by Phil Swann
Anthony smiled. "Probably not, pitching was always my forte."
Jimmy drew hard on his smoke. "Well come on, maestro. I'd just love to take your ass downtown."
Anthony walked over to the kid with the ball. "May I?" The boy handed Anthony the ball. "Ready, cousin?"
Jimmy threw down his cigarette butt and spit on the garbage lid. "Bring it on, mutherfucker."
Anthony reached back in a deep wind-up and brought his arm over his head. The ball flew from his hand like a bullet. Jimmy had no time to react. The ball found its target just above Jimmy's left eye. First the stick fell, then the knees buckled, and then the tough Italian lay prone on the street. Every boy ran to check on the injured man. Anthony casually walked.
"He'll be okay, boys, don't worry. You are okay, aren’t you, cousin?"
Jimmy responded with a grunt.
"Yeah, he'll be fine. Okay, boys, I'll take care of Babe Ruth here while you guys get in and get cleaned up for lunch."
The boys looked at each other.
"Go on now, Jimmy's fine. We'll be along in a second."
The boys obeyed Anthony's order and ran off through the gate and into the backyard. Anthony grabbed Jimmy by the back of his T-shirt and lifted him into a sitting position.
"Come on, you're not hurt."
"You mutherfucker," Jimmy mumbled, recovering his senses.
"Right back at you, cousin."
"I'm gonna fuckin' break your skull."
"Tsk, tsk, let's not lose our head," Anthony said, slapping the man on the face. "Let's not forget who you're talking to, or should I remind you about—”
"Shut the fuck up about that. I'm sick of you bringin' that up. What the fuck's eating you, anyway?"
"You know exactly what's wrong, Jimmy. Now, what I want to know is why I didn't know anything about it until your father called me last night?"
"You mean the old man gettin' whacked? How the fuck should I know? I didn't know anything about it either 'til pop told me."
"What about Leo and Sal?"
"I can't find ’em."
"What do you mean you can't find them?"
"I mean, I've tried calling and I can't find 'em."
Anthony kneeled down and looked his cousin in the eye. "Jimmy, you wouldn't be fucking with me, would you?"
"What the fuck you talkin' about?"
"You wouldn't have had Sal and Leo whack the old man to make me look bad in front of your father, would you? Because if you did—”
"You’re a fuckin' lunatic. I told you I haven't talked to Leo and Sal, and I didn't know about the old man 'til Pop told me last night. What, you think I'm stupid or something?"
"Yes, I do." Anthony stared at Jimmy's face for a moment. "But not that stupid, or smart, whichever the case may be.” Anthony helped his cousin up. “So, where is Leo and Sal?"
"I don't know, this ain’t like 'em. They're two of my best. Hell, I've known 'em both since fourth grade."
"Someone else is in the picture," Anthony said, tossing the ball in the air.
"Someone else? You mean somebody else is lookin' for this thing too?"
Anthony didn’t reply.
"Hey, maybe it's that piano guy the old man wanted to see."
"Not likely, but we can't rule it out. You keep trying to locate Leo and Sal. Call everybody out there you know who might be of assistance. If we haven't heard from them by tonight, we can probably expect we won't."
Jimmy looked at Anthony. "You thinkin' they got whacked too?"
Anthony didn't respond to the question. "You should put some ice on that."
"Little Tony! Jimmy!" Auntie Maria yelled from over the gate. "Boys, your father and uncle would like to see you both in his study."
"Thank you, Auntie Maria, tell him we'll be right there."
The woman nodded and scurried back to the house.
"Any idea what your father's going to want to do?"
"No, all I know is the nigger and the Jew are both here."
Anthony dropped the ball. "Here? Why?"
"Relax. Knowin' Pop, it's just because he likes all the players on the same page. You know how he is."
Anthony tightened his jaw in frustration.
"Come on, Pop gets pissed when he's kept waiting."
»»•««
Small, light, and bright, Nicholas Depriestiano's private study was very much like the house itself, the total antithesis of what you'd expect from the head one of New York's most powerful crime families. Depriestiano prided himself on that fact. While others of his ilk chose the profile and reputation of a Bensonhurst address, Old Nick rejoiced in the simplicity and wholesomeness of his stately Church Avenue residence.
The old man seated behind the desk seemed himself to be a contradiction to his profession as well. Slight in build, with wavy, snow-white hair that made his dark complexion appear even darker, he wore gray slacks with a light pink pullover. One could easily visualize the man walking up the seventeenth fairway at Pebble Beach.
Jimmy entered first, announcing their arrival with two brief raps on the door. Despite the smiles on the faces in the room, the tension was obvious.
Nicholas remained seated. "Here are my boys," Old Nick whined with a bagpipe-ish voice. "Come in, boys, it's time you met our new friend face to face."
An African-American man wearing a crisp white shirt, red bow tie, and frameless round eyeglasses rose from a rocking chair sitting in front of Nicholas's desk. Jimmy extended his hand.
"Boys, this is Thurman Winfield. Thurman, this is my son Jimmy and my nephew—”
"The maestro needs no introduction, Mr. Depriestiano," the man cut in, releasing Jimmy's hand and quickly offering it, and a sparkling smile, to Anthony. "I have enjoyed the maestro's work on many occasions. It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Depriest."
Anthony shook the hand and returned the smile. "You are kind, Mr. Winfield. And likewise it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, but please call me Anthony."
"Thank you. Call me Thurman?"
"Hey, Bernie, look, it's my boys," Nick said to the somewhat disheveled man relaxing on a floral sofa by the wall.
Jimmy nodded casually but Anthony hurried across the room.
"Hello, Mr. Freeman, good to see you again," Anthony said, offering both his hands to the seated little man, who appeared to be only slightly younger than the elder Depriestiano.
"Hello, Tony. You look good," Bernard Freeman replied with a thick New York Jewish accent.
"As do you. How's Lady Justice treating you?"
"Oh, you know, win a few, lose a few. I guess it all works out in the end. What can I say, I should have listened to my mother and been a barber."
"Well, let me speak for all of us when I say that I'm glad you didn't. I'd hate to think where our family would be had we not had your wisdom and counsel over the years."
Bernie threw both hands forward.
Old Nick broke in. "Whatta you say we all have a seat."
Winfield sat back in the rocking chair. Anthony took a seat in the matching one beside him. Jimmy joined the lawyer on the sofa.
Nicholas rested his folded hands in front of him on the desk as he spoke. "The reason I called this little meeting was to gather all the principals in one room and discuss the progress of our little enterprise. I've always found it wise to keep everyone on the same page."
Anthony subtly glanced over his shoulder and saw Jimmy looking at him with a conceited smile.
"Thurman and I have been discussing the situation on the coast. I have informed him, Tony, that this unfortunate event was not unexpected by you, and in no way should hamper our mutually desired result. I'd now like for you to take over with where things are at present."
Anthony remained relaxed, gently rocking back and forth in his chair. "I'd be happy to, Uncle. Well, as my uncle said, the recent event in California came as little surprise. It was only a matter of time before something like this was going to happen. When you're dealing with any treasure as desirable as
this one, it can become quite dangerous."
Winfield listened expressionless. Anthony continued. "Therefore, since it was anticipated, there is no reason to consider this a setback in any form or fashion. It should only be regarded as what it is—an unfortunate bit of bad luck for someone who was in way over his head."
"May I interrupt for a moment?" Winfield asked.
Everyone looked at Nicholas, who nodded to Winfield.
"I'm a little confused, Mr. Depriest."
"Anthony," Depriest corrected with a smile.
"I'm sorry. Anthony."
"How so?"
"When Mr. Freeman approached me and my representatives at Electric Chair Records with this venture, he made it clear in no uncertain terms one of the most important elements was this professor. I'm sorry, what was the elderly man's name?"
"Shoewalter," Bernie Freeman offered.
"Yes, Shoewalter. He reiterated over and over how Professor Shoewalter was the key to the success of this venture and how fortunate we all were that you, and you alone, had access to him and what he knew. Now, I learn he has been killed, and you say I should not be concerned. Do you see my confusion?"
Anthony didn't blink. "Absolutely, Thurman. I can well imagine your shock when my uncle informed you that Shoewalter had been murdered. But you must take—”
"Excuse me, Anthony," Winfield interrupted, "But your uncle didn't inform me, I informed him."
Anthony looked at Nicholas, who was staring right at him. At that point, Anthony knew his uncle had set him up—a little payback. Old Nick, above everything, hated to look stupid. And Anthony now understood that in his uncle's opinion, Anthony had committed the cardinal sin—allowing him to look stupid, to a black man at that.
"I see. Thurman, may I ask how you learned of the incident?"
"Anthony, surely you must know as a record executive many of my dealings are in Los Angeles. I was notified by one of my close associates."
"I see. Thurman, it's not my intent to butt in on how you run your business, but is it wise to let out the delicate particulars of what we're doing?"
Winfield spoke directly. "I said he was a close associate, Anthony."
"Ah, of course, my apologies." Anthony bowed his head. What would MacArthur do? Anthony stood and faced the room. "Thurman, I sincerely hope what I'm about to say does not make you uncomfortable, but I must make this statement. I would like to most humbly apologize to you, my uncle, Mr. Freeman, and my dear cousin for the egregious breakdown in communication in regards to the California incident. The blame should rest solidly upon my shoulders. There is no excuse for such sloppy—and make no mistake, it was sloppy—intelligence. If it's of any consequence, I can assure you all I have taken the necessary steps to ensure such a blunder shall not be repeated in the future. I hope this unfortunate mistake has not lessened your faith in my abilities to execute the rest of this worthwhile, and what I'm sure will be profitable, endeavor."
Winfield adjusted his glasses. Old Nick nodded approvingly.
"Your apology is most gracious and impressive, Anthony," Winfield said.
"Thank you, Thurman."
"Now," Winfield said, first scanning the room and then looking right at Old Nick, "can we cut through all this polite bullshit and get to the matter at hand?"
Anthony's smile abruptly vanished. Bernie and Jimmy adjusted themselves on the couch. Old Nick shifted his eyes on Winfield. Anthony stayed still, waiting to see how the old man would react—Nicholas Depriestiano was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner.
Old Nick settled back in his chair and smiled. "Have a seat, Tony. Okay, Winfield, the floor is yours."
Anthony sat down.
Winfield leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and looked at the ceiling as he began to speak. "Gentlemen, I don't give a rat's ass about some old man in California getting in over his head. What I do care about is Electric Chair Records. Pardon the cliché, but it is my baby. I built this company from a home studio in my bedroom in Harlem to one of the most successful rap labels in the country. You know how I did that? Foresight. Foresight and organization. You know what I'm not seeing here? Foresight and organization. Now, I have been approached with joint venture deals from every major record label in the country. I've said no to every one of them. See, I like being in control. I like knowing what's going on at all times with my baby. When Mr. Freeman came to me with this joint venture deal, four months ago I might add, I was intrigued. You know why? Because you, Mr. Depriestiano, have a reputation for knowing what's going on within your organization—a reputation I now question."
All eyes looked at Old Nick for a response. He gave none.
"Bottom line, gentlemen, is this: it's stipulated in the offering memorandum, that we all agreed to, that if at any time there is dissatisfaction by either party, then either party could pull out of the deal before the full partnership goes into effect. Now, besides the incompetence of how this operation has been run heretofore, let me remind you that it's also stated in the agreement that you have three months to match your initial five hundred thousand investment or lose it all. Your three months ran out two days ago, gentlemen, and I'm," Winfield paused for effect, "dissatisfied. As I see it, you need this deal considerably more than Electric Chair Records does. I'm here to be persuaded why I should continue this relationship."
The room was silent while Old Nick stared blankly at the man. Finally he looked at Anthony. "Tony, do you wish to respond to Mr. Winfield?"
"Yes." Anthony folded his hands, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling. "Thurman…fuck you!"
"Excuse me?"
Bernie raised forward on the couch, "Now, gentlemen, there's no need—”
"Shut up, Bernie," Nicholas commanded sharply.
"You heard me. Fuck you. If you want out, no one here's stopping you. You must really think we're stupid. Do you actually believe we'd give you a half million dollars in good faith money and not know everything that's going on within your little record company? Well, allow me to enlighten you. Let's start with your big gun artist, BJ Jam, alias Lester Tyron Waters, alias Maxwell Washington, Jr. That is the little felon's real name, isn't it? Oh yeah, we know about his little stint in Attica for child molestation—registration of sex offenders is a bitch, isn't it? I wonder what would happen to his record sales if that got out? And while we're talking about record sales, let's talk about your other artists—and I use that term in the broadest possible sense. All of their sales have been down for the past eight quarters. That's gotta hurt. I mean, how does one keep a cash flow with those types of numbers—perhaps some extracurricular activities in the old accounting department? Perhaps an inventive little sell-through arrangement?"
Winfield maintained his cool, but Anthony knew he was getting to him.
"Oh, yes, I know about sell-through. I believe it's pretty common practice in the independent record world. Tell me if this isn't how it works? You, as the record company, don't get paid from your distributor until the CDs you ship to them, that they in turn distribute to retailers, online or otherwise, go off the shelf as it were, and remain off the shelf for ninety days, correct? It's a way the distributor has of protecting itself from returns of unsold merchandise."
Winfield didn't respond.
"Hmm, that's a terrible arrangement, isn't it? Unless of course you happen to, one: own, the distribution company in question, silently, of course, and two: have a habit of making buyout deals with foreign distributors—no royalties, no nothing, just cash in hand. Then that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Certainly would offset the cost of doing business. I just wonder, though, how the Feds would look at that little arrangement? I mean, you are paying taxes on all that ill-gotten gain, aren’t you, Thurman? Of course they'd probably be the least of your worries. Imagine if your Gangsta Rap buddies were to find out you were withholding their royalties in a nice little offshore account. I don't even want to think about that, do you? By the way, how is Belize this time of year?"
"All right, Depriest, I got it. So you've done your homework. Your point?"
"Point is, Winfield, your baby is sucking air. The hell you don't need this joint venture. The only reason you haven't done one with a major is because you can't. The first thing they'd do is audit your books. You poor fool. You've been skimming off the top for years. The IRS would have a field day with you."
The two men stared at one another.
Finally, Winfield dropped his head. "So what do you want from me?"
"To shut up and enjoy the gift, because that's what we're giving you. And, if you do exactly as we instruct, you just might stay out of prison and alive."
Winfield withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed his lips. "What do I have to do? And I don't mean that garbage in the agreement I signed. I see that thing's pretty much worthless. I want to know what I've really gotten into."
Anthony looked at his uncle. The sun was breaking through the window behind the old don, wrapping him in ethereal radiance. He nodded affirmatively, giving his okay for Anthony to continue.
Anthony rose from his chair with a smile, walked behind Winfield, and put his hands on his shoulders. He whispered into the man's ear, but still loud enough for all to hear. "Nothing, just relax and let us make you legit. Once we're in possession of the piece, you'll shut down Electric Chair Records."
Winfield stiffened and closed his eyes.
"After we make the recording, you'll reopen the label under the new name, Renaissance Records. A new and exciting record label specializing in classical music. Your first release will be a never before heard Mozart piece."
Winfield's voice broke. "I'll be a laughing stock."
"Au contraire, you'll be heralded as a genius—a true Renaissance man. I can see the headline in Billboard now: Thurman Winfield, from Rap to Rapture. And here's the best part, everything's PD, public domain, no pesky publishing royalties to pay out. You keep all the money, legally this time."
Winfield took a deep breath and looked at the old man in front of him. Old Nick was like a mother lion watching her young make its first kill.
"And what's in this for you?" Winfield asked the old man.
He looked at Anthony, who picked up the cue. "We handle the distribution and all print publishing. You'll be paid accordingly."