“Yum. Have one for me.”
“And me!” Mateo’s voice chirps behind her, and soon after that, Coco’s lisped drawl follows. Damn. I will miss seeing those kids for a whole year.
“One year, babe. And then it’s back to New York. Or London. Or wherever else I happen to land.”
She tuts at the idea, but inside, I’m thrilling. I love the idea of not knowing the future for the first time in my life.
“Maybe I should come visit you…” Layla daydreams just as another call rings through.
I frown at the number. Why is the head of A&R at National calling? The guy has spoken to me maybe once in seven years.
“Hold on, Lay. I’ll call you back, okay?” She agrees, and I switch answer the new call. “Hello?”
“Shama, this is Gary Clayburn. How are you?”
I sit down on the edge of the mattress. “Ah, fine, thanks.”
“I hear we’re losing you to...a private project. Is that right?”
My frown intensifies as I look in the mirror. Damn, I really should have cut my hair before leaving. Maybe a trip to the salon is in order…
“Yes,” I say as I hold my hair up, trying out a mock bob. Yeah, no. I need my long hair. “I’m leaving on Monday, actually. Right now I’m taking a little downtime before my flight to Delhi.” I meander over to the closet and shrug on the maxi dress I’m planning to wear for the next two days when I’m not on the beach.
“Good, good, so we haven’t lost you yet. Any chance you’re available this weekend for an emergency? We lost the producer on the DJ Cairo video. Apparently Cairo didn’t like the final mix and refuses to appear in the video until it’s fixed.”
“He’s back in the studio?”
“He’s an EP, and his agent got him final cut.”
The irritation in his voice is palpable. I don’t blame him. Final cut makes for tyrants. I’ve heard of DJ Cairo, of course—everyone has. He’s one of the most talented music producers in the business, the next Dr. Luke. He was the most recent get for National, and they bought his entire album, which, rumor has it, he recorded in his own apartment over several years. They say it’s a damn masterpiece. I haven’t heard this single, but I do know he’s stepping out as a performer for the first time, and National is putting everything they have behind it.
So sure, maybe the guy has first-time jitters, but that’s no reason to hijack an entire production and cost the studio thousands of dollars a day just to redo some auto tuning.
“We need someone to step in, Shama. Take the reins. Make sure everything gets done. We need you.”
Now my frown is an all-out scowl. I quit this job precisely because I was done babysitting all the narcissists in the industry. The last thing I want to do on my mini-vacation is to chase some prima donna beat boy into performing like a trained monkey. No. I want the beach. I want sunshine. I want margaritas.
Then Gary offers exactly five times what I’ve ever gotten paid for one of these projects. It’s more than I usually make in six months. More than I made in my first two years as an assistant producer. It’s enough to fund my entire year-long project on top of the money I’ve saved.
I cough profusely.
“Everything okay, there?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t quite hear what you said.”
So he says it again. And this time, I’m sure.
“Wow.” The word pops out before I can stop it.
“So you’ll do it?”
“Um, well. I only have three days before I leave L.A. How involved is the project?” I’m not staying past Sunday. Absolutely not.
“Not too bad. They’ve already started filming,” Gary replies. “The director has a pretty clear vision for the video too. Beach party. They’re doing it mostly on location in Redondo Beach. You know Jeff de Soto?”
I nod, though he can’t see me. “Oh, sure. Jeff and I have worked together a few times.” I glance at my maxi. So much for vacation. “All right. I’ll do it.”
“First things first,” Gary says. “We need to get Cairo out of the studio and back on set.”
Chapter Two
K.C.
“It’s still not right.”
I flip off the track and sit back in my chair, tapping my lips for a second while the studio stops shaking. The motion makes the big watch on my wrist slide forward, a gift from my agent after she signed me to National. Funny thing…we were so excited at the time. I could never have guessed how the transition from producer to performer would have turned out.
“I think it sounds dope,” says Joaquin, my personal assistant. “The bass is poppin’.”
I just roll my eyes at the soundboard. I like Joaquin. I do. One of my cousins from New York, he’s been my body man since he graduated high school. He’s loyal, trustworthy, and doesn’t snort his paycheck like half the people in this industry. And more than that, he always has yes-es when I need to hear them. But right now I don’t need a yes-man. I need someone who’s going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with this track.
Problem is, when you’re the producer on top of the talent, everyone expects you to have that answer. Today, though, the magic is not happening.
“Here.” I pull off the two fat chains around my neck, the diamond-encrusted pinkie ring, and the watch I bought with the royalties from the first Billboard hit I ever produced. I hand the whole kit over my shoulder. “’Quin, this shit is weighing me down. Take it back to the hotel and have them put it in the safe, all right?”
Joaquin whips out a velvet cloth to take the jewelry. He knows I don’t like my ice getting his fingerprints on it. And this happens often enough that he’s usually ready for it when I’ve had it with the hardware. The funny thing is, I don’t even like it that much. When I’m by myself, I keep it simple. T-shirt. Jeans. That’s about it.
But when you don’t come from much, you feel like you need to insulate yourself once you have something. Like somehow a little gleam makes it real.
I remember that feeling when I started making some money. First came a record with my first job at The Hit Factory. Then someone picked up my mixes. They started hiring me at bars. Clubs. Festivals. More records. More gigs. They just kept coming and coming.
But the numbers didn’t seem real until I saw what they could buy. Nothing—nothing—will ever compare to the feeling of handing my mother the title to her very own two-bedroom condo on the west side of Manhattan, four blocks from the falling-down building in Hell’s Kitchen where I grew up. From there, she could look over New York like the queen she was, not the servant she’d always been forced to be.
I turn to Barry, the sound tech. “What do you think?”
“Needs more bass,” he says, directly contradicting Joaquin. “You knew I was going to say that. It needs bounce.”
I turn back to the console like it’s going to give me all the answers. I did know that. Barry’s in-house here at National—a good guy who’s worked on some other projects with me. Old school, though, and very L.A. He wants to make my shit sound like Dr. Dre. I’m not having that. I’m from New York City, not Compton. Boricua, not Crenshaw.
“Joaquin. Phone. Call Nico.” I hold out my hand behind me, and like magic, my phone appears, the number to my best friend already ringing.
“Yo, mano. Where the fuck you been? I tried to call you, what, five times last week?”
I grin as the voice of Nico Soltero, my best friend, echoes through the room. Joaquin grins too. Everyone loves Nico.
Me most of all, though. Because out of everyone in my life, my boy is the only one who keeps it real. He tells me when I’m being a jackass. He tells me when I’m getting too big for my head. And he tells me when I’m getting shit right too.
“Where else, man?” I reply. “I’m in the studio.”
“Don’t you have that video shoot? I thought today was the day you become a real rap star!”
I grimace at my reflection in the window. “Yeah, the video’s on hold.”
Behi
nd me, Joaquin snorts. Okay, fine. So I ran off set to fix the damn track. What the fuck is the point of doing a video if the track’s not right?
“Layla good?” I ask, deflecting. “Family good?”
I can practically hear my man’s grin over the phone when I mention his wife. Cha-ching, if there was ever a man whipped by his woman. But I don’t blame him. She’s fine as hell, and really fuckin’ good for him to boot. We should all be so lucky as those two.
“Yeah, man, she’s good. Got a promotion at work last week. She’s director of the whole damn office now. You believe that?”
I nod. “Yeah, yeah. I can believe that. How about you? How does it feel to be a fuckin’ FDNY lieutenant now, mano?”
There’s another deep chuckle before he launches into some updates. He probably thinks I’m humoring him with these questions. But really, who’s doing better things for the world, huh? A firefighter and a social worker with two beautiful kids? Or an asshole making records about shaking ass and popping tags?
“Yo, man. I need you to listen to this track,” I say. “You got a minute?”
“Ah...sure, I guess. But you know I don’t know anything about music, bro.”
“Just tell me if you like it,” I say. I don’t have time for this song and dance. Nico isn’t a musical talent, but he knows good shit. If anyone else has an ear for the vibe I want, it’s him.
“I’m trying to make it sound like home,” I clarify.
Before he can ask any more questions, I flip on the song, hold the phone up to a speaker, and let it play for a solid minute before turning it off.
“Okay, what do you think?”
There’s a long pause. Shit.
“I mean, it’s nice...I’m sure it would play well with the younger crowd these days…they seem to like that auto-tuned business that got so popular.”
I groan into my palm. I knew sampling this girl was the wrong way to go. National demanded fuckin’ “synergy” on this project, and they gave me straight-up shit.
“It’s weak,” I translate. “And Katie Derek sounds weak on it.”
“Well…yeah. Claro, man. I’mma be real, I’d probably change the station. The beat is tight, but you need a better voice with it, you know? If you’re gonna use that rhythm, you need a hook to match. Maybe...shit, Kayce, I’m not a producer.”
I groan again. “Nico, cut the shit. I asked for your help, so just tell me what you’re thinking of.”
“Coño, calm the fuck down all right. God, you’re such a sensitive fuckin’ artist, you know that?”
I snort. “Shut the fuck up.”
“You shut up. You want my opinion or not?”
I sigh. I do want his opinion. Honest to God, Nico and I are probably...what’s the word...codependent. “Hit me.”
There’s a long pause while he thinks. “All right...I hear the lyrics...and I hear that beat you got going. It’s a rumba, right?”
“Right.”
“It reminds me of those Sunday mornings, you remember? Remember our moms, they used to hang laundry out the fire escape while they listened to that Ghetto Brothers album?”
My eyes pop open. “Oh shit. I forgot about that album. The one with those licks like Dusty Springfield? Like it’s echoing in a glass goblet? Viva Puerto Rico Libre…”
“Ah...I guess? But yeah, that song. That’s the one I mean.”
I can already hear it. Sultry harmonies, a lazy hum liquid as the ocean. In a flash, I’m back on the fire escape in Hell’s Kitchen, watching the sway of my mother’s skirt in the summer heat while she sings along and pins my shirts to the clothes line. In those moments, she was back in Santiago, sitting under the palm trees, watching the ocean as blue as the sky.
“Tell Layla I said what’s up,” I say in a hurry. “I gotta go.” I hang up—Nico knows there’s no more time for goodbyes, not when I’ve got the sound locked in my head. I swing around to Barry. “Yo, we need a guitarist.”
Barry nods—he’s been listening to my end of the conversation. “You want me to call Danny, the cat who worked on Drake’s last album?”
“How about Elian Ramirez? I think he’s in town. He could do it.” I’m rocking now to an unheard melody. Ba-da-da-dahhhh. I can hear it clearly, swimming over the beat I wrote, but with a different voice. I shake my head. “We need a new singer too.”
But Barry’s got no suggestions. Shit.
“Who, Barry, who?” I demand. “Goddammit, who’s available right the fuck now? Deeper voice, kind of husky, but Latin? Coño, who am I thinking of? I need to get this shit down before it flies.”
Barry taps a finger on his lips while Joaquin’s expression ping-pongs between us. “I don’t know, man. National ain’t gonna like it if you ax Katie Derek…”
I wave him away. “They’re gonna like it fine when I give them a platinum record. She doesn’t work with this, and you know it.”
“Ariana can do it the way you’re saying—”
“Nah, she’s touring in Australia with Katie Derek right now,” I say. “Who else?”
I’m snapping my fingers like a guy who needs his fix.
Barry opens his mouth and rattles off a few more names, but none of them work. Fuck, fuck. I’m sitting here rapping my brains, trying to think of someone, anyone who can sing this fucking hook for me.
And then, before I can name anyone else, the studio door opens, and the voice enters.
“All right, where’s the bastard who delayed an entire video production to adjust a few fucking beats? Where’s the spoiled brat who thinks the entire fucking industry revolves around him? Which one of you assholes is DJ Cairo?””
I swear to God, I don’t even remember what she said after my stage name comes out of her mouth. She practically sang it, like she was making fun of a singer, but it was melodic, and the deep, husky tone shot through my bones.
Without even turning around, I raise my hand. “That would be me, sweetheart.”
“Damn,” Barry murmurs behind me. He bats me on the shoulder. Then he does it again.
Finally, I swing in, wondering what he’s on about and ready to get this intruder into the sound booth so we can finish this shit. Then I look up, and I can’t think at all.
Chapter Three
Shama
He’s just...staring at me.
I won’t lie. I stare too for a second. But I did it the nice appropriate way through the tiny window on the studio door. Because it was a shock—a shock, I tell you—to walk in here and see world famous, yet oddly reclusive producer DJ Cairo sitting there with no jewelry, no flashy clothes, no posse, brow furrowed while he listened to a track over and over again. Lost in the zone. Totally floating away on his music.
Look. It’s not like I’ve never seen a hot musician before. Shit, I’ve been brushing these assholes aside like flies since I started in this business. Get it done, get it done. The number one rule of being a producer.
But this...somehow this is different.
I stride over and snap my fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Rapper boy, you there?”
He blinks and bats my hand away. “Coño! No need to get into my face, damn!
“You’re DJ Cairo?” I let the name slides of my tongue with disdain so thick it’s practically molasses.
He’s not at all what I would expect a Puerto Rican rapper to look like. Where’s the hat? The chains? The baggy jeans? This guy is pale enough that he probably passes as white most of the time in spite of the deep-set eyes and close-cut hair that’s even blacker than mine, and the full mouth set in a never-ending smirk. And with nothing on but a simple white t-shirt, completely normal jeans, and a pair of Adidas sneakers, he looks like any guy off the street.
I must have seen his picture before somewhere. A newspaper. Maybe a press release. Of course I have. That must be why he looks familiar.
At that, he blinks, then gives me a lazy smile and raises his hand. “Claro, that’s me. But I’m going to need you to say that one more time, sweetheart. This time
, into the mic, por favor.” He points toward the studio, and another guy, whom I’m guessing is the technician, is already standing, ready to escort me inside.
I push his hands away. “Get off me! I’m not a back-up singer, you asshole.”
“Then who are you?” Cairo grabs a red Yankees hat off the soundboard and claps it on backward. He absently toys with a small chain around his neck, pulling out a medallion of what looks like a Catholic saint while he scowls up at me. Ah, there’s the rapper I was expecting.
I cross my arms. “I’m Shama Sandhu, your new producer. The studio ruined my first vacation in seven years to get you back on set. Do you have any idea how much time you’re costing them by tinkering with the auto tune?”
The scowl deepens, which could be hot if I wasn’t so fired up.
“No use making excuses,” I say. “You might be a hitmaking veteran, but you’re a virgin performer. In this economy, you’re lucky the studio gave you any kind of video budget for your first single, and if you squander it making the crew wait, you won’t get another.”
“Oh, really?” he sneers. “According to who?”
“According to me and my seven years wrangling idiots like you. Do you want to do this or not?”
He taps his lip again. It’s distracting. And then that smile reappears, and for a second, I have to balance myself against the wall.
“Fine,” he says. “You want me on set?”
I nod sharply.
A wide, slow smile spreads across Cairo’s face. “Fine, sweetheart. I just need your voice.”
Chapter Four
K.C.
The second she said my name, like a woman who’s pissed and turned the fuck on all at once, the syllables dripping off her tongue like honey, I knew that was the exact thing this track needed. Sultry and stubborn, right where it belongs, like a call and response to the lilt of my rhymes.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 109