The Come Up

by Nia Forrester

  “She’s right over here.”

  And the next thing Makayla knew, both Serena and Jamal were leaning over the wall of her cubicle, Serena’s dark blonde head bobbed a little as she stood on her toes, greenish-grey eyes just visible over the edge. Jamal effortlessly leaned over, arms folded as he stared down at Makayla who in turn looked up at him. It had been a week since she’d done her duty and introduced him to Devin, and she hadn’t followed up with either of them. So if there was news, she could only hope it was good.

  “Kay, Jamal just wanted to stop by to say thank you,” Serena announced. Though Makayla couldn’t see her mouth, she could tell Serena was smiling from the way her eyes crinkled.

  “Yeah. Thanks again,” Jamal said. “I had a good long talk with your boy. Wondered if you had a few minutes to check in with me on a couple things.”

  Makayla looked at him blankly for a moment. What could she possibly have to ‘check in’ with him on?

  She had literally led him round to the back of the club, found Devin, introduced them and then left. The whole transaction had taken no more than ten minutes. She hadn’t even waited around to see how things worked out, and that had been by design. Apart from one last text to Devin, urging him to act like he had some sense she had done nothing more other than cross her fingers and hope for the best.

  Seeing that Makayla seemed to be at a loss for words, Serena cleared her throat. “Ahm, feel free to use our small conference room,” she said. “I’m sure I can spare Kay for as long as you need her.”

  “Thanks, that’d be cool,” Jamal said. “Where is …”

  Serena laughed. “Just around the corner,” she said in a chiding, sing-song voice. “You need to get down here and visit us more often.”

  And by ‘us’ she clearly meant ‘me.’

  “I most definitely do.” Jamal looked Serena over and graced her with a lopsided grin, then bit into the meatiest part of his lower lip. “I bet between us we can cook up a reason to make that happen.”

  Even over the barrier of her cubicle wall, Makayla could see the blush that rose to the surface of Serena’s skin. It was all she could do to not roll her eyes.

  “Anyway,” she said, reaching up to needlessly shove a lock of hair off her forehead. “Kay, you want to show Jamal where the …”

  “Sure.” Makayla got up and headed in the direction of the conference room, feeling a little too self-conscious to look back to check whether he was following.

  And besides, she knew he was. She could feel him—even though he said nothing—looming just over her left shoulder. Today she was in dark wash jeans with her white shirt. The dress code at SE was pretty loose so on most days she could get away with outfits similar to this one. When she’d been hired, HR told her that the only things that she should never wear were flip flops, or garments with rips, tears or slits “no matter how intentional.” Good thing too, since any one of those items, if she were wearing them at a time like this, would have made her even more self-conscious than she already was.

  Shoving open the door to the conference room, Makayla finally allowed herself to turn around and face Jamal Turner. When she did, she found that he was looking her over, as though seeing her for the first time. And maybe he was. In the nightclub it had been dark and crowded, and he seemed eager to get down to brass tacks and meet Devin. And once that was accomplished he may not even have noticed her departure.

  Now though, it was late morning and the sun beamed through the large plate glass windows of the conference room, exposing her to the full intensity of Jamal Turner’s stare. He was taking her in from head to toe, completely frank with his appraisal. It gave Makayla the opportunity to return the favor, staring back and appreciating yet again, the utter, beastly perfection of the man.

  After a moment, he indicated one of the chairs with the wave of a hand and Makayla took a seat, waiting for him to reveal the purpose of his visit.

  Sitting on the edge of the large glass table instead of in the nearest chair, he pursed his lips before speaking. “Thanks for the intro the other night,” he said.

  Makayla nodded then shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  Jamal Turner wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “Actually it was a lot. I don’t know how much you know about the buzz around your boy, Devin. But it’s gettin’ kinda out of control.”

  “Yeah, he’s blowin’ up.” Makayla couldn’t hide her smile.

  “You could say that, yeah.”

  Makayla looked down at her lap and nodded. “That’s pretty cool.”

  “You and him go way back, huh?”

  “You could say that.” She repeated Jamal’s words back to him.

  “I could tell he wasn’t interested in meeting me at all.”

  “I’m sorry. Devin can be …”

  “Not your fault,” Jamal said. “He was doing you a favor ‘cause you’re his girl …”

  But not his girl girl, Makayla wanted to say. Not that it should matter to Jamal Turner.

  “… I get that. But now I’m going to ask you to do him a favor.”

  At that, Makayla’s eyes met his.

  “He’s about to plateau,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s done all he can as an indie artist. Pretty soon, buzz alone isn’t going to cut it. He’ll need someone to get him over the hump. Promote his music the way it deserves to be promoted, get him the songwriters who can …”

  “Devin writes all his own stuff.”

  “And it’s worked for him up until now. But later, he’s going to need collaborators, teachers, people who know how to beat the sophomore curse. You know what that is, right?”

  Makayla nodded.

  Apparently he felt the need to explain it nevertheless. “Every musician has a flash of genius inside them,” he said. “One good track, or if they’re lucky, enough good ones to make a whole album. And once that’s spent, it can be … tricky tapping into the same well. Nah mean? So if your boy wants to be in this thing for the long run, he needs to start trusting someone. Build a team. You’re here at SE, so you see how it works …”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Makayla cut in.

  “’Scuse me?”

  “I don’t see how it works at SE. I’m an administrative assistant in PR and communications. I don’t see any of the development side stuff.”

  “That somethin’ you’re interested in?”

  “I didn’t come to work here by accident.”

  “So this could be a win-win.” Jamal pulled a chair out and sat on it, so he was finally on the same level as her. More or less.

  “How so?” Makayla thought she might have an inkling about what was coming, but tried to pretend she didn’t. Devin was going to kill her. Kill her.

  “Look, I can’t make him sign with me. But what I can do is work with him for a while. Show him a little bit about what it might be like to join an SE label. But I’ma level with you. I think your boy needs a wrangler. And it can’t be me.”

  “A wrangler?” Makayla allowed herself to smile.

  “Yeah. He’s a handful. But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Still smiling, Makayla said nothing.

  “It’s all fun and games till careers get ruined,” Jamal Turner said, not smiling back. “You ever heard of Terence Trent D’Arby?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talented as hell. But a pain in the ass. A big enough pain in the ass that after about two years of pain, no one in the industry wanted to work with him. Last I heard, he was back to playing nightclub gigs and trying to promote his own music.” Jamal shrugged. “Your boy Devin is talented too, but that won’t mean a damn thing if he can’t be managed.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to be managed. Maybe he wants to do exactly what he’s doing now,” Makayla ventured.

  “Then maybe he’s a fool.” Jamal said affably.

  Makayla smiled again. “Maybe.”

  “But if he isn’t a fool. And he wants to be a long-
term player in this industry, he’ll need to sit up, pay attention and learn something. But he’ll also need …”

  “A wrangler,” Makayla finished for him.

  Jamal nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And why can’t it be you?”

  “Because my babysitting days are over.”

  “I heard you’re the best out there though.”

  At that, Jamal Turner grinned, still cocky enough to bask in praise, no matter how inconsequential the person who offered it. “Back in the day maybe. But now my responsibilities won’t allow me to spend time wiping noses. I can help with the product development side; the rest …”

  “Devin is ‘the product’ in this scenario?”

  He shrugged. “His music. But yeah, him too.”

  “So you’re not willing to invest your time in an artist you hope to sign?”

  “I’m willing to invest in an artist who’s willing to invest in himself. I’m not sure Devin Parks is.”

  “So then why are we even having this conversation?”

  “Because my boss thinks the dividends could be huge with Devin.”

  Makayla was impressed by how forthright he’d been. So far, Jamal Turner appeared to be a straight-shooter. And he looked her right in the eyes when he spoke, which she liked, even though it was tough to look right back at him without blushing like a twelve-year old with a crush on her teacher.

  “Okay. So what exactly would wrangling entail? You want me to get Devin to be more cooperative? Take a few more meetings?”

  “That would be some of it, yeah.”

  “What would be the rest?”

  Jamal Turner shrugged. “We might need him to grow some dreads like yours, get a tattoo …”

  Makayla laughed. “Are you serious?”

  Turner grinned again. He was a man of a million smiles, this one. And each smile appeared so personal, customized only for the person he was looking at. No wonder women acted like fools around him.

  “No. At least not specifically. But that’s the kind of thing development does. We create a brand. And if you have an artist who’s … challenging, that process doesn’t go so well.”

  “So you want me to make it less challenging with Devin.”

  Jamal Turner nodded. And smiled yet again. “I’m banking on the fact that you want to help your friend. And maybe help yourself in the process as well.”

  “Okay, so that’s where it’s fuzzy,” Makayla said, sticking her chin out a little. “How does this help me exactly?”

  _______________

  “I would be in the artist and product development department.”

  “Doing what?” Devin said glancing over his shoulder.

  “Making sure you don’t act out, that’s what. So it would be like old times basically,” Makayla said. “Except now I would get paid for it.”

  “Hardy-har,” Devin said dryly.

  Standing at his stove wearing only sweatpants that hung loosely on his lean hips, Devin looked every bit the heartthrob Makayla knew Jamal Turner was hoping he would become. With a golden-brown complexion and almond-shaped eyes, he got stared at a lot. His hair grew out in smooth waves rather than tight coils and his light-colored eyes were a confounding mix of hazel and blue. Devin was a racial Rubik’s cube, twisting the mind this way and that as people tried to figure him out.

  But Makayla didn’t have to try. She knew as much of Devin’s history as she did her own—every ugly wrinkle and wart. Some of it she’d been present for. Other parts he’d told her about in such detail she sometimes couldn’t recall whether the memories were his or her own.

  “So you want me to sell out to a multinational conglomerate just for your career advancement? You know I’m not about all that mess. All that hype they put around the music makes me sick. That crap just drowns out the artistry. Churning out auto-tuned bullshit …”

  “I heard this lecture already. And I told you, you wouldn’t have to sign anything. Not unless at the end of the period you wanted to.”

  “And the period would be how long again?”

  A year. That was how long Jamal Turner said Scaife was willing to invest time and money into helping Devin with recording, booking and marketing, branding and management. At their expense and with no firm commitments from him, they would put time and talent into helping him prepare for the big leagues. And at the end of a year, he could decide to sign, or he could walk away, without the specter of recoupment hanging over his head.

  That’s not normally how these things work, Jamal Turner said, with emphasis that morning in the conference room. We never do this. You understand? But that’s how much we believe in your boy. And that’s how much we believe in what we do—I’m betting on him wanting to sign. But I’m risking the possibility that he might not.

  “I’m not signing nothin’, Kay. You hear me? Nothin’.”

  “He thinks you’ll want to.”

  “Who? That slick-looking dude who came to my show? Well, he’s wrong. I can’t be enslaved to some of the very same people who’re responsible for the corporatization of music.”

  Devin had turned and was placing two plates on the small kitchen table at which Makayla sat. The apartment was a crappy little one-bedroom in Brownsville with painted-shut windows and a highly-suspect Haitian restaurant beneath it that changed names every other month. Just blocks away from the No. 3 train’s Saratoga Avenue stop, it was far from the enviable zip code Devin’s growing fan base would have expected. But that was Devin—always the contrarian. And the truth was, this place was only slightly on the lower side of what he could afford. Popularity notwithstanding, he was still an artist of the ‘struggling’ variety at the moment. Devin didn’t even have a side-hustle, so living in this hovel wasn’t just a statement, it was a necessity.

  Just to come eat dinner with him this late, Makayla was probably going to have to spend the night sleeping on his cramped sofa, or on his bed with the sheets of dubious cleanliness. The last time she’d come to see him and stayed too late, she’d spent a heart-pounding half hour alone on the subway platform, praying with everything in her that she wasn’t mugged, or worse. Not that her neighborhood was any great shakes either, but at least hers hadn’t shown up on a list of ‘Worst Places to Live in NYC’ for three years running.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know who he is, Devin. Jamal Turner is one of the best in the business and everyone knows it. I don’t even know how come he’s still working on developing artists.”

  “They sent the best to get the best,” Devin said, smirking as he spooned out a helping of angel hair pasta and then smothered it with beef marinara sauce.

  “Don’t get a big head. This could all end tomorrow. Just like he said.”

  “And if it did, that would’ve been my run,” he said, shrugging. “Believe it or not, Kay. I’m not about all that crap they think everybody gets into this business for. I’m in it for making music.”

  “I know you are,” Makayla said. “But I also don’t want to see you throw something away that could be good for you. To get your music listened to, not just in New York, not just on the East Coast, but nationwide. Worldwide, even. C’mon, you can’t tell me that doesn’t get you even a little bit excited.”

  Devin smiled and bit his bottom lip. “I can’t lie. That would be cool as shit.”

  “So … what’s the word? Should I tell Jamal Turner you’re in, or what?”

  Devin sat across from her at the table and his smile slipped away. Looking down at his plate of food for a moment, he took a breath. When he looked up again, his eyes were serious and his angular yet narrow face drawn.

  “Real talk for a minute?” he said.

  Makayla nodded. “Real talk.”

  “I’m not scared of failure. What scares me more, is success. I don’t want to lose who I am. What I am. And I don’t want to lose you, either. I could gain all the money and the fame in the world, but if I lost any of that ...”

  Reaching across the table to touch his hand, Makayla shoo
k her head. “Dev, that’s not gon’ happen. It couldn’t. You and me, that’s forever. You know that.”

  “So if you go back and tell whatshisname I’m in, that’ll change nothin’?”

  “It’ll change lots of things. But only for the better. And you and me, that stays the same. I’ll always give it to you straight.”

  Devin twirled his fork in the center of his plate of pasta. “Yeah, except now someone’s going to be paying you big bucks to do it. So I guess that’s not a bad deal for either one of us.”

  “I don’t know about the big bucks part, but yeah, it’s not such a bad deal.”

  “So.” Devin shrugged as he took his first bite. “Go in to work tomorrow and tell him I’m in.”

  “You’re sure? I didn’t pressure you into …”

  “Freely and of my own volition,” Devin confirmed with his mouth full.

  “Good,” Makayla said as she took her first bite. “So let’s do this.”

  3

  Jamal went down to personally check out the office before Makayla got to work.

  This was his specialty—perks, those tiny inducements that were meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but went a long way toward increasing personal satisfaction. His team in Artist and Product Development had the same credo because he’d trained them well. Illusory generosity was a skill that had to be exercised liberally in this business. If your artist wanted a stretch Humvee, get them one. If they wanted girls with big booties hanging out with them poolside in Vegas, find some. If they wanted a discreet place to bone their mistress so the wife wouldn’t know, locate one and then keep your fat trap shut. Those perks cost Scaife Enterprises’ bottom line little or nothing, but it bought them millions of dollars’ worth of good will.

  More than a few of Jamal’s high-profile artists had re-signed just because he remembered to send their kids birthday presents every year. Or had footed a ridiculous seven-thousand dollar dinner tab at some trendy restaurant one New Year’s Eve when—as happened more often than most people would believe—they went out on the town without a penny in their pockets, and nary a credit card in sight.