Mario let a small laugh escape. At this stage in the negotiating game, it was simply and entirely about money. And he liked to think nobody talked a better bottom line than he did concerning dollars and cents. Still, Jermaine had been stubborn about his desire to leave right after the speech was over. Not that his client wanted to come back to L.A., though. Mario knew Jermaine secretly wanted to spend some time alone with that cute little writer. And not that Mario particularly cared—Candace Clark was not just another cheap floozy who might later blackmail his client. And Jermaine was a grown man—he could sleep with her if he wanted, as long as everything was kept tight, quiet, and most important, discreet.
“You say you can make this worth our while?”
“Yes, Mr. Jordan. Significantly worth any trouble you may encounter in reshuffling travel plans.”
“Stay on the line, Perry. Let me get back to you in one minute.” Mario picked up a cordless phone on his desk and dialed his client’s number. He hoped Jermaine would pick up—Mario had instructed him to always answer when he called from the office.
“Jermaine Hill. Speak to me.”
“J, I need to run something by you. Now I know you were very clear about wanting to go to that resort right after the banquet this weekend . . .”
“Yeah?”
“. . . but Perry Adams basically just gave me a blank check to make an extra two hours very much worth our while. Two hours, J. What do you say? I know I can milk this guy’s pockets for sixty grand, easy. Maybe even higher than that.”
“Is everything always about money with you, Mario?”
“For Chrissake, J, I’m your agent. I’m supposed to look out for your financial interests and well-being. And I’m telling you this is a golden opportunity here. This is easier than stealing candy from a baby, for crying out loud! If I play my numbers right, I can put an extra seventy-five grand in the general account for just two more hours of your time. C’mon, J. Why am I begging you so hard on this? It’s not even worth the breath to try and argue to the contrary.”
“But staying two more hours puts Candi and me in Scottsdale much later than I planned to. We’d miss the whole evening.”
“Will you listen to yourself, J? Candi and me. For the love of God, what is that about? Her stuff is that good to make you throw seventy-five grand away?” Mario could hardly believe this.
“Don’t talk about her like that, Mario. You don’t know her.”
“I don’t know her?” Mario was mad enough now to wring Jermaine’s little golden-voiced neck. “She was a business acquisition, J! I hired her because she was the best writer out there to do this story. And now you go and get all Percy Sledge on her. I think spending all that time with her is messing with your brains, man.”
“Yeah? Well I think all the money you’re making off my voice is messing with your brains, Mario. For the last time, I’m leaving right after the banquet. End of discussion.” Click.
Mario couldn’t remember the last time he had been so furious. His client was definitely not himself, Candace Clark or no Candace Clark. Because nobody, but nobody, in their right mind would throw away a seventy-five-thousand-dollar opportunity over a woman. And it wasn’t like he was asking Jermaine to sacrifice an entire evening. Just two freakin’ hours. One hundred and twenty measly minutes. He looked up at his ceiling and cursed loudly and angrily for a full fifteen seconds.
“Hey, Perry? I’m back. Listen, we appreciate the generous offer from United Entertainers. But unfortunately, we’re unable to make any changes to our plans.”
“Mr. Jordan, I . . . I . . .” Mario didn’t think Perry Adams was the kind of person who stuttered much in his business deals, but he guessed there was a first time for everything.
“. . . I just don’t understand,” he finally managed to say.
“Join the club, Perry my friend.” You’d be amazed at all the card-carrying members . . . “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
ON THE TELEVISION screen in front of her, Andy Griffith was doing his clever best to fix Barney up with a shy woman who made her living as a seamstress. Andy had even gone so far as to stage a minor robbery to make the incompetent Barney Fife look like a hero. “Poor Barney,” Bell thought to herself, smiling. The bumbling little deputy never could do anything right for himself.
The black-and-white images flickering on the small set in front of her transported her back in time to the 1960s. Life was so much simpler then. She certainly had fewer headaches and stress, that was for sure. In those days, she had nothing on her mind but going to church and cooking and cleaning for that nice little family who had treated her so well.
What were their names? Such a nice, loving family . . . oh my Lordy, has it been that long? Or . . . or is it just my mind . . .
Of course, Bell knew the answer to that depressing question. She also knew that she didn’t have much time left, now. But there wasn’t any sense of fear gripping her over such a realization; quite the contrary—she was in fact ready to go home to be with her blessed Savior. To be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord. So she was . . . well, she was almost ready. There was still something she longed to see realized.
“Save my son, Jesus . . .” she whispered. “Save my Jermaine.” She wished it were that simple, like life had been forty years earlier. But this wasn’t Mayberry. She had never lived in that sleepy little town, anyway.
“GIVE ME SOME more details, Candi! You gave Jermaine my picture and number like I asked, right?”
Candace adjusted the phone cradled between her neck and shoulder, stalling for time. She was feeling more than a little guilty because it had been only yesterday when she’d been walking, hand in hand, along Venice Beach with the man. Come to think of it, she’d been doing more than just walking.
“Um . . . no, not yet. But don’t worry, I’ll get around to it.”
“You better get around to it! ’Cause I’ve got a real good feeling about this guy, you know? Jermaine Hill could be the one for me, I don’t care what you have to say about it.”
Oh, please . . . “That’s great, Tasha. So how about you, hmm? How’ve you been?”
“The usual. Work, home, Blockbuster night, work, home—you know how it is.”
“Didn’t you get that promotion you were—”
“Hey, I didn’t call long distance to talk about me. I want to hear some more juicy details about my man.”
“Well, there’s really nothing new to—”
“Oh, no you don’t! Don’t be holding out on me, sis. Have you ever known me to hold out on you in the ten years we’ve been friends?”
Have I ever known you to keep a secret longer than a minute? “No, Tasha. You’ve always been liberal with dishing out information.”
“You see? Now why should you be any different with me?”
Candace sighed, placed her phone on speaker, and began giving her friend a recap of her past couple of days. Well, with one exception, of course.
I’ll be keeping the Venice Beach details to myself, girlfriend . . .
Chapter sixteen
THE LAST TIME CANDACE had the pleasure of visiting Phoenix, Arizona, it was for a chance to interview then-Phoenix Suns basketball star Kevin Johnson. Candace was still in high school, writing for the Dallas Morning News, and a feature article in the works about athletes and entertainers giving back to their respective communities had fallen to her. Fortunately, just a few weeks prior to that, she had been reading about the basketball player establishing the St. Hope Academy, a PS7 charter school, in his Sacramento, California, hometown. She was personally intrigued by the story because one of her cousins had grown up in the Oak Park section of Sacramento and was now volunteering at the school. Ever the resourceful go-getter, Candace had persuaded the newspaper to fly her to Phoenix to interview KJ after a game. Not only had KJ been a great interview (and Candace’s first of many crushes), but she also had immensely enjoyed touring the capital of the Grand Canyon State. She felt wondrously alive in the arid c
limate and amid desert wildlife, visually taking in the hilly landscapes and learning the Spanish culture. And though it wasn’t exactly in the designated travel budget, she had driven north up to Grand Canyon National Park afterward where she was awed at that cavernous, breathtaking design of nature. Some of the best poetry she had ever written had been penned while beholding the mammoth rock formations of one of the great wonders of the world.
“You had a crush on Kevin Johnson?” Jermaine asked, his eyebrows raised, as they dined in the Terrace Café of the Hyatt Regency in downtown Phoenix. It was approaching two in the afternoon, and they were just finishing up a delicious brunch.
“Yes. So? What’s wrong with that? KJ was handsome, courteous, and basically just a very nice guy all around. And I’m sure you’ve even had crushes on famous . . . wait a minute, what am I talking about? You are famous. So what about when you were in school? Didn’t you have any adolescent crushes?”
“If you put it that way, yeah I guess. Growing up, I always had a thing for . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence, shaking his head. Candace could tell he was mentally calculating how much he wanted to tell.
“For who?” she pressed. Her journalistic instincts were taking over, and she just had to know—this would definitely be vital information for her story. That is, if he trusted her enough to be that revealing.
He sheepishly grinned as he muttered, “Claire Huxtable.”
“Claire Huxtable? Claire—oh, you mean the actress from The Cosby Show? Jermaine, she played the mother, for goodness sake!” She couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s right—laugh it up, Candi. I mean, what in the world would be so attractive about an intelligent black woman who’s a lawyer, funny, witty, and a great mother to boot. Plus, Phylicia Rashad was a fine woman to begin with.”
“Hmmph . . . well, if you put it that way . . .”
“Yeah, I most certainly put it that way, Miss KJ.” It was his turn now to laugh. At the sound of his laughter, she flashed him a warning look. She wasn’t about to be teased for something as silly as a teenage infatuation.
“So you follow basketball, then? Or you just have a thing for good-looking athletes?”
Hmm . . . both, really . . . She kept that thought to herself. “I don’t mind a good game of hoops now and then.”
“Really? That’s surprising. I wouldn’t have pictured you as the type.”
“The type, huh? Well I wouldn’t have pictured you as the type that goes for older women.” She had exactly two seconds to duck before Jermaine purposely tossed a wadded-up paper napkin at her. And he had even less time before she sent the thing, missile-like, back in his direction.
“SPIKE, YOU ARE the man!” Chantal punched the air with her fist as she reviewed the eight-by-ten-sized photographs of Candace Clark and Jermaine Hill openly cavorting along the sands of Venice Beach. Even if Spike didn’t get any more pictures of them at that Arizona resort this weekend, what Chantal was now looking at was more than enough damaging material to corroborate her scandalous story.
“Oh, this is good . . . this is good . . . this is so good!” She was almost delirious as the near-paralyzing emotions of revenge, euphoria, and ecstasy oozed from every pore in her body. Never in her life had she felt so satisfied . . . so fulfilled . . . so complete. She took her investigative reporting job very seriously and with the story she was about to circulate, pretty soon the whole country was going to take her very seriously as well. She’d be right up there in name recognition with Barbara Walters, with Diane Sawyer, and with the ultra-rich Katie Couric. But the new girl on the block wouldn’t have near the respectable image those news veterans possessed. No, to the contrary, she would be the most feared woman in journalism! Chantal Dixon—the reporter who knew more dirt about the stars than anyone else.
Take that, Mario Jordan!
“Look out everybody, I’m about to destroy the image of your little golden-voiced wonder,” she crowed as she held up one of the photographs. The print clearly showed Jermaine and Candace kissing and embracing much like two Shakespearean star-crossed lovers. The image was romantic if one didn’t know the couple’s identities.
But those two people were currently at the center of Chantal’s witch hunt, and she was primed and ready to expose the serious conflict-of-interest problem with Candace interviewing Jermaine. Not only that, but she also had a serious vendetta to expose Jermaine’s lesser-known lothario tendencies. She had been secretly contacting some girls in Hollywood who, for the right price, would spill their stories about how Jermaine Hill had loved them and left them. How the country’s voice of inspiration secretly had more one-night stands than a bad comedian trying to get a laugh on Def Comedy. This man was going down, that much she knew. Chantal Dixon was willing to bank her entire career just to ensure it.
UNITED ENTERTAINERS Association of America sought to provide representation and benefits for thousands of “starving artists,” so to speak—such people being the many B- and C-grade actors, musicians, and singers who couldn’t afford the same representation that the top artists in their fields enjoyed. Jermaine had first gotten involved with UEAA when he, too, was a struggling artist during his last few semesters at Howard. On many cold nights and long winter weekends, he had paid his dues riding the buses up and down the East Coast to speak at various engagements. On many of those nights, he’d been the most gracious recipient of some sound legal advice and marketing assistance from the association. Advice that had proven to be quite significant early on in his career. And of course, now that he had “arrived” as the top inspirational speaker in the country, the red welcome carpet was always laid out for him to address the annual UEAA banquet.
The main exhibit hall of the Phoenix Civic Plaza Convention Center was packed to capacity, all 220,000 square feet of newly constructed available space. And every listener was sitting literally on the edge of his or her seat, absorbing everything their hero and fellow member was dishing out. They had reason to—Jermaine was in rare form this afternoon.
“Every one of you who is dreaming of making it big, let me tell you this—you have got to hold on to that dream. Even if nobody else believes in you. And especially if nobody supports you or thinks you’re capable of making it to the big time. Because, ask yourself this question—what is the big time, exactly? Is it to have your film shatter the opening box-office records? Is it to have your music album go platinum? Your book to be at the top of all the best-seller lists? Would that make you big time, then?”
He took a deep breath as he scanned the thousands of people jam-packed in the cavernous meeting hall. By their facial expressions, he could tell that in their minds those types of accolades would have indeed announced their arrival on the coveted A-list. But how little they knew. They could have all of that, could taste success beyond their wildest dreams, and still have . . . absolutely nothing.
I should know, ’cause here I am, world. The biggest hypocrite in the history of motivational speaking . . .
“Let me tell you something, UEAA. Let me tell you when you’ve really arrived and reached the big time. It’s when you can look in the mirror at the end of the day and smile because you like what’s lookin’ back at you. It’s when you don’t care what anyone says about your film, song, or book because you know you gave that project one hundred and ten percent. You’ve reached the big time when you’re lovin’ what you do. And doin’ what you love.” He paused to flash his winning smile. “But don’t get me wrong—it don’t hurt to get paid doing it, either!”
The audience applauded with near-fanatical fervor, taking in his words like they were being passed down as the Holy Grail. They were so eager and ready to be in his shoes, to be drunk with the success and prestige that he apparently was basking in. But while Jermaine was flashing his smile and quoting his wonderful little phrases, inside he was growing sick of the horrific irony. If these people wanted his life, then they didn’t know what they were asking for. Because there was no way they could fathom the kind of hell he
was experiencing, even though he was supposedly living out his childhood dream.
He felt hopelessly alone in the midst of thousands of adoring supporters. He’d never really felt true love except from his old Aunt Bell, Ronny, and Eric. His two homeboys were gone. And Aunt Bell, God rest her poor soul, might as well have been gone—Alzheimer’s disease had so ravaged her mind a few years ago that Jermaine found it extremely difficult to visit her. So his dilemma was not just a perceived problem; he in fact was alone. Popular, successful, adored, wealthy . . . but nevertheless, alone.
He had one bright thought shining through his fog of despair, though. Jermaine had sensed that Candace, like a budding rose, was gradually opening up her heart to him. Their romantic walk along Venice Beach yesterday had done much to persuade him that she might be more than just a writer interviewing him. Oh yes, she could very well be much, much more than that.
Chapter seventeen
JERMAINE, I’VE GOT to tell you—you have got one heck of an effect on your audiences. It’s kind of electrifying.” Candace looked over at him in the limousine’s backseat and wagged a finger at him. “And I don’t easily dish out praise, but . . .”
He stuck out his chest. “But I’m the man, huh?”
Easy, easy on the testosterone, there . . . She laughed. “Um, something like that.” She took a sip of ginger ale from the glass tumbler on the tray in front of her. From that evening they were first introduced, Jermaine had honored her wishes to not have alcoholic beverages in her company. It could seem like a small matter to some, but Candace had greatly respected him for faithfully adhering to that stipulation.
“So where are we headed?” she asked. “I noticed the last-minute changes to the itinerary—you’ve got the next two days somewhat blocked off. Why the change?”
Jermaine leaned back in his seat. “I just needed some time off. The body can wear down, y’know? I haven’t had a chance to really relax all week, and there’s this great little resort up in Scottsdale that’s perfect for a little R&R.”
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