A Man Inspired

by Derek Jackson

  As the two men’s voices became louder, each one refusing to give the other the last word, the sound of rubber-soled shoes padding along linoleum tiles was soon heard. The security personnel were coming to restore order to this wing—it would not do to have the entire floor riled up in a debate over the coming of the kingdom of Heaven. Again.

  LATER THAT EVENING, Candace finally made the call to her publicist after giving her burgeoning idea some further thought. Because after all, what difference did it make which magazine carried the story? And so what if Song of Solomon was a Christian-based publication? What was the problem with that? Who would know of her personal reasons to write for them besides her and her father?

  This is what happens after you’ve paid your dues . . . freedom is a wonderful thing . . .

  “Candi, am I hearing you right?” Apparently, though, Carl wasn’t in much agreement with her strange idea of freedom. “Are you telling me that you want to write this story, which I might remind you is bigger than Oprah interviewing Michael Jackson, bigger than Halle and Denzel winning Oscars on the same night, bigger than—”

  “The point has been made already,” she interrupted with a hint of irritation. Carl was an excellent publicist, but he could be a drama king sometimes, prone to making a huge show out of just about anything. All things considered, however, she supposed that was an acceptable bad habit for a PR man to have.

  “But this story is that big, that groundbreaking, and you want to write it for . . . for . . . what was the name again?”

  “Song of Solomon.”

  “Song of . . . hold on, isn’t that the name of a Toni Morrison novel?” With a bit of sarcasm, he began chuckling.

  Candace shook her head and tightly clenched the phone in her hand, wishing Carl was in front of her so she could give his shoulders and neck a good shaking. She never ceased to find it amusing that she, at a shade over five feet six, was a good three inches taller than him.

  “It’s also the name of a book in the Bible. And it’s the name of that new urban magazine based out of Atlanta. You should know who they are quite well, Carl. You just arranged an interview with their editor and me.”

  “Yeah, well maybe I shouldn’t have,” he muttered in response. “And I wouldn’t have, if I knew that woman was going to influence you to make a decision like this. Candace, I know you’re not the biggest fan of Jermaine Hill, okay? I know that. But this is the biggest celebrity story so far of the twenty-first century! You don’t want to blow it on an unknown.”

  “Carl, this is not the biggest story.”

  “It is!”

  “Even if it is,” she continued, wishing she could now throw something at him in addition to shaking his neck, “I don’t see why this is such a problem. If I remember correctly from our last meeting, Mario Jordan said all he was concerned about was that I do the feature. There wasn’t a stipulation on which magazine. You said yourself that was something that could be decided by me.”

  “Yes, but Candi, a story as big as this needs the kind of advertising and distribution to put it in every major bookstore, grocery checkout aisle, Mom-and-Pop convenience store, and newsstand in the country.”

  “Song of Solomon’s distribution and printing numbers are comparable with other magazines in our target demographic,” she countered. “I can fax you their asset sheet if you want to take a look at it.I have, and can tell you that I’m very impressed with their figures. Besides, I’ve got a good feeling about their editor and their overall vision.”

  “A good feeling?” Carl sounded incredulous.

  “Don’t knock feelings, honey. Or a writer’s gut instinct, for that matter. And as far as advertising is concerned, it shouldn’t be a big problem if this Jermaine Hill is as big as you’re making him out to be.”

  Candace heard Carl sigh in exasperation. “Candi, I don’t understand. I don’t get it. Why Song of Solomon? You’ve never written for them before. You’ve got great contacts and established readers with four leading magazines. But you want to write the biggest celebrity story in recent history for an unknown magazine? In my opinion, that doesn’t make sense at all. And that is what you pay me for, right? My professional opinion.”

  “I pay you to publicize the stories and books that I write. And I do appreciate your professional opinion, Carl. But in this case, it doesn’t matter which magazine gets the story. The guy’s name alone is going to create a firestorm of publicity.” She paused a moment, silently relishing her momentum, before adding, “and remember my instincts about this.”

  Her publicist sighed again in what Candace took to be the first sign of defeat. She had known he would soon give in. What choice did he have? For all the wonderful things he could do, the pecking order still showed her to be on top.

  The pen is still mightier than the sword . . . “So, you’re going to get the necessary papers over to Myra Washington and set everything up?”

  “You’re killing me, Candi,” he groaned. “You know that? Just stick a fork in me, ’cause I’m done already.”

  “Oh, Carl,” she replied, laughing. “No more drama for tonight, alright? This story’s going to work no matter who prints it and you know it. Now if you and Mario Jordan want to keep your star writer happy, then you’ll indulge me and go along with this simple request.”

  “Stick a fork in me, Candi . . .”

  “I know, I know, because you’re done,” she finished. “Carl, I don’t know why you’re so down about this. Think Halle and Denzel, okay?” She couldn’t help the insinuating snicker that escaped her lips.

  “Oh, you’re a comedienne now? Keep your day job, Miss Thing. But since you brought those stars up, I haven’t seen any of them do anything for Song of Solomon.”

  “Actually, you brought them up, drama king. And you’re thinking too small with them, anyway.” Her laughter was beyond constraint now. “Think Candace Clark!” She hung up the phone then, wondering when she last had laughed so hard. Poor Carl. She’d have to remember to send him a Hallmark card. Preferably a small, short one.

  Chapter five

  THE EVENING SUN SETTING just over the crest of the Santa Monica mountains cast subtle reddish-orange and faded yellow hues along the sprawling horizon of Los Angeles, signaling the coming end to another day. The windowpane Jermaine was blankly staring through was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colors as it reflected nature’s glory, but he was blind to the beauty and splendor of it all. He was blind to a lot of things at the moment. Yesterday, after taping the radio show, he had been out at a mansion in Malibu all night, partying with people he neither knew, nor really cared to know. But it had beat the miserable alternative—staying home and conjuring up new methods for ending his life.

  “Alright, J, listen up,” Mario Jordan continued, now pacing back and forth along the wine-and-rose-colored Axminster carpet in the building’s executive conference room. He had taken off his wingtips an hour ago in an effort to save the designer carpet from extra wear and tear. “We’re down to the last two items on the agenda.”

  His agent had just gone through five previous items on the current week’s agenda, but the information had run through Jermaine’s head like water off a duck’s back. Mario had discussed the new proposals from media outlets rivaling KKTL’s offer, then had talked about Jermaine’s scheduled weekend appearances at Magic Johnson’s golf tournament raising money for AIDS research and at the red-carpet premiere of the new Steven Spielberg film at Mann’s Chinese Theatre. It wasn’t that long ago that Jermaine had been thrilled to meet the stars he had grown up admiring and idolizing. But he had soon found out that people were all the same, no matter who they were. It was like his Aunt Bell used to tell him, “ev’rybody got to put they’s pants on one leg at a time.”

  “J, how can I say this?” Mario glanced up at the ceiling, his forehead now creased with several worry lines. His gaze when he looked back at Jermaine a few seconds later was direct and sure. “You’ve got to stop picking up these women at these parties, bottom line. You
’re not an up-and-coming star anymore who can go around sleeping with every fine thing in a skirt. You’re definitely on the A-list now and that means you’ve got a big target on your back. Don’t think for a minute that these women don’t see it. You hearing me, J?”

  Jermaine had become a master at tuning out people and conversations that he wasn’t particularly interested in. He now blinked his eyes twice, slowly realizing his agent was looking squarely at him and expecting an answer.

  “Yeah, Mario, yeah. Whatever.”

  “Well, you’d better be because the last thing we need is for some gold digger to claim you’re her baby’s daddy,” Mario continued. He cleared his throat then, looking away for a moment. “I shouldn’t have to even ask this . . . but, uh, you are using protection, right?”

  Jermaine immediately stopped tuning the conversation out, very much awake now. His nonchalance quickly turned into a simmering anger.

  “What the—! What kind of question is that, am I using protection? I’m not paying you to be my father!”

  “J, I’m just looking out for your best interests. And the last time I checked, you are paying me to do that.” Mario took a seat in his chair. His hands, smooth and finely manicured, now ran back and forth over his sleek, bald head. “Listen, are you okay? I mean, is everything alright with you?”

  “Whaddya mean, is everything alright? You schedule my interviews, negotiate my contracts, handle my business. You should know if everything’s alright.”

  “I’m not talking about business now.”

  “What else would you be talking about?”

  Mario pointed his finger at Jermaine. “You.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Sherlock.” His anger was boiling now—it was the constant meetings, the contracts, the autograph sessions, the paparazzi following him around—it was all reaching the breaking point. “That’s what this meeting is about, just like every meeting we have. It’s about me, Mario. Me. The new cable show, the contracts, who I’m dating, who I need to be dating. I’m living in a fishbowl, Mario. Don’t you get it? Feed me once a day, listen to my golden voice, and tap the bowl twice if you feel so inclined.”

  Mario sighed. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about, J. You’re not yourself. And you haven’t been for the last month or so.”

  “I’m not myself? I’m not myself!” His voice grew louder with every breath. “How would you know if I was or wasn’t myself?” He cursed loudly. “You’ve been my agent for what, like nine months, and you’re telling me you already know everything there is to know about me!”

  “Listen, you were the one who came to me nine months ago to represent you, remember? You were the one who told me about your dreams and goals, how you wanted to be the most famous, most-listened-to motivational speaker in America. And look at what we’ve been able to do together! You’ve got major corporations scheduling their lunch break around your radio program. You’ve got the best crossover marketing appeal to all races and social classes in this nation since Air Jordan in his prime. You’re a hero to inner-city, single-parent homes. You’re—”

  “Spare me the bugle-and-drum routine, Mario. I know what we’ve accomplished.”

  “And we can do so much more, J. But you’re not a machine. You’re a human being like everyone else. So you can try to hide whatever’s going on with you from everybody else, but you’re not fooling me. I can tell something’s not right.” He rubbed his hands together. “And whatever’s not right, we need to get it right before your interview.”

  Back to business so quickly, is that it? Back to Jermaine in the fishbowl . . .

  “We need to get it right,” Mario persisted. “Because I really do care about what’s going on with you. Behind the scenes, I mean.”

  Then, as quickly as the fury had risen up within Jermaine, inexplicably it now dissipated back into a state of hopeless indifference. Or indifferent hopelessness, perhaps. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the fortitude to stay angry, it was just that he really didn’t care anymore. In his thoughts, he was now somewhere back on the coastal highway overlooking the Pacific Ocean. And then he was driving off the cliff, down into the blue nothingness that awaited him. No longer was the fish in the fishbowl. The fish was now in the ocean, free to swim however he pleased . . .

  “J, are you hearing me?”

  “Yeah, Mario, yeah. Whatever.”

  Mario sighed yet again, then continued. “We lined up Candace Clark to write the feature. As you know, she’s the best in the business.”

  Ah yes, the business . . .

  “It’s a funny thing, though. Her agent tells me Candace is adamant about that new magazine Song of Solomon publishing the interview. If I’m not mistaken, they’re a Christian-based magazine. I know you touch on Judeo-Christian principles in your motivational talks, but you don’t claim any specific religious background to your approach.” He shifted himself in his chair. “Do you have any qualms about them printing this interview? Because if you do, we can go with someone else. However adamant she may be about using them, I’m sure we could persuade her to use another publication.”

  Like it matters, Sherlock . . . “They’re fine. Whatever.”

  “Alright, I’ll call her people and let them know.” He slid his wingtips back on his feet and stood up. “That’s all I have on the agenda, J. Take my advice—you go home and get some rest. That’s probably all you need, anyway.”

  Jermaine nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” You’ve never been so wrong, Mario my man . . .

  “And J?”

  “Hmm?”

  “No more parties and no more strange girls. I mean that.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Whatever.

  Chapter six

  CHANTAL DIXON WAS ALWAYS the first one from her investigative team to arrive at StarWatchstudios in the mornings. Phil, the security guard, nodded politely and laughed to himself as Chantal carefully passed him, using both hands to precariously balance her purse, cardkey, laptop case, and steaming cup of coffee. It was an act worthy of Ringling Bros., Phil was fond of saying. She made it safely to her desk and set the foam cup down gingerly on a multitude of scattered papers strewn atop her desk. She paid no mind to her purse and computer case as they dropped to the floor, for her attention was solely fixed on her monitor. Silently, she cursed at how long it actually took to start the thing. Slow technology and slow people had no place in the life of someone forever teetering on the slope between impatience and intolerance.

  Chantal had started her investigative career ten years ago in the same manner as had everyone else in the field—as a gopher. It was an unenviable job, but all positions in the media industry went the way of the tenured totem pole. Dues simply had to be paid. Chantal had put in her time at Fox Sports in Houston, working the graveyard shift as a master control operator. That had been two years of absolute boredom, but the people she met and experiences she dealt with had proven to be invaluable. She learned the insider knowledge one simply didn’t pick up by merely taking college communication courses. It was on to the Dallas CBS affiliate after that, where she honed her investigative skills and developed the relationships she would soon be using on a larger platform.

  Not long afterward, her big break had come while on a business trip to California. Like most people, she was drawn to celebrity sightings so she had taken a short detour in her business itinerary to take in the 74th annual Academy Awards ceremony. She managed to gain entrance to the press area from an industry contact she had kept in good relations with from her days at Fox. Operating as a freelancer and having the time of her life, she was able to get exclusive soundbites and quotes from key black entertainers discussing the historical significance of Halle Berry and Denzel Washington receiving Oscars on the same night. StarWatch News had been quick to hire her before E! or Entertainment Tonight could make an offer, and the proactive move had paid off handsomely for StarWatch. Since then, Chantal Dixon had firmly established her name and reputation as a reporter who deliver
ed more dirt on the stars than anyone else in the business.

  Her computer up and running now, she quickly accessed the e-mail she had been waiting for. The announcement of all the details for the Jermaine Hill interview was due to come out tomorrow, but she always got her information early.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” she murmured as she scanned the particulars highlighted in the e-mail. “How did Song of Solomon pull off something like that?”

  Not that she needed any more kindling to stoke her already-flaming, red-hot fire of curiosity concerning all things pertaining to the guy with the golden voice. Jermaine Hill was the one star she had been unable to schedule an interview with since coming to StarWatch, in large part because Super Mario was still furious over a story she once wrote about the star speaker’s alleged nightly trysts. Her information wasn’t especially shocking since rumors of the man’s playboy activities traveled all over Hollywood. Still, she had not been able to produce a confirmed source for that particular piece, a minor journalistic detail that Mario had not forgotten.

  But this present e-mail, indicating Mario’s incredible stipulation that Candace Clark would be the only one granted access to his star client, had further incensed Chantal. Candace Clark didn’t even write celebrity stories, for crying out loud!

  But if that was the way Super Mario wanted to play the game, so be it. Chantal was no lightweight, and she wasn’t a novice either. In fact, in her opinion there was only one thing better than a story written about a well-liked celebrity. It was a scandalous story written about a well-liked celebrity. And if there was so much as a speck of dirt to be found, she was going to be the one to uncover it. And this time, she would have her confirmed source.

  CANDACE KNEW WHAT unpleasantries awaited her as she opened her front door, so she was at least able to brace herself for the expected onslaught. Tasha had called earlier, saying she was coming over and Candace had better be there. As it happened, earlier in the day, Tasha had taken a message from Carl Daniels on Candace’s cell phone. The only reason Tasha even had Candace’s cell phone was because the battery in her own wireless had gone dead, and she had asked to borrow her friend’s. No problem there, Candace had thought. What were friends for?