ most reputable security firms. The Consortium’s security also had an advantage. Because they were a part of L.A.’s criminal underground, they virtually always knew, preemptively, who to watch, when to watch, and what was being planned. However, after Keshari’
s visit with Ricky that day, along with her desire to ultimately extricate herself completely and permanently from the affairs of The Consortium, she knew that she would have to begin implementing different measures regarding her security immediately. When Misha looked at her quizzically as they rolled out of the gates of Keshari’s home, heavily secured as if Keshari was the new Suge Knight, Keshari quickly brushed it off with an offhand excuse about the label advising it for the party.

The two women stepped from Keshari’s car simultaneously and stopped the hotel’s parking attendants in their tracks as they walked past. Clad in a form-fitting, backless, chocolate-beaded, Valentino jumpsuit with matching, chocolate satin, Jimmy Choo heels that wrapped and tied around her ankles, Keshari was positively stunning. Misha, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, wore a black, strapless, Calvin Klein column dress with spike-heeled
Manolo Blahnik sandals. As always, she produced a diva’s attitude to match her drop-dead gorgeous look and worked a calculated, feline, almost sexual strut like nobody’s business.

An assortment of exotic sports cars, Range Rovers, and limousines crowded the valet lanes. Jermaine Dupri, Damon Dash of Roc-A-Fella Entertainment, Nas and Kelis, Xhibit, Lisa Raye, Alicia Keys, virtually all of the artists on the LTL label, Jamie Foxx, Jay-Z, Snoop Dogg and his sizeable entourage, Will Smith and Jada Pinkett-Smith, Queen Latifah, LL Cool J, Fat Joe and members of Terror Squad, and a host of Los Angeles Lakers and Clippers were spotted in the incoming crowd. Keshari paused and smiled for the cameras, causing the cluster of photographers who’d received access pas
ses to shoot the event to flash shot after shot in a frenzy, knowing that it was a rare opportunity to get her to pose for pictures.

The media, as well as the public, were completely mesmerized by Keshari Mitchell’s mystique. She remained something of an enigma in the industry. In a business where entertainers and record executives thrived on feeding their huge egos by being seen, Keshari seemed most content steering clear of a lot of personal media attention. She promoted her artists and her record label through an extremely competent executive team, she allowed a magazine or television exclusive from time to time that depicted her meteoric rise to professional success, her attorneys sending a very specific
list of topics and questions to the interviewer’s network or magazine in advance that Keshari absolutely would not discuss, and she worked to keep the rest of her life entirely private, which only made the media and the public hungrier to find out more about who she was.

In the beginning, as Keshari and her newcomer record label began to rapidly achieve success, a few rumors circulated that the beautiful, Wharton-educated record mogul m
ight have an organized
crime affiliation. Keshari’s attorneys and public relations team threatened multimillion-dollar libel suits against virtually every form of entertainment media on the market before a story could ever be fully researched and drafted to reach the public and, thus far, no other renegade journalist had ever ventured into that territory again. Keshari was bound and determined that Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment would only be seen as the completely legitimate business enterprise that it was and anything else about her life that was not associated with her record label would never g
et the opportunity to be served up for public consumption.

A handful of rappers in the industry did know that Keshari was connected…very connected…and it was a subject that none of them dared to touch. One of the biggest codes of the streets was SILENCE and they knew that talking too much could very easily jeopardize their lives. It wasn’t just about exposing Keshari Mitchell. Exposing her also, ultimately, exposed her very dangerous business allies.

An elevator arrived at lobby level and whisked Keshari, Misha and Keshari’s bodyguards to the rooftop’s ultra-chic Skybar. The record label had booked Skybar, the outdoor living room and the pool area for their party that night and a remixed track by Rasheed the Refugee had the heads of the men bobbing back and forth and the women swiveling their hips to the beat as bottles of Cristal and Courvoisier circulated. Waiters passed through the crowd with appetizers and decadent, miniature desserts. Gift bags containing shiny, platinum-colored iPod minis, programmed with tracks from Rasheed the R
efugee’s debut and sophomore albums, along with tracks from his now certified platinum third CD, were passed out to the VIP guests as they arrived at the party.

“Girl-l-l,” Misha grinned, “you do know how to represent your label’s name. Who put this together?”

“Andre’s team worked directly with the hotel’s event planners,”
Keshari said, looking around, appreciating Andre’s usual attention to detail.

She lifted a glass of the bubbly Cristal from the tray of one of the passing waiters and took a sip. Misha enjoyed a couple of the tiny canapés, then gulped a glass of the expensive, chilled champagne as she simultaneously began giving the eye to a tall, dark and handsome player for the Sacramento Kings.

Definitely not a woman to waste any time, Keshari thought as she watched the familiar “mating ritual” go into effect. Misha’s latest conquest strolled over and exchanged words with her. He greeted Keshari warmly. Then he and Misha slid off toward the dance floor. Keshari laughed to herself as Misha shimmied to the music, teasing her rhythmless giant of a partner as she strategically rubbed parts of herself against him and then danced away again.

Keshari spotted Rasheed the Refugee in a corner outside near the pool, giving an interview to a writer for
VIBE
magazine while members of his entourage sat at tables all around him. LTL’s PR department had advised Rasheed’s managers to have Rasheed do the interview that night at the platinum party for his hugely acclaimed third album,
Ghetto Proverbs
, where he could be seen basking in the overwhelming success of his creative work. Rasheed, dressed in oversized, navy military fatigues and expensive combat boots, possessed the calm, collected, and regal demeanor of African royal
ty. He was warm and engaging, a natural conversationalist. He wasn’t the bling-bling persona that seemed to prevail in current hip-hop. He was the West Coast’s version of the East Coast’s “Nas.” His music was all about Black consciousness. He gave a strong, unapologetic, political voice to the art form of hip-hop and he compelled mainstream America to think seriously, at least for a moment, about the state of things in the U.S. and beyond. He was one of the smartest brothas Keshari had ever
met. He could speak with depth on everything from American politics and economics to Nostradamus and Illuminati.

Rasheed had been a force in Los Angeles’ hip-hop underground for several years and had built a strong following before signing with Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment. His controversial debut album turned him into an overnight, nationwide sensation. He sold a record-making 1.5 million units in the first two weeks of the release of
Land of the Lost
. His second album made him a superstar. To date, he’d sold 1.6 million units of his third album,
Ghetto Proverbs
, and SoundScan was still counting. He was asked to make appearances on everything from
The TODAY Show
to
Larry King Live
to discuss his scath
ing indictments of George W. Bush and his entire family, racial profiling, affirmative action, reparations, and the September 11th tragedy.

He stood poised as if he was prepared to do battle, a serious, contemplative expression on his face, the night lights of West Hollywood serving as the backdrop, while the
VIBE
photographer captured shots of him. Keshari couldn’t be any prouder of him. His success was her label’s success and they’d accomplished that success by dropping pearls of wisdom into consumers’ ears at the same time that they entertained them with lyrical genius and hit-making tracks from some of the hottest producers in the industry. Of all the artists on the LTL roster, Rasheed the Refugee was, hands down, her favorite.

The party was the typical L.A. affair—too much money and ego concentrated in one place, executives networking, industry gossip everywhere, rap stars holding court with their entourages, nursing snifters of cognac while typing on iPhones, Sidekicks and BlackBerrys or arranging booty calls on their cell phones, and music video models sprinkled throughout, working the scene like professionals, hoping to leave that night with somebody with clout.

Keshari began making her way through the crowd, stopping here and there to exchange pleasantries with music executives from other record labels.

“Keshari Mitchell,” Sean “Diddy” Combs said, hugging her. “How are you?”

“I’m good…I’m good.” Keshari smiled. “I’m so glad that you could make it to L.A. for Rasheed’s party.”

“I had a couple of business meetings and I’m shopping for some property, so I’m kinda killing two birds with one stone. Ra’s party is the perfect place to blow off some steam. Congratulations, by the way, on your success.”

“Thank you,” Keshari answered. “I’m preparing for the same success with my new girl group, so expect an invitation for their album launch party.”

“I hear that you’ve been getting your feet wet for your own fashion line. One of my designers saw you at a show in Milan. I might be able to give you some pointers.”

“Actually, the fashion line’s a ways out, but I’d appreciate your insight. I’m sure that it’ll prove invaluable. We’ll definitely have to get together about it. I’ve got another major project underway that’s going to consume the bulk of my time for the next several months. I’m doing a press release about it in the next few days.”

“What’s the project?” Sean asked, his interest piqued.

“Keep your eyes on the news.” Keshari smiled, not divulging anything. “Listen, I know that a table has been reserved for you and your people, but why don’t you join me at my table? I’d love to have you. Executives from RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America), if they’re not here already, should be arriving shortly.”

“I’ll do that,” Sean said and shook his head as he watched the switch of her perfect ass walking away.

Keshari spotted Misha still shimmying her hips to the music
with her Sacramento Kings players on the transparent dance floor that covered the pool. Misha was wearing the hell out of her dress. She saw Keshari and waved to her. Keshari could tell that her friend was building up a nice, little buzz from multiple glasses of champagne.