Riding the Corporate Ladder (Indigo) (11 page)

“Hey, baby.” He sounded weary and blue.

“What is it?” Deena snapped.

“I just called to say I was sorry. I know I shouldn’t come over there like that—without asking you first. I was wrong, and you was right.”

Deena cracked a smile, but you couldn’t hear it in her voice.

“If you do it again, it’s over, Keshaun. I don’t play that. I don’t need you hanging up in my face, either.” She knew this was bold, but he had a lot more to lose than she did.

“All right, Dee. I’m sorry. Can I come by later?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, purposely ambiguous.

There was a slight pause, and then he said, “All right. Will you call me later?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Deena said. “I gotta go. I’m on the other line.”

“All right,” he said, more woeful than ever. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye.” She clicked back over to Yesenia laughing. “Speak of the devil.”

“That was your hoodlum?”

“Yes, it was. And he say he vewy vewy sowwy,” Deena teased.

“Awww. Isn’t he cute. So you’re going to keep him around?”

“For now,” Deena said, and then the clock caught her eye. “Hey, let me call you back. I gotta hurry and get out of here.”

“Good luck with your dinner,” Yesenia said. “Mr. Big Shot Rapper…Are you going to win him over with hard work and perseverance, or get your contract the old- fashioned way?”

“Get out of my head,” Deena said and hung up the phone.

* * *

When she got out of the tub, Deena pulled a cerise-colored skirt suit from her closet. She would have preferred one of her hip-hugging Chanels for this special evening, but the skirt on that outfit was just barely appropriate. It stopped a couple of inches above her knees and stretched over her hips as much as her tighter dresses.

She wore a white camisole under the sports coat and thought her beasts looked nice and perky. She posed in front of her full-length mirror and an evil smile parted her lips. Deena knew she didn’t have an outstanding ass, but it was tight and firm; a definite onion if you admired it from the side. Plus the suit’s crimson fabric looked good next to her auburn skin.

She put on her favorite diamond solitaire and stepped into a pair of patent leather Manolos. She styled her hair in a medium bob and spritzed Safari perfume on her neck and wrists. She checked the mirror one last time before she left the bedroom and thought she looked good enough to take a picture.

Boogie thought so, too. She gave him a much appreciated snuggle and left with a full ten minutes to spare.

* * *

There was an Olive Garden and a Romano’s Macaroni Grill pretty close to the firm, but Deena’s client chose to meet at Luigi’s. This wasn’t necessarily the most authentic Italian restaurant in the city, but it was the most authentic-sounding, so the place was always packed.

Deena pulled to stop in front of the eatery and gave the valet the keys to her Denali. She looked around uneasily and stepped towards the main entrance with a look of exasperation forming on her face. Not only was the restaurant’s foyer packed with patrons waiting on tables, but there were people lounging on the benches outside as well.

Deena didn’t see her Blood Money contact, but a handsome gentleman in a dark suit approached her as soon as she stepped onto the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Newman?” He cradled a large bouquet of roses in one arm.

“Miss Newman,” Deena clarified and smiled pleasantly.

“Very well. Right this way. Your date is waiting for you inside.”

Deena wondered who gave her the title date, but she didn’t say anything.

The maître d’ handed her the flowers and crooked his elbow. Deena took hold of his arm and he led her down the main walkway, past the other guests who looked on with obvious envy.

Once inside, Deena was impressed by Luigi’s exquisite decorations and Italian motifs. She dined at the restaurant twice before, but the beauty never failed to catch her attention. They had replicas of famous sculptures and artwork from Old Italy. All of the furniture had dark, earthy colors, and there were silk plants and candles everywhere. The strong smell of garlic made her mouth water.

Deena felt like a princess as she followed the steward, and when they got to Mr. Foster’s table, she felt like she was in the presence of royalty. Right away the Blood Money CEO was leaps and bounds above what she expected. When Deena thought of rap label presidents, she envisioned men like the Birdman, P Diddy, and Russell Simmons. She expected her client to be fashionable, but thought he’d have more of a rugged, street style to his dress.

Deena could think of a lot of words to describe this music mogul’s style, but ghetto was not among them.

Mr. Foster wore an outfit from the Bottega Veneta collection. It was nothing like anything Deena had ever seen in the states. The slacks were tan colored, linen and loose-fitting. His shirt was a darker brown. He wore it open, unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His shoes glistened with lizard scales, and he had a lambskin trench coat draped over the back of his chair. On the floor next to his chair was an intrecciato duffle bag made of ostrich skin. Everything he had on blended well with tans and browns. His shoes alone cost a few thousand dollars.

He stood when Deena approached and reached for her hand. She offered it daintily. He bent to kiss it and she blushed like a prima donna.

The CEO didn’t have a large afro anymore. His hair was short and curly with deep waves and a flawless edge-up. He was smaller than Keshaun, but Deena could see where her friend got the comparison: Mr. Foster had dark, rich skin reminiscent of African royalty. His nails were manicured and his moustache was trimmed neatly. He was so far from bald and fat that Deena giggled a little despite herself.

The maître d’ stepped away from their table, and Mr. Foster hurried to pull Deena’s chair out for her. She got a whiff of his cologne when he was close. She couldn’t place it, but she immediately fell in love with it. He went back to his seat with a big grin on his face. Deena had one, too.

“You look a lot better than you sounded over the phone,” he said.

She arched her eyebrows. “Really?”

He chuckled. “You’re Mrs. Newman, right? They didn’t send the wrong girl in here, did they? You’re my wannabe lawyer?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m Miss Newman, but I’m not a wannabe.”

“Oh.” He put a hand to his mouth comically. “I’m…I’m pretty sure I haven’t signed any papers. You want to be my lawyer, right? So what does that make you?”

“I’m the real deal,” Deena said. “I haven’t been a wannabe since college.”

He nodded. “All right, Miss Real Deal Newman. You got something in that briefcase that’s gonna blow my mind?”

“Yes,” she said, looking him right in the eyes. “I guarantee you I’m going to blow your mind.”

He stared back at her and didn’t know how to respond at first. He smiled and cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m definitely up for that. Would you like to eat first?”

Deena nodded. “I brought an appetite.”

He winked at her. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

* * *

They had scampi finocchiona and porchetta rustica with red wine. Deena asked Mr. Foster about his career during the meal and munched quietly as he recounted the history of Blood Money Records from their start in his cousin’s basement to the distribution empire they were today. He spoke professionally and had a good vocabulary. Deena was quite impressed by the end of his speech. She took a sip of wine and chuckled softly.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“I watched your video before I left the house,” she admitted.

“What video?”

“That Destiny’s Child song, Boot Camp Boy.”

He laughed and shook his head with embarrassment. “Why’d you watch that one? That had to be like…”

“Fifteen years ago,” she confirmed. “You had a big afro, jewelry everywhere. You had your shirt open with your chest poking out…”

He laughed again. “Yeah, that was crazy, but that was the style back then…”

“Do you still have all those gold chains?” she teased.

He shook his head. “No, and I don’t have that big afro anymore, either, as you can see…”

But Deena wasn’t looking at his head. “I see you’ve still got your chest out,” she noticed.

He rubbed his chin. “Yeah. I still try to look good.”

Deena looked into his eyes and then back down at his chest. “It’s nice,” she said.

There was a pause, but it wasn’t at all uncomfortable. He grabbed a piece of bread and nibbled on it, watching her face the whole time.

* * *

Thirty minutes later a waiter came to remove the dishes, and they were finally able to get down to the business at hand. Deena cracked her briefcase open on the table and went over the projections she had for Mr. Foster’s label. Aside from their basic legal needs, Blood Money Records had four premier artists who were facing prison time within the next six months. Deena laid out her plan to get all of them off, including their top selling artist who was currently free on bail for second-degree murder.

“This case against Rilla is full of holes,” she pointed out. “There’s no DNA, no residue found on his hands, no shells in his vehicle, no gun…And their so-called star witness works for a rival record label. The other three witnesses are close friends and they’re all associated with Bad Times Records. Plus they’re all gang members with lengthy criminal records—and let’s not forget they’ve all appeared in rap songs that discredit Rilla and your label.

“This whole case is based on eyewitness testimony, and, once we discredit them, it’s all going to fall apart. Did you see this report?” She took a paper from her files and gave it to him.

He looked it over and shook his head.

“That’s a statement from the woman who actually called 911,” Deena said. “She said the trigger-man sped away in a red Impala—not a gray one.”

“Why haven’t I heard of this?”

“They tried to bury it,” Deena said.

Mr. Foster leaned forward with his elbows on the table. He hung on her every word. “Our guy says we should take a plea for manslaughter. He says Rilla’s gonna have to do at least five years.”

Deena shook her head. “Rilla can put out six albums in five years, and that’s what he’s going to do if you sign with our firm. I guarantee he won’t do one day in jail.”

The CEO looked skeptical. “You guarantee that?”

Deena never made a pledge she couldn’t keep, and she didn’t plan on starting now. “I guarantee it,” she said.

Mr. Foster pursed his lips and nodded. “What about Nooky and Tremaine?”

Those artists were smaller names but still important to the Blood Money organization.

“Both of them will get off, too,” Deena said. “Nobody in your camp is going to jail.”

“Nooky is already on probation,” Mr. Foster reminded her.

Deena was already aware of that. “Most men who are on probation would have to do some time if they got caught with a pistol and a bag of weed,” she agreed, “but I can get the charges against Nooky dropped altogether.”

Mr. Foster frowned. “Our guy said he’s going to have to do at least six months and then get two more years added to his probation.”

Deena frowned back at him. “Who the hell is your guy?”

The CEO looked away sheepishly. “Bates and Barker.”

Deena shook her head. “What did I tell you about them? You might as well let a court-appointed attorney take the case; at least you’ll save a little money that way.”

Deena removed another folder from her briefcase and handed it over the table. Mr. Foster opened it and stared at the first page curiously.

“That’s a report we did on Jeremy Parker,” she said. “Do you know who Jeremy Parker is?”

Her soon-to-be client shook his head.

“Mr. Parker is the arresting officer in Nooky’s case,” Deena said. “He just got back to work last week after a three-month suspension initiated by his own department. Do you know what date his suspension started?”

Mr. Foster had no idea.

“They took his gun the day after Nooky’s arrest,” Deena informed him. “He was forced into a drug treatment program after testing positive for cocaine. He also stole evidence from some of the suspects he apprehended.”

The CEO’s eyes grew wide.

“I’m going to tear him apart if they don’t drop these charges,” Deena went on. “There’s no way that cop was accountable enough to arrest Nooky one day and then go to rehab the very next day. I’m going to eat him alive.”

The record executive smiled a bit.

“I told you Bates and Barker aren’t about shit,” Deena said. “You’re with the big dogs now.”

Mr. Foster looked over the report she gave him for a long time. When he finally looked up, he flashed a toothy grin and Deena knew she had him.

* * *

They discussed the other Blood Money artists facing criminal charges, but, after hearing her plans for Rilla and Nooky, it was pretty much immaterial by then. When Deena produced the contracts Karen prepared, Mr. Foster signed them eagerly, becoming the biggest client Deena had ever acquired on her own. She returned the documents to her briefcase with a huge sense of satisfaction, but her time with the music mogul had not reached its conclusion.