by M?ta Smith
Copyright © 2007 by Méta Smith
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: March 2007
ISBN: 978-0-7595-7210-2
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Intro
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Outro
About the Author
Books by Méta Smith
The Rolexxx Club
Queen of Miami
Dedicated with love to the memory of my godfather,
Emerick Matthews
Also dedicated to all the female DJs
and to “Big” (T.D.)
because the music sounds better with you
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m gonna keep it short so that I don’t get in trouble this time for forgetting people! Thanks to God the Father for allowing his child to have a voice once again. Eternal love to my son, Jordan, for constantly inspiring me and forcing me to take breaks! Special thanks to my family and friends for all of the support and encouragement and acting as managers, publicists, and cheerleaders. Nothing feels better than to hear you say that you’re proud of me.
To my godmother, Pauline Springfield: I feel like an idiot for not giving you a big shout out in the first book. I am so sorry. It’s my head, not my heart.
Derrick, Dwight, James: y’all can call your cousin every now and then!
Thanks to the writers who have offered me invaluable advice and support (in no order, of course): Karen Quinones Miller, Lyah LeFlore, Steve Perry, James Guitard, Thomas Brooks Joy (that is your name, right?) King, Danielle Santiago, T. N. Baker, Tracey Taylor, Jason Miccolo Johnson, Omar Tyree, J. L. Woodson, Tillis Vaughn, Elaine Meryl Brown, Nikki Turner, T. J. Williams, Terrie Williams, Pearl Cleage, Curtis Bunn, and especially Walter Mosley and J. California Cooper for saying things that changed my life without even knowing it.
Myra Panache of the Panache Report, sorry I couldn’t squeeze you in this one, but you know I love talking to you! Call me (Ginger)!
Devi Pillai, thanks a million for being a “sweet” editor. Big up Crown Point! (ha ha) Congrats on the new gig! All the best!
To Linda Duggins, thanks for being a publicist/sister/friend/
confidante/chaperone! You really are a blessing.
Marc Gerald, thanks for looking out and being such a great agent!
Adam Batson, you deserved a mention in the last book. Here it is. Sorry for being mad for so long. You’ve been a very supportive friend and I love you. Thank you for the past twenty years.
Antonio “Spock” Daniels, thanks for being there when I needed another artistic nerd to understand me. Thanks for quantum entanglement and platonic bubble baths. And of course, thanks most of all (I think) for being the Big to my Carrie. You haven’t always been there when I called but you’re always on time. Now be there when I call, dammit! And if you think I’m gonna let you play me for six years while I wait, you got me f*&^ed up! Do I really have to go all the way to Paris? Seriously though, it’s been an amazing journey. No matter what, I . . . more than like you (wink), Tweet.
And a million thanks from the bottom of my heart to all the book clubs, librarians, reviewers, media, booksellers, and especially the readers for your support, which has made this undoubtedly one of the best rides of my life!
Peace & Positive Vibes,
Méta Smith
“The Queen of Bling Fiction”
INTRO
MIAMI IS A CITY OF HUSTLERS. EVERYONE HAS AN ANGLE that they’re working. There’s so much excess, so much luxury in Miami, that people can’t help but want a little bit for themselves. There’s only so long that even the most pious and reserved person can sit around in a town like Miami and watch everyone else have all the fun. But fun costs a pretty penny in Miami.
Bottles of liquor that cost twenty bucks in the store are jacked up ten times at a nightclub. The admission to South Beach’s clubs is usually $20 or $30, often more. And drinks are going to run around ten bucks a pop. There’s also the money that’s spent on the gym memberships to stay in perfect South Beach shape, the latest designer fashions because you’ve got to look good, the perfect haircut, skin care, and cosmetics because you’ve got to look great to gain entry into this world. Clubbing is an expensive addiction. But just like any other addiction, nightlife junkies find a way to feed their habits.
People find ways to make money, whether they have to rob, steal, or kill for it, and they’ll go to great lengths just to have money to blow on superficial shit. And regardless of the state of the economy, the season, what war is going on, or any other variable, on South Beach, the hustlers are the kings of cash. In the words of KRS-One, illegal business controls America, and it damn sure controls South Beach.
The hustlers in Miami add a unique dynamic to the whole nightclub scene. They pump a steady flow of disposable income into the clubs every night of the week. They take flossing to a higher level. They kick it like every day is their last, because it just might be. Hustlers come in every color—from alabaster to indigo—from every social caste, from every corner of the earth, united by the quest for the almighty dollar.
In a city like Miami, the president, members of the media, and the so-called political experts would have you believe that hustlers only come in two shades—brown and black—and from three places—the ghetto, the barrio, or Latin America. But people who know the streets know that the arms of illegal business stretch far and wide, encircling everything we think we know about the world until the lines between right and wrong become so fuzzy that we just don’t see them anymore. Anyone, but anyone, can get caught up.
CHAPTER ONE
March 2006
I DRAG MY HUNGOVER BODY OUT OF THE BED, WALK OVER TO my window, and throw back the curtains. There had been a light misting of rain earlier but now the Florida sun is peeking through the clouds, and I’m lucky enough to see a rainbow shooting across the sky. My pot of gold is on the other side of that rainbow, and today I’m going to get it, I muse.
It’s been a while since I’ve been up so early, 9:00 AM, but I have a big day ahead of me. To my surprise I don’t melt, catch on fire, or explode when I’m exposed to daylight, quite a feat for a vampire like me. I go into the bedroom and nudge the snoring body that’s asleep in my bed.
“Time to go, buddy,” I say, like a cop moving a derelict sleeping in a doorway. “Get up.”
My guest mumbles something incoherent and rolls over.
“Yo!” I shout. “I’ve got things to do today. You have to leave!”
The man who spent the night with me sits up and rubs his eyes. He shakes out his wild mane of dreadlocks like he’s Bob Marley or someone, and grins. I suppose that he finds this sexy, but I just find it irritating. I had my fun and now I want him gone. I have no room in my life for clingy-ass men who don’t get the fact that as far as I’m concerned men are only good
for one thing, and it ain’t living happily ever after. They’re about satisfying my sexual needs and then making themselves invisible as quickly as possible.
“Come back to bed,” he says, his voice tinged with a Caribbean accent.
“Player, get out of my bed,” I say, and I say it real gully because I’m losing patience with this man. How is he going to tell me to come back to bed like he’s at home or something?
“I told you, I’ve got work to do. You don’t have to go home, but you’ve got to get the hell outta here.” He frowns but doesn’t move, like he’s hoping I’ll change my mind. I fold my arms across my chest, and give him a look that says I mean business. I call it my subway face, because if you’re ever on public transportation you can’t sit around looking like a vic ripe for the picking, you’ve got to look like you’ll cut any motherfucker that looks at you funny. That’s how I’m looking at him. He reluctantly gets out of bed, puts the wrinkled clothes that lay in a heap on the floor back on his body, and winks. I don’t know what the hell he’s winking for, because his performance was average if anything and he didn’t do anything spectacular enough for me to want to give him another shot.
“Got any coffee?” he asks.
“Nope,” I lie. “And I’ve got a meeting in a half hour, so it’s been nice, but I really need you to leave so I can get myself together.” I do have things to do, but not for more than three hours. Still he doesn’t need to know all that, so I usher him to the door and open it wide.
“It’s been real,” I tell him. Real ordinary, I think in a postscript to myself. I don’t know why I have it in my mind that every guy with dreadlocks must be a beast in bed, because that shit isn’t true, but still I’m a sucker for a man with a head full of nappy hair and an accent, and the blacker the better.
“Think we can get together again sometime?” he asks.
“I’ll call you,” I say, gently pushing him across the threshold.
“But I didn’t give you my number,” he says. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’ve already closed the door and locked it.
I go into the kitchen, turn on my espresso maker, and toast a bagel. I smile to myself as I smear cream cheese on the bagel and take a bite. The Winter Music Conference is finally here, more specifically, the DJ Spin-Off. This is my first year in the contest, but I’m confident that I’ll be a frontrunner. It’s my time to shine. People from all over will finally get a chance to hear what I can do on the turntables. I’ve been working toward this moment for a few years, and I know I’m ready.
In the music business, everyone has to pay their dues, and I paid mine no matter what anyone has to say. I didn’t become one of the hottest DJs in Miami because of my looks, though I’ve got to admit that being fine doesn’t hurt. And I didn’t fuck my way into this spot either, although I’ve done my fair share of fucking. But in this game, it doesn’t matter how you look or who you fuck, if you are a garbage DJ, you won’t have a career. You might score a gig here or there, but if the crowd isn’t feeling you, you won’t be back. Hell, you might not even survive the night.
But I don’t have to worry about not making it through a gig. I learned my craft from a great teacher, I practice my ass off, and I’m not afraid to be creative and think outside the box. I refuse to play something just because it’s popular. Nowadays, half the popular music is hot garbage; I don’t care how much it sells. Don’t get me started on how wack rap is today: a bunch of former and current hustlers, writing their own indictments as they tell the feds all the dirt they’ve done and in some cases are still doing, everything the po-pos could need to build a case and lock their stupid asses away for a long time. I miss real hip-hop, music with a message, music that brings attention to the plight and struggles of unrepresented and underrepresented populations. But there’s a big difference between telling people what’s going on in the hood because you want things to change for the better, and glorifying everything that’s fucked up about the hood and keeps normal, hardworking folks from ever getting ahead.
I guess you could say that I’m a DJ with a conscience. I give the people what they want, yes. But I also give them what they need, and I even give them what they never knew they wanted. I’m not dumbing down my sets for anyone. Fuck that. My goal once I step up to the deck is to enlighten minds through music. I can’t do that if all I play is the same boring drivel over and over again. Sure I’ll play hits and shit, but you better believe that I’m going to throw in classics and sleeper cuts that should have gotten way more pub than they did. I play obscure music, stuff you can’t help but dance to, and stuff that you’re not going to hear in heavy rotation on the radio. Because in my eyes, even though video may have killed the radio star, the radio star murdered good music.
I grew up listening to all kinds of music. Sure, lots of people say that they listen to all kinds of music, but what they really mean is that they turn the dial every now and then rather than keep it parked on one station. But shit, all the stations are owned by Clear Channel anyway, so it’s not like the programming is going to be any different. I bet if you look through the record collection of a so-called music lover—if they’re even true enough to music to actually own any vinyl—you’ll see a definite pattern of the same old shit repeating itself.
Now I really listen to all kinds of music. I own everything from Armenian folk music to zouk and zydeco. My music collection includes over 300,000 songs and counting on about 22,000 or so albums and CDs. I’ve even got some 78 rpm records, cassettes, and eight-tracks in my collection. I’ve worked everything from bar mitzvahs and Hindu weddings to quinceañeras and sweet sixteen parties in the past, and it wasn’t just because I needed the money, but because I wanted to see firsthand what makes people of all races, from all walks of life, leave their cares behind and lose their minds on the dance floor. And that’s why I can rock any crowd.
But even with my skills, I’ve had to work twice as hard to get where I am. I could say that sexism is rampant and that people give me shit just because I’m a woman, and I wouldn’t be lying or exaggerating, but my possession of a pussy hasn’t been my biggest roadblock. I mean, men in this business can be sexist, but men in any business are always thinking with their dicks and fucking it up for the women who are using their brains. That said, life as a DJ isn’t as challenging as say, corporate America. Besides there’s always a new club, another city, or a new promoter, so there’s always a new chance at scoring a gig if you know how to hustle. And for every chauvinist jerk, there seems to be someone waiting to hire me just because I’m a woman, so it all kind of balances out.
What has made me have to work so hard hasn’t been resistance from other people because of my gender. Nope, it hits a little closer to home for me. My struggles have come from trying to break free from a prominent, overbearing, and wealthy family. I grew up in the spotlight, with every creature comfort available; money was never an issue. I know it may sound like I have had every advantage in life; hell, a prominent, overbearing, wealthy family got a coked out C student with the vocabulary and enunciation of a third-grader into the Oval Office, so why should it be a hindrance to little old me, right? Wrong! Baby boy Bush has the support of his family, and I definitely don’t. When you’ve got wealth and power on your side, oh, it’s a beautiful thing. But when you’ve got wealth and power fighting against you, it’s quite a battle indeed. My relationship with my family has been just like a regular Joe going up against a multimillion-dollar corporation. Winning isn’t impossible, but it damn sure is hard.
For as long as I can remember it’s been my ultimate dream to work in the music business. I’ve always envisioned myself as a pop star, but I can’t sing, I can’t rap, and although I can play the piano and the guitar, I didn’t want to be a classical musician, which was the only acceptable music choice my peeps were going to support. I once ran the idea of becoming a recording engineer by them, or working in audio for TV or film, but it was a no go. The Hayes clan wasn’t going to have it. So even though it’s bee
n long and many a winding road, at least I had the balls to say the hell with my family and follow my heart. Most adults who clash with their families over their choice of career end up giving in to the pressure. And they end up miserable and trapped in a dead-end job until they’re too old to work anymore. What a waste! I may not be exactly where I want to be career-wise, but I’m proud that I haven’t buckled, that I’ve held my ground, especially because of who my family is. Standing up to them is hard, and going against them is even harder.
See, my grandfather and father are the Reverend Robert J. Hayes Sr. and Robert J. Hayes Jr., respectively. My grandfather is a civil rights and religious icon, like a living Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who just happened to be a friend of my family when he was alive. My grandfather’s congregation, Sweet Name of Jesus African Methodist Episcopal Church, is on Chicago’s South Side and has been renowned for over fifty years for its civil and human rights work both in America and abroad. Rumor has it that Grandfather is being considered to receive the Nobel Peace Prize for his work with AIDS orphans in Haiti and sub-Saharan Africa, as well as his AIDS activism in America. He’s respected, admired, and revered. But he also hates most music that isn’t gospel. He believes rock and roll kills the soul and rap is the minion of the devil. So he’s none too pleased that his only grandchild is so caught up in the secular world of Beelzebub’s hypnotic beats, as he refers to today’s music.
My grandfather and I get along really well but we’d get along a lot better if he just eased up and accepted the fact that I’m not going to carry on the family legacy of fighting injustice and inequality. Not the way he wants me to. But hell, music has always been a huge part of any struggle, from slavery to civil rights, and I think I contribute to the “revolution” that way. Grandfather keeps telling me he wishes I would do something with my life and then whips out his Bible and starts preaching every time I see him. I could try to tell him that I am doing something with my life, but then I’d really get an earful. I love the Lord just as much as anyone else, but he gave us free will, and I just can’t will myself to listen to all the sermons.