Any Way the Wind Blows

by E. Lynn Harris

“Thank you.” I smiled.

  “You’ve seen the treatment for the video?” Michel asked.

  “Yep, I read it.”

  “You know this might be controversial and we’re on a tight schedule. We need to shoot this in a week or two. Will that be a problem?”

  “Not as long as you pay me and my staff overtime, and we shoot up in Harlem.”

  “Harlem? I don’t think so,” I said as I looked cross-eyed at Michel.

  “Then I can’t do it,” Desmond said as he got up from his chair.

  “Why do you have to do it in Harlem?” I asked.

  “You must be from L.A.,” Desmond said.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “’Cause Harlem is the joint these days. Besides, I have a wonderful relationship with a studio up there who can pull this shoot together fast. It’s top-notch,” Desmond said.

  “Let’s talk about the treatment,” Michel said.

  “Yeah. How do you see it?” I asked.

  “Some of the stuff is cool. But this is your video and you should be the focal point, not the dudes. I mean, we need them to convey the song’s story. I’d like to see you in something real sexy, but dressed down and revealing with your hair flowing. I would begin with a close-up of your face, with you singing the chorus without music, kinda like Whitney Houston did in ‘I Will Always Love You.’ Like this: ‘I can see your love goes … any way the wind blows … even though I know I have to … I don’t want to be without you … I can see your love flows … any way the wind blows …’” Desmond said as his words and singing melted together.

  “You have a great voice,” I said.

  “I do all right for a director,” he said.

  “We still have to cast the men, and do you think we need dancers?”

  “No dancers. Just this beautiful lady, the dudes, the sets and a little computer magic,” Desmond said.

  “The sets have already been prepared. That’s why the Harlem studio might be a problem,” Michel said.

  “Not really. Let me check out whatever sets you got and if I decide to use them, I can get my guys to move up there in a minute. The other scenes we can do behind a white background and then use the computer to put in what we need. Simple, just like that,” Desmond said as he snapped his fingers in the air.

  “What casting agents would you recommend?” Michel asked.

  “Jakki Brown is the best in New York, but you don’t really need strong actors. You just need a couple of pretty boys in the background. So I would suggest using one of the modeling agencies like the Lyon Group or Ford. I want Yancey B out front singing her ass off, or should I say lips off, since she’ll be lip-synching,” Desmond said, and looked over at me just long enough to make me feel a little uncomfortable about the eye contact I’d made with him.

  “So you want the focus on me,” I said. I suddenly loved his vision, and maybe the Harlem studio would be less expensive. I didn’t want to be one of those singers who ended up in bankruptcy court because I spent too much money on my video or my jewelry. I planned to walk right into places like Harry Winston and Versace and demand the same kind of goodies they give women like Whitney, Lil’ Kim and Mary J. Blige.

  “Yeah … yeah, Yancey B. I want you to show anguish and pain about losing your love to a dude. I want people to say, ‘What kind of dumb mofo would leave such a beautiful woman?’” Desmond said thoughtfully.

  I smiled and looked at Michel and said, “I think we’ve found our director.”

  • • •

  I was getting ready to go home when Michel stopped me just as I was pushing the door buzzer. It was after hours, and the receptionist was gone.

  “Hey, I got a package for you,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “Probably some fan mail. You better get used to it.” Michel smiled.

  I took the package from Michel, and the first thing I noticed was there was no return address. I shook the package gently, and it felt like it contained some type of cards or pictures. I tore open the package as I pushed through the glass door and walked toward the elevator. A few moments later the elevator arrived, and as I walked on, I dropped the contents of the package. Photographs of several pretty black girls fell out. How sweet, I thought. They were probably some of my young fans who wanted autographs, or maybe a stage mother who was trying to get video work for her daughters. But then I looked at the photos and noticed that none of the girls looked the same. One was very light-skinned, another a peanut butter brown, and the last was beautiful, with skin the color of coal.

  The elevator reached the lobby, and I continued to study the photos. I looked inside the envelope for a note and saw a small yellow sheet of paper and pulled it out. As I walked out of the building, the harsh cold air hit my face with the force of a ceiling fan. A chill covered my entire body when I read the note: Do you know which one of these girls doesn’t have a mommy? Think about it. …

  • • •

  I had just finished my bath and was trying to decide what I wanted for dinner when my phone rang. I was enjoying How Glory Goes, a CD by Audra MacDonald that I hated to admit I loved. That child could make magic with her voice.

  “Hello, this is Yancey B,” I said.

  “Indeed it is,” Ava, my estranged mother said in her usual flip manner. I hadn’t spoken with her since the day after my aborted wedding. I was wondering what I’d done to deserve this phone call when I remember the photos I’d received earlier. Maybe she was calling to see if her childish pranks were rattling me, so I decided to act like nothing but great things were happening for me.

  “Ava? I’m surprised to hear from you,” I said in as cheery a voice as I could muster.

  “I need to speak with you,” she said, as I heard my phone beep.

  “Hold on, I have a call coming in,” I said quickly as I clicked over without giving Ava a chance to keep me on the line.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Yancey, this is Michel. Jut wanted you to know that we got B. Michael to design some great gowns for the video and the photo session with Savoy,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said as I took a seat on my bed and used the remote to turn the volume down on Audra’s booming voice.

  “Yeah, it was a real coup to get him to design for you. He’s one of the hottest designers in town,” Michel said.

  “I know that’s right. Were we able to book Sam Fine and Oscar James for my makeup and hair?”

  “I think so, but let me double-check,” Michel said.

  “Please, I wouldn’t want to do the video without them,” I said.

  “I’ll have my assistant find out. I know we got Lloyd Boston to do the styling and Matthew Jordan Smith is going to do the promotional photos.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. I can’t believe you got them,” I said. By now, Ava was probably good and hot, but I didn’t care. I had my own business to tend to.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “You guys are spoiling me, but I like it,” I said.

  “You’re going to be a star, so nothing but the best for you.”

  “I like hearing that.”

  “I’ll speak with you tomorrow. Have a relaxing evening,” Michel said.

  “Bye now. Thanks for everything,” I said as I clicked back over to Ava.

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “I was getting ready to hang up! Have you lost your mind or something? Keeping me on hold that long. I got things to do,” Ava said.

  “It was important,” I said.

  “Who was it? The President of the United States or the Queen of England?” Ava scoffed.

  “So how are you doing in California?” I asked, ignoring my mother’s jab.

  “Minding my business,” Ava snapped, the tone of her voice changing quicker than a heartbeat.

  “Glad to hear you got business. If you called to mess with me, then let’s keep it short,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t missed our conversations
one bit.

  “I called to be nice. I saw you sing your little song on Soul Train. Have you been taking voice lessons or did they fix it up in the studio?” Ava asked.

  “I need to go, and for your information that little record will soon be at the top of the charts,” I said.

  “Well, I guess anything is possible. I mean if Cher can have a number one song then I suppose you could too,” Ava said.

  “Look, I’ve got to run. I have a full day tomorrow. Give me a call when you want to act like a mother,” I said.

  “My, aren’t we feeling bitchy? I called to be nice. I was thinking about coming to New York to help you out,” Ava said.

  “Help me out? What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “It looks like the better judgment of the public ain’t what it used to be and you might really make it big. You need someone to look out for your interests, and who better than me,” Ava said.

  “I already have a team in place,” I said.

  “But they’re not family. I got some time. I need to make sure you don’t make any mistakes.”

  “Ava, listen to me. I don’t need your help. Stay out in Cali with your latest husband.”

  “Don’t worry about my husband. You should be grateful to have a mother who knows the show biz ropes,” Ava said.

  “As long as you don’t use those ropes to try and hang me,” I said before putting down the phone.

  Ain’t Too Proud to Beg

  Yancey was on my mind, and I was seeing her everywhere. Posters promoting her song were plastered all over the city. Every time I turned on the radio I heard her voice.

  Today as I looked out the window, I could tell there was nothing good about this cold, gray Wednesday morning, so I might as well make it worse by calling Yancey again. It was a little after eight, so I knew Yancey was still enjoying her beauty sleep. I knew putting the call off wasn’t going to solve my problems, so I picked up the phone and dialed Yancey’s number.

  After a couple of rings, Yancey picked up the phone. “Hello.” The sleep made her voice sound deep and sexy.

  “Yancey,” I said softly.

  “Basil?” Yancey said.

  “Yep, it’s me. So I guess you haven’t forgotten my voice. How’s Windsor doing?”

  “What do you want? I know you didn’t call over here to check on Windsor’s health.” The sexy voice was gone, replaced with a cool bitterness.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Yancey, will you just give me five minutes?” I asked.

  “Tell me now,” Yancey demanded.

  “Yancey, just give me five minutes face-to-face. Can I come by around noon?”

  “I won’t be here,” Yancey said.

  “What about this evening, around seven?”

  “I don’t know. Let me call you. Is your office number still the same?”

  “Yeah, do you still have it?”

  “Why else would I ask you if it was the same, Basil? Have you gotten dumb all of a sudden?”

  I didn’t answer her question and decided I would try and lay on some charm. “Your song sounds great, and I’ve been seeing your posters everywhere. I guess you’ve made the big time,” I said, choosing my words very carefully.

  “Was there ever any doubt?”

  “No, I guess not,” I said, remembering that Yancey’s extreme confidence was one of the things that attracted me to her.

  “What do you want to talk about? My song?” Yancey asked. I guess she still knew me well. Same old Yancey.

  “Just wait until you see me. I promise you, I only need five minutes.”

  “If I decide to see you, then that’s all you’re getting. I think we need to meet at a neutral site,” Yancey said.

  “What? Are you afraid to be alone with me?” I asked with my normal cocky tone.

  “Not hardly,” Yancey said coldly.

  “Okay, I’ll wait for your call, and if I’m on the phone, please tell my assistant to put you through,” I said.

  “That’s if I call. Don’t hold your breath,” Yancey said as she slammed down the phone.

  • • •

  I’d just finished an intensive staff meeting, when Kendra walked into my office and said, “There’s a Bart Dunbar on the phone. He says it’s real important, and it’s the fourth time he’s called in the last two days.”

  “Thanks, Kendra, ask him to hold on,” I said as I looked at the clock and realized that it was almost 7:30 P.M. Brison, Nico and I were trying to decide what to do about an offer made by PMK to purchase XJI. PMK was the largest sports management company in the USA. The financial package would make the three of us independently wealthy. Nico was in favor of selling, while Brison and I were wavering because we thought it would set a bad example if we sold out to the big boys just when we were making a dent in their business. PMK was offering us executive positions and we’d be able to keep our individual clients, but the thought of working for somebody just didn’t sit well with Brison and me. We thought we’d left those days behind when we left professional sports.

  Before I picked up the phone, I made sure my door was locked. I was a little pissed off that Bart was calling my office like some teenage girl enjoying her first major crush. I had the feeling this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation, but I had to get this shit over with.

  “Whatsup, dude?”

  “You’re not trying to slip away, are you?” Bart asked. As far as I was concerned, homeboy had just crossed the invisible line I had warned him about after our first meeting. I didn’t date men, and I certainly didn’t like them calling my office during the day to chitchat.

  “Dude, I can’t talk right now. Let me get back to you,” I said.

  “But what about our plans?”

  “Plans? What plans?”

  “I got tickets for us to see The Lion King. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Bart, I don’t like surprises.”

  “Didn’t you get the messages I left for you at your house?”

  “I haven’t been checking my messages. I’ve been tied up.”

  “I’d like to tie you up,” Bart teased. There he was, crossing the line again.

  “Bart, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it. I have other plans,” I said, suddenly feeling like letting Bart sample the beef could have been one of my biggest mistakes of the new millennium.

  “Other plans that don’t include me? You are trying to get away. Now, don’t make me put you in a headlock, and you can take that any way you want to,” Bart said in a playful tone.

  “I’m sure you’ve got some other friends that would enjoy the show, and I’ll pay for the ticket,” I said.

  “It’s not about the money. It’s about our debut,” Bart said.

  “Debut?”

  “Yeah, as a couple,” Bart said.

  “Dude, how can I get this through your head?” I said in a low, hushed tone. “We had a good time, but I told you I don’t date hardheads.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I was hoping I could change your mind,” Bart said.

  “Bart, look, I need to run. I’ll hit you back later,” I said as I got off the phone quickly. After that conversation, I needed to hit the gym and work out some of my tension, then go and find me some new pussy.

  Other Divas and CP Time

  I had been rehearsing for a couple of hours for my performance at the Roxy when one of the backup singers got on my last nerve. Paul Ellis, the musical director hired by Motown, had hired three backup singers for my act, two females and one male. The male singer, Guy, a decent-looking brother with a honey-smooth tenor voice, and Terri, the regulation backup big mama with her gospel sound, were just fine. But this skinny bitch named Dove, with holes in almost every part of her body, was giving me fits. First of all, I wanted to ask her why her mother named her after a bar of soap, but I had more pressing issues on my mind.

  Every time I was getting my groove on with my songs, Miss Dove would start s
inging over me, with riffs and notes that were not part of the arrangement. At first, I tried to be nice. I walked closer to the singers and sang with them. When I asked them if they knew their parts, they all nodded and smiled, but when we started to sing again, the only voice I could hear was Miss Dove’s. I motioned for Paul to stop the music, and Michel came over and asked me if everything was okay.

  “No, it’s not,” I said firmly.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Dove’s singing over me, and she’s fucking everything up,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  “Can’t you hear her? She’s singing stuff that’s not even in my songs. I’ve asked her once to sing it the way I told her, but when we sing I can hear her trying to out sing me,” I said as I folded my arms to let Michel know that I wasn’t happy.

  “But Dove is one of the top backup singers in the business. I think she’s pretty close to getting her own deal,” Michel said.

  “Then let her sing that loud and that off-key with her own act. She’s not messing up mine.”

  “Yancey, the Roxy performance is one week off. I don’t know if we can get another singer at this late date.”

  “Then we’ll have to make do with Guy and Terri. Fire that bitch right now,” I demanded.

  “Yancey, are you sure?”

  “Fire her now!” I said as I stormed off the stage. When I got close to my dressing room, I heard the chatter of my assistant, Amy, who was already making a habit of being late. Sometimes it was ten minutes, and a couple of times it was two hours. She always had her cell phone attached to her ear, talking to either a girlfriend or her boyfriend, Jermaine.

  “She’s back. I got to go, Jermaine,” I heard Amy whisper. As I walked in, I rolled my eyes to let her know I was not pleased.

  “Hey, Yancey B. How’s the rehearsal going?” Amy asked.

  “Fine. Did you get the items I asked you to pick up?” I asked as I sat in front of the mirror.

  “I got everything but the cold cream. I forgot what kind you wanted,” Amy said.

  “Noxzema! Why didn’t you write it down like I told you?” I screamed.

  “I forgot,” Amy said. I looked through the bag of toiletries and didn’t see the vitamins I’d asked Amy to purchase. “Where are my vitamins?”