Bling
By Erica Kennedy
Miramax Books
Copyright © 2005
Erica Kennedy
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781401359676
Chapter One
Excuse Me Miss
"'CAUSE WE AIN'T NOBODY," LaToya said.
Lakeesha turned from peering out the window of the Chesterfield
Hotel, annoyed because her question-"Why they got us staying
in this bum-ass hotel?"-had been a rhetorical one. There was no
view. Just another hotel across Thirty-seventh Street. And From what
little she could see, the rooms over there were nicer.
"I know," Keesha said. "But still ... we didn't even get a limo from
the airport."
"We didn't need a limo," Mimi said, busily straightening up.
"They sent a car and it was fine."
"Why are you cleaning up Kenny's room?" Keesha said, stretching
out on the perfectly made bed.
"Because I already finished with ours," Mimi said. "I can't just sit
around, doing nothing, waiting for the phone to ring. It's driving me
crazy." They were sharing the adjoining room but they were camped
out here because their manager, Kenny Hill, would get the call-at
the hotel since his cell-phone service had been interrupted for nonpayment-and
they wanted to be there when he did.
"Let's eat," Keesha said. "That'll give us something to do." She
picked up the room service menu. "We can order food, right?" She
frowned over at Toya. "They pay for that?"
Last night after their audition at the Triple Large offices they
had gone to Planet Hollywood for dinner, hoping to spot some
celebrities, unaware that it was a tourist trap populated by autographseekers
like themselves where no celebrity would ever be
caught dead.
"I don't know," Toya said wearily. Keesha was always looking for
a free meal, literally and figuratively, and it got under Toya's skin that
she was so simpleminded. "You need to ask Kenny."
"Where's he at anyway?" Keesha said. She twirled one of her long
microbraids. "It don't take that long to buy a pack of Newports."
Mimi didn't care about the low-budget accommodations or that
there had been no limo yesterday. Keesha thought this whole trip was
going to be like an episode of
Making the Band-she was obsessed
with that show! Kenny did nothing to dissuade her from thinking it
was going to be limos, parties, and Cristal bottles popping, but why
on earth would anyone do that for them? They
were nobodies. But
they had come here to change that.
They'd all met at Performing Arts School of Toledo. They joked
they were like TLC, whose
CrazySexyCool album was one of their all-time
favorites. Keesha, big-boned and equipped with a razor-sharp
tongue, was the crazy component. Toya, a round-faced girl with a
heart-warming smile and a degree of self-assurance that belied her
years, was the cool. And Mimi ... well, she wasn't wild like Keesha
and she didn't possess Toya's innate confidence, so sometimes she felt
she got the sexy slot by default.
No doubt, Mimi was pretty. Since she was a baby everyone had
remarked on it. But in her usual baggy gear, sexy she was not. Tight
jeans and midriff-baring tops invited attention, and as a biracial girl
in a predominantly black school, she already stood out enough. All
she'd ever wanted was to blend in. Her mother, Angela, was Italian,
and Mimi couldn't remember her Haitian father. Jacques Bertrand
had run out on Angela a year after their only child was born, and the
annual birthday cards that had arrived (late) with no return address
stopped arriving altogether after Mimi's eighth birthday.
She kept the details of her home life to herself as she did most
things, managing to pull straight As while dodging the taunts of
"white girl" and "high-yellow heifer." As if she thought she was better
than the other girls. Just like many of them, she was raised by an
overworked single mother, she rode the bus to school from the bad
side of town, and the clothes over which they ran a disapproving
"you think you cute" eye were paid for by the after-school jobs she'd
been juggling since she was fourteen. She never made her looks an
issue, they did.
Toya, however, was different. She made that clear only two months
into freshman year, when Nichelle Griffin had stormed over to Mimi
in the cafeteria and began to lay into her for coming on to her boyfriend
(even though it had been Nichelle's wannabe teenage lothario who had
been coming on to a completely uninterested Mimi). Toya, who
Mimi knew only casually, had calmly looked over her shoulder from
the next table and said, "You just mad because you
wish you had that
long hair. Go get yourself a weave and shut the hell up." Keesha,
always spoiling for a fight of any kind, had jumped up to enter the
fray but Nichelle had slunk away before she could.
Toya, Keesha, and Mimi had been friends ever since.
Later that year, their group was formed. They named it
Heartsong. They debated endlessly about what kinds of songs they
should sing, what kind of group they wanted to be. Keesha and Toya
were into hip-hop. Mimi's tastes fell more on the soul side. She idolized
those female artists whose songs stirred something inside her
more than an urge to dance. Her mother had harbored dreams of
being a singer way back when and music was the only constant in
their unstable lives. From Aretha to Alanis Morissette, Sarah
Vaughan to Sarah McLachlan, Mimi would close her eyes and try to
mimic their every inflection, pretending she was them, not a girl
from Toledo who wouldn't recognize her own father if she passed
him on the street.
That was how she got through performing onstage. She became
someone else-whoever's song she was belting out. She was pretending
to be Beyonci on the night they met Kenny at a local talent show;
Heartsong had just won the top prize and three hundred dollars for
their rousing rendition of "Bills, Bills, Bills," the Destiny's Child hit.
A lanky dark-skinned man of thirty-four with droopy eyes and a
seemingly permanent deposit of white crust in the corner of his
mouth, Kenny Hill's name was one they recognized from flyers
posted all over town. A part-time club promoter, he told them he
knew every musician, nightclub owner, and DJ in Toledo. Which in
retrospect, they realized, wasn't saying all that much. He proffered a
business card that read simply "talent manager" and they didn't know
to ask him for any credentials beyond the promises he made. He
talked about getting them a record deal and he didn't ask them for
money, and so it was that Kenny Hill became their manager.
He had arranged for them to sing backup on demos at Wildside
Studios in exchange for free studio time to record their own music.
He kept telling them that he was setting up auditions with labels but
nothing ever panned out. And they'd graduated high school two
years ago! The day after they tossed their caps, Mimi's part-time job
at the discount emporium Sav-Mart became full-time, Toya was
doing hair at Black Roots (without a license), and Keesha wasn't
doing much of anything except hanging out with her crazy-ass drug-dealer
boyfriend.
They'd finished their demo, using tracks Kenny bought from a
local producer and singing generic R&B lyrics that Kenny had written
himself. Kenny Hill-club promoter, talent manager, songwriter. Jack
of all trades and master of none.
When he finally got a callback from Triple Large Entertainment a
week ago, he didn't tell the girls right away that they had a chance at a
recording contract. Instead he'd gotten everything in order-wrangling
four coach plane tickets to New York, two $99-per-night rooms
at The Chesterfield-before he strolled into Wildside Studios and
crowed triumphantly, "Pack your bags, girls. We're goin' to New York!"
CALL THE GIRL? Why did Lamont always have to be so dramatic?
Daryl wanted to call the girl but he couldn't even remember the
bitch's name! La-something. Lavonne? No, LaToya. Or maybe that
was the other one. He'd already asked Lamont's assistant and the
receptionist if they remembered the name of the "pretty one" because
he couldn't find the group's bio and attached photo. With all the
groups that had come through the office in the last few weeks, no one
could remember a damn thing about any of them. Now Daryl rummaged
through all the useless office memos on his desk in search of
the package the manager had left with him the other day.
Daryl's office was tiny. So was he. But what he lacked in size he
more than made up for in self-aggrandizement. He was five foot five
and three-quarters of an inch, but whenever anyone dared to question
his height he'd pull out his driver's license.
Bam! Five foot seven. People
always took that as gospel, as if the DMV actually measured folks.
His office would have felt larger if he'd cleared out the half dozen
boxes of demos he was supposed to listen to as the A&R rep of Triple
Large Entertainment. When he first got the gig he didn't even know
what A&R stood for. "Artist and repertoire" he was told. He still didn't
entirely understand, but he'd figured out he was expected to discover
new artists and work on their development once they were signed.
That he could do, although he really wanted to be a producer solely
and forget the office bullshit.
He rarely got around to assessing the volumes of material that
found their way into the midtown office. Most artists who got signed
had already made names for themselves on the street or were affiliated
with an established hip-hop clique. The next big thing rarely arrived
unannounced via the United States Postal Service. Nevertheless, Paul
Mankewich, the label's V.P. of A&R, stayed on Daryl's ass about listening
to every single submission.
A strapping, floppy-haired white guy in his mid-thirties, Paul
Mankewich made six figures and his own hours. He was nicknamed
"Witchy" because he had successfully cultivated so many R&B and
hip-hop acts at various record companies that people said he could
work "black magic." Twenty-three-year-old Daryl didn't have an
official title. He was usually called "the A&R guy," which he preferred
to being called Witchy's assistant. Though affable to most, Witchy
cracked the whip on his departmental subordinate-mostly, Daryl
believed, as a form of insurance. If Witchy failed to meet his monthly
beat-up-on-Daryl quota, Witchy was guaranteed to receive a few
lashes from the HNIC himself, Lamont "Fat Man" Jackson.
Daryl idolized and despised Fat Man with equal fervor. Some days
he wished he were standing tall in Lamont's four-hundred-dollar
shoes, making big moves and bigger bank. Other days he hoped
Lamont Jackson would keel over and die from a massive coronary
and spend all eternity rotting in hell.
A few months ago, Fat Man had put out the call that they'd be
branching out into R&B. They were hoping to find the next
Destiny's Child. In the past two months, they'd seen twenty-seven
groups. None of them got past their first song. After an audition two
days ago of three white girls with varying degrees of pink hair who
called themselves Shades, it was obvious Witchy was digging at the
bottom of the barrel. Lamont had turned to Witchy and said, "Mr.
Mankewich, why do I feel like I'm a judge on
American Idol?" Daryl
had fallen back on Lamont's sofa and laaaaaughed. It was a joy to see
Witchy catching some flak for a change, but the most hysterical part
was that Lamont
was beginning to resemble the fat guy on the show.
And then this group Heartsong-the worst fucking name!-had
come in yesterday. Daryl had only listened to their demo as a favor to
Meagan, Triple Large's certified hottie receptionist. She'd urged him
to listen to it, saying the manager was a friend of her cousin's friend.
"Oh well, I'll give it the VIP treatment right now!" Daryl had clowned.
Like he cared. It was certain to be garbage, but if it brought him one
small step toward getting some pussy from Meagan, it was worth a
listen. And, what did you know, it wasn't bad. Not bad at all.
Witchy was heated when he found out Daryl had flown them in
without consulting him. One of the girls, the one with the long
braids, had to be twenty pounds heavier than she'd been when the
bio picture was taken. And the manager was annoying as hell! Daryl
had to shove him out of Lamont's office as he tried to sell him on two
other hip-hop acts he managed. The group's audition didn't seem to
ignite much enthusiasm in Lamont although he didn't say that he
straight-up hated them, which was his response to most of the
twenty-seven who'd come before.
This morning Lamont had called Daryl-at the crack of dawn-to
say maybe they didn't need a group after all. Actually his first
words were "Where the hell is Witchy?" Daryl rolled over, looked at
the ungodly hour and yawned, "At home sleepin' maybe?" Lamont
grunted his disapproval, then told Daryl he'd had a moment of revelation.
He'd decided they needed just one girl. A solo artist. He
wanted to meet with the lead singer of Heartsong. "The pretty one,"
he'd said.
Daryl finally found the bio picture ticking out of a stack of magazines
on the floor. Mimi. That was her name. He looked at his fake
Rolex. Damn! It was already 4:15 and Lamont wanted her down there
by 5:00. He picked up the phone and dialed the hotel.
This chick could be his first discovery. And if a signing came out
of this, he wouldn't let Witchy or Fat Man forget it.
Chapter Two
If I Ruled the World
LAMONT CLIMBED THE WINDING STAIRCASE to his home
gym, thinking,
Lamont Jackson, Chairman of Augusta Music. Had a
nice ring to it. He'd be able to sell Triple Large to Augusta but he'd
still retain control of the label he'd founded as well as run several others.
How much would the deal reap? Sixty million? No, Triple Large
was worth seventy-five at least.
He stepped onto the treadmill and poked a few buttons. He usually
worked out in the evening after coming home from the office
and before going out for dinner and whatever else the night offered.
But today he'd come home right after his lunch meeting with Irv.
One of the perks of being a top dawg-you didn't have to account
for your whereabouts to anyone.
These workouts were often the only time he spent alone in an entire
day. At the office he had his minions swarming around and his faithful
assistant, Imani, hovering nearby. At night, out at the most exclusive
clubs, his entourage was always surrounding him. When traveling in his
Maybach or Suburban (money green, fully loaded), his driver, Carlos,
was at the wheel. And when he finally fell asleep in this TriBeCa triplex,
there was almost always a gorgeous babe in bed beside him.
He had tried working out with a highly recommended personal
trainer, but the guy had annoyed him and was fired after two sessions.
Continues...
Excerpted from Bling
by Erica Kennedy
Copyright © 2005 by Erica Kennedy.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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