STRINGS of COLOR (6 page)

"Of course it will help and using the tape recorder will help her even more. Which by the way, you have to admit was a brilliant idea. Stop being Carl. This will be good for her."

"You mean good for you."

"Both."

"Always the reporter."

"Okay, I'm going to say this slowly this time…when I left her she was smiling. Really smiling, so I am sure she was okay. Stop worrying and give the girl some space. You have been hovering over her ever since that night at the club. She is a grown woman you know, and a lot stronger than I think you give her credit for. It's in her genes. Trust me man, I have met her mother, her real mother, so I know what I am talking about."

"I have to be honest Jake; I can't wait to meet her. What is she really like?"

"She is beautiful man, I mean really beautiful. Just like Simone."

"Hey, watch yourself man, you are talking about my fiancé."

"I'm just saying that it's in the genes, the voice and all."

"I hear you."

"Wait until you hear her, I mean up close and personal. She will knock you off your feet and leave you begging for more."

"Yeah, Simone does that too."

"True, but Jazzmyne is something else. You'll just have to hear and see what I mean. Trust me."

"That's what I have always liked about you Jake, your love for music. It's so real, so down home."

"Yeah, just remember that white people know music too."

They both laughed.

"So on another note, guess who I saw parked in front of the coffee shop today?"

"Come on man, what are we five?"

"One of us is. Anyway, I saw your girl Misty."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I even got out of my car to say hello but she left.

"She's pretty."

"Did I hear you say she's pretty?"

"Now we know which one of us is going on five. Yes, I said she was pretty."

"And don't forget that she is also an enemy of your beloved Jazzmyne and the same conniving person who tried to force my Simone into a contract with her low down, dirt dealing record label. She slithers Jake."

"What? All I said was that she was pretty."

"Sure that's all you said. I've known you for a few years now and you have never called a woman pretty. In fact, I've never heard you speak about one."

"Yeah well, believe it or not, with the exception of being more than ten years older than you, I'm really not that different than you—I mean, when it comes to women. I don't believe in dating them unless I'm ready to get serious and settle down and we both know how I feel about marriage."

"What, rocket science?"

"That's right rocket science, and the last time I checked I don't have a degree in it."

They both laughed.

Carl got serious for a second.

"Plus, don't forget she is…."

"What? Older?"

"No, I mean don't forget she is…."

"Spit it out man. I know that she is black and that I'm a white man."

"I'm just sayin."

"You know I have never believed in racial barriers."

"Neither have I, but does she?"

"I guess we will have to find out."

"Wait a minute; a second ago you were simply calling her pretty, now you are talking about racial barriers."

"No, you were talking about barriers; I simply said the woman was pretty."

"Sure, okay. Whatever."

There was a brief moment of silence.

"So what's your next column going to be on, how to date a black woman?"

"Funny."

They both laughed again and ended the call.

Jake sat in his favorite position, in front of his computer. He pulled up the article on Misty losing the record label and read it about three or four times. He kept looking at her photo, looking into her light hazel-brown eyes. There was something there, something that told him she wasn't as fierce as her exterior seemed.

Man, what are you doing? You have been staring at the same photo for over an hour.

Even after saying this a few more times, the page on the Internet didn't change. In fact, he read the article for the fifth, maybe a sixth time.

He began to twirl a small piece of his hair. It was a habit that one day he hoped he would break. After over forty-five plus years, he had his doubts, but anything he felt was possible. At least, that's what his mother still likes to think.

He stopped when it hit him. Buried within the article was a brief mention and tiny photo of the first recording artist Misty signed at Perfect Sound Studios, Ken G. Davis. He had put out a few good R&B hits, according to the article. Jake only slightly remembered some of them.

He stared at the tiny photo of Ken again.
I've seen that photo before, but where?

He leaned back in his chair and started twirling his hair again until a tiny piece got caught in his fingers.

Staring at his computer screen, he typed Ken's name into the web search. A few articles came up, but only one caught his immediate attention. It was the article on Ken's death; a tragic car accident in which he was killed instantly. According to the accident report, he had been coming from a coffee shop.

That's when Jake remembered where he had seen Ken's photo.

It was sitting on her passenger seat.

Jake finally remembered seeing a box of Kleenex in her lap when he tapped on the window.
That's what she had reached in her back seat to get. She had been crying.

He went back to the article on Misty and stared at her picture again.

That exterior you have is not as fierce as you pretend; I know it can be cracked.

Jake smiled.

As he sat back in his chair again, he reached into the little refrigerator he kept in his office and pulled out his favorite thing, an ice-cold beer. He gulped it down like a child drinking Kool-Aid for the first time, let out one of his famous long and drawn out belches, and spent the rest of his night looking for any articles he could find on her.

Maybe it's not as bad as rocket science, maybe.

Jake picked up the phone to make a call. He needed more than what the Internet was giving him.

"They weren't right back then—saying that I didn't have a heart. But now, who needs one? 'There is no love in success,' is what my father once told me. I will live by those words and I will get it all back!"

M
isty pulled up across the street. She could see the door that used to hold a sign that said: Perfect Sound Studios. She watched as some of her old employees came and went.

She sat there for hours, anger brewing.

She felt like she was back at The Skinny all over again. She kept seeing flashbacks of the look on her father's face when they barged in and started demanding to look at his books and then demanding to know the ages of his employees.

Overnight, The Skinny—her father's dream, love, and life, had a huge lock on the front door, which would never be opened again.

Not that Misty loved her father, but they shared one common dream—the need for fame and prominence. He had never reached it, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how many artists he had discovered at The Skinny, the world never came to know his name.

Misty thought about The Skinny.
Man, back in the day, that place was the hottest jazz spot to sit on a corner of New York
.

Misty's father, Big Fred, had named the place The Skinny because it was everything he wasn't. Big Fred had a big voice, smooth, and toe curling. It was the only thing she loved and respected about her father.

To Big Fred, money and music gave him something to sing to the world about.

Misty remembered the day he hired Naya. He gave her the name Jazzmyne. Said she reminded him of a color in a crayon box.

She knew the tip to the police had come from her. It was her way of getting back at Misty for tricking her into signing a contract, which would bind her to The Skinny for little to no pay for five years. It almost worked, until Chris stepped in.

To think that I introduced those two, what was I thinking? That was dumb Misty, just dumb.

Just like forgetting to re-sign the lease on your building for Perfect Sound Studios was dumb.

Just like letting your assistant Mia come in and take over. Your assistant! That was beyond dumb of me.

Misty reached down and picked up the photo of Ken.

Just like letting the man you love walk out your door, without telling him how you really felt about him. Dumb. Dumb and more dumb.

The anniversary of his death was a few weeks ago. She had spent it crying and losing her mind.

They had met outside the locked, cobwebbed doors of The Skinny well over five years ago. She had listened to him sing, signed him to a contract and then found a perfect spot to open, Perfect Sound Studios. Together, they watched it grow.

A few years later, they opened The Clue together, one of the hottest Jazz restaurants to hit a
new
corner of New York. Misty sold it after Ken's death, to the first buyer who came knocking, Tia.

Tia, ironically, turned out to be Mia's sister. In fact, Tia and Mia had originally gone in to purchase the place together, but now Misty had learned that it only belonged to Tia.

Something she had planned to change real soon.

She caught sight of Mia coming out. She watched as she got in her car.

They said that I had no heart.

They used to whisper that I was uncaring and fierce when I ran that place. But boy, was it a place! My artists were on the top of the charts. Perfect Sound Studios was hot!

I had finally made a name for myself, something my lousy father could never accomplish.

I had done it. I had really made it.

That day is coming again, real soon.

She watched Mia drive off in a brand new Lexus.

They weren't right back then—saying that I didn't have a heart. But now, who needs one?

"There is no love in success," is what my father once told me. I will live by those words and I will get it all back!

Misty reached into her purse and produced a handwritten number. She reached for her cell phone and began to dial; then she pulled her car into the street without looking, or caring.

A few drivers blew at her. One pulled up to her side and rolled down his window.

He began screaming at her. "What, do you think you own the street just because you drive a crappie old Lexus?"

Misty smiled at him. "Yes," she said. Then she hit the gas pedal and drove through a red light. As she glanced back in her rearview mirror and saw him sitting at the light, she laughed harder than she had laughed in weeks. It felt good.

I am definitely back
! She tried the phone number again.

Finally someone picked up.

"Hello."

"Who is this?"

"I'm someone in need of your services."

"How did you get this number?"

"I used money, how else?"

"What can I do for you?"

"I hear you've done some work for an old friend of mine, Mia."

"That's confidential."

"Nothing is ever really confidential. Everyone has a number. Give me yours."

"What if I don't have one?"

"I don't have time for games. Give me your number!"

"I heard you were tough."

"If you've heard about me, then you know that you need to stop wasting my time!"

"Okay, calm down."

Misty listened as he gave her his price for doing business.

"Hold on," she said.

Misty clicked over and dialed another number. She quickly gave instructions and then switched back to her original call.

"The money will be there within the hour. Have it all ready."

"Yes ma'am. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes, I want you to also get me everything you know on a Monà Naya Simone Creek."

"Wow, she must be one popular lady."

"Who else is asking?"

"My answer will cost you more."