Read Larger Than Lyfe Online

Authors: Cynthia Diane Thornton

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Urban Fiction, #Urban Life, #African Americans, #African American, #Social Science, #Organized Crime, #African American Studies, #Ethnic Studies, #True Crime, #Murder, #Music Trade, #Business Aspects, #Music, #Serial Killers

Larger Than Lyfe (7 page)

BOOK: Larger Than Lyfe
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Dante Peterson, a writer for
The SOURCE
magazine, tapped Keshari lightly on the shoulder.

“Ms. Mitchell, would you spare me a couple minutes of your time? I’ve been attempting to get in touch with you. I’d like to arrange an interview. I’m putting together a story on ‘power women’ in the music industry and the story certainly wouldn’t be complete without including you.”

“Dante, you know the protocol for securing an interview. Contact my publicist. This is a party,” Keshari said, barely pausing long enough to fully acknowledge the writer’s presence.

Shaquille O’Neal rushed up and picked Keshari up from the floor, grinning his 2,000-watt, trademark “Superman” smile. Keshari and Shaquille had been friends since Misha had introduced the two of them at a nightclub party that she’d promoted a couple of years before.

“What’s up, girl? How you been?”

He set her down and kissed her on the forehead.

“I’m cool. Busy as hell.”

“You look good. Damned good. Almost as good as me.”

“You’re so silly,” she said, smacking him. “How’re Shaunie and the kids?”

“Everybody’s good…can’t complain. They all just got back from Miami. I’m taking you to dinner next week. Where do you want to go?”

Keshari laughed and shook her head. “NO” was definitely not a part of Shaq’s vocabulary.

“Italian food…your house. ‘Street Ball’ on the PlayStation and
make sure to order tiramisu. But let me call you. I’m gonna be in and out of town for the next few weeks. I’ll hit you the moment I wrap things up.”

Shaq beamed. The giant, dark brown brotha had a smile that could light up a room.

“Alright, girl,” he said, “but don’t keep me waiting.”

He kissed Keshari again before moving off through the outdoor living room with his friends.

Coming through Skybar toward the patio, a very familiar face smiled and headed in Keshari’s direction. A wave of uneasiness came over Keshari. It was Marcus Means. Ricky had to have sent him. Marcus Means, nor anyone else affiliated with The Consortium, had ever set foot inside Larger Than Lyfe’s offices nor any Larger Than Lyfe function since the record label’s doors opened.

Keshari smiled back at him and waved him over.

“Hey, girl,” Marcus said amiably.

Keshari played it cool.

“What’s up, Mark? Since when did hip-hop become a part of your repertoire?”

“Maybe I’m expanding my repertoire.” He smiled.

The two of them strolled over to one of the more secluded areas of the dimly lit outdoor living room and sat down.

“So, what’s up? Are you alone? What brings you here?” Keshari asked.

“Yeah, I came alone,” Marcus answered.

They were both silent. Marcus took in the flashily dressed partygoers across the patio and their narcissistic party ritual. He appeared to be somewhere between feeling mildly repulsed and amused as he watched them.

“I saw Rick today,” Keshari said. “Trial commences in three
weeks. His attorneys are beginning to suggest that they, at least, consider a plea bargain with the D.A. Rick is livid and totally against it.”

“I know,” Marcus responded. “A plea bargain wouldn’t happen anyway. This is a high-profile, first-degree murder case. The victim is a prominent, White attorney and the accused is a high-profile, Black, alleged gangster who’s managed to escape indictment for YEARS. The D.A. wouldn’t even consider plea bargaining with Rick unless he turned informant on every connection he’s ever had.”

“When’s the last time you talked to Rick?” Keshari asked.

“I saw him today.”

Keshari knew that Ricky had to have told him about their discussion, about her wanting out of The Consortium. Marcus stared at her long and hard before he finally commented.

“Be careful, girl,” he said. “You’re skating on thin ice. I’m very serious when I tell you this. Rick loves you. We all know this… but this is business and you know the business.”

Keshari stared back at him, but didn’t respond. Marcus knew that she understood him and he made no move to further elaborate. A moment later, he was gone. Although Keshari was sitting directly under one of the heating lamps lining the chic terrace, goose bumps stood out on her arms. She could do one of two things. She could get through the rest of the evening and be confident that she could come to some acceptable compromise with Rick, or she could become so paranoid and stressed about her situation that she began making the kind of serious mistakes that could get her killed.

“What in the hell are you doing over here alone?” Terrence, Keshari’s assistant, said. “You look like one of these fish tales just stole your man. This party’s fierce! You run this! Why don’t you get yourself in the mix and enjoy yourself?”

“I just needed a minute to myself to clear my head,” Keshari said, smiling at Terrence reassuringly.

He sat down next to her and wrapped his arms around her. She put her head on his shoulder.

“It’s been a long and fucked-up day,” she told him, “and I don’t even want to begin to try to tell you about it.”

Terrence looked down at her with concern.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “You’re shaking.”

“YES,” Keshari said emphatically. “I’m fine…I’m fine. I just need a good night’s sleep. I’ll be prepared to suit up and conquer the world again tomorrow.”

Terrence wasn’t sure that he was convinced, but he let it go.

“You’re on in about fifteen minutes,” he said gently. “Michael Webb and Christina Perlmann from RIAA just arrived.”

Keshari, along with representatives from the Recording Industry Association of America, would be presenting Rasheed the Refugee with a platinum plaque for his third album,
Ghetto Proverbs
.

“I’m ready,” Keshari answered.

“Anytime you need to talk, I’m here,” Terrence said, reaching over and brushing back the curls that had blown into Keshari’s face.

“I’m cool,” Keshari said. “Stop being a mama bird.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Thanks for the concern, though.”

“Hey, babygirl, that’s what I’m here for.”

A sexy, dancehall track from Rasheed’s album featuring Wyclef Jean called “Respect Her” was playing. Terrence went to check on his date and Keshari started toward the cluster of VIP tables that had been reserved for her. Her BlackBerry had been ringing nonstop and she thought that she’d quickly check her messages and chat for a bit with the RIAA execs and Sean Combs before presenting Rasheed with his platinum plaque. Not quite paying attention to where she was going and still mo
re than a bit preoccupied
with Marcus’s unexpected appearance and the veiled threat that he’d delivered, she collided with a tall, broad-shouldered Boris Kodjoe lookalike and his full glass of champagne.

“Oh, damn! I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Fuck!” Keshari snapped under her breath.

One of Keshari’s bodyguards appeared out of nowhere, his hand on his jacket as if he were prepared to shoot the man for his mistake.

Keshari sighed with exasperation as she felt Mr. Apologetic’s champagne trickling between her breasts and down the front of the lace, La Perla bikini she wore.

“Ms. Mitchell, is everything okay here?”

“I’m fine. It was just an accident,” she snapped irritably at the bodyguard, waving him off.

Mr. Apologetic seemed absolutely determined to set the situation right. He grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins from a passing waiter and handed them to Keshari.

“Thank you,” she said quickly, dabbing agitatedly at her damp chest and down the front of her intricately beaded jumpsuit.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “I told you, I’m fine.”

He reached into the inner jacket pocket of his very nicely cut, Armani suit and removed one of his business cards.

“Please forward me the bill for your dry cleaning and I’ll reimburse you. Better yet, here. Take this. It should cover the cost of cleaning your outfit. I am truly sorry.”

He held out two, crisp, new hundred-dollar bills to her. Keshari waved his business card and the money away with growing frustration. If this man apologized one more time, she was going to scream and start scratching at his eyes.

He stood watching her with genuine concern as she continued to dab at the damp but nearly invisible spot down the front of her
outfit. Then, out of nowhere, it finally dawned on him who she was.

He smiled a sexy, disarming smile. “Keshari Mitchell.”

“The only one I know,” she replied.

“Of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment?”

“YES,” she said, looking off distractedly through the crowd of people for Terrence, ready to brush past Mr. Apologetic before he went into player mode or tried to persuade her to listen to some artist’s CD.

“I’m Mars Buchanan,” he said. “I’m the new general counsel for the Western Division at ASCAP.”

Keshari let her guard down a bit, smiled and shook his hand.

“It’s a pleasure meeting you,” she said, looking down to inspect the virtually invisible champagne damage to her outfit.

Mars Buchanan went to apologize again and Keshari quickly cut him off.

“Look, this was as much my fault as it was yours. My mind was someplace else and I wasn’t looking where I was going. Let’s just forget about it. Okay?”

“Not a problem,” he said with a bit of reluctance. “You know, I’ve read coverage of you in the trade papers and in several of the music magazines. I’ve also met your attorney and several A & R execs from your label at various industry functions, but this is the very first time that I’ve encountered you in person and let’s just say that entertainment magazine photos don’t even begin to have the same…striking…effect as seeing you up close and personal.”

He was clearly flirting with her. A faint smile seemed to play at the corners of Keshari’s lips.
This is definitely not the time
, she thought.

“It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Buchanan,” she said, “but if you will excuse me, I’m expected up front.”

“The pleasure was meeting you,” Mars replied graciously, “despite the unfortunate way that we did meet.”

Moments later, Mars heard Keshari’s sultry voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope that you’re enjoying yourselves this evening.

“We are here to give honor and recognition to one of the music industry’s premier artists, one of the most prolific voices in today’s hip-hop.

“This young brotha, with his extraordinary talent for flipping a metaphor, brings back the days when hip-hop involved knowledge-dropping and was used as a political tool for consciousness and empowerment… the days of Chuck D. and Public Enemy, X-Clan, Poor Righteous Teachers, KRS-One and Boogie Down Productions…”

Loud applause. Excitement was building.


TIME
magazine asks if this brotha is a ‘prolific phenom or a threat?’
Rolling Stone
calls this brotha ‘Hip-Hop’s Messiah.’
The SOURCE
gave him an unbelievable five mics on all three of his albums. And, in my opinion, he’s got to be one of the most AMAZING brothas I’ve ever met in my entire life. Without further ado, let’s give the man of the hour his props. RASHEED THE REFUGEE!!!”

The crowd went wild. The men “let loose their dogs,” whooping it up throughout the packed outdoor living room, and the females screamed in sheer delight as Rasheed the Refugee took the stage.

Mars Buchanan secured a fresh glass of champagne, then maneuvered his way toward the front of the crowd. He stood amongst the partygoers, his eyes riveted to the stage, not at Rasheed the Refugee receiving his platinum plaque, but at the president & CEO of Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment.

He smiled a very satisfied smile to himself and sipped his drink.

“Looks like Miss Thing’s got a secret,” Keshari’s assistant said when she arrived at the office the next morning.

“What are you talking about, T? I am really not in the mood.”

“Check your desk,” Terrence answered coyly as Keshari passed his workspace and went into her office.

On the corner of her desk was an exquisite, Baccarat vase filled with three dozen, long-stemmed, hot pink tulips. She pulled the card from the tiny pitchfork sticking from the arrangement. She already knew that her busybody assistant had sneaked and read it.

“Here’s to the two of us meeting again under much less awkward circumstances. Mars Buchanan.”

Keshari smiled to herself and rolled her eyes as she thought of the gorgeous, apologetic general counsel from ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers) who’d spilled champagne all over her $5,500 outfit the night before. She dropped the card into the trash.

There was a small stack of CDs on her desk in an interoffice envelope from the A & R department. A & R received literally hundreds of demo CDs every single month from aspiring artists, hoping to sign recording contracts with Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment. A & R forwarded the most promising CDs to Keshari. When Keshari liked what she heard, A & R would often contact the artist to arrange to hear more of their music. Sometimes the record label requested that an artist go into the studio to lay down another track…a “no strings attached” arrangement to see how
the artist worked and if the artist showed consistency in their likability and talent. Ultimately, Keshari decided whether or not LTL would extend the artist a recording or production contract.

BOOK: Larger Than Lyfe
8.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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