Diamond Life

by Aliya S. King

  “Z has sold over fifty million records. He was an orphan when he got his first record deal. He was molested as a young boy. After twenty years of drugging, he’s clean. It’s a good story. And people are going to buy it. There’s stuff he’s never talked about publicly.”

  “Like what?” said Birdie.

  “Kipenzi is the one who really pulled for him to go to rehab. They were really close.”

  “Alex, I can’t tell you what to write. But the Z I know is not the kind of dude I want you meeting with three times a week for a book.”

  “What are you saying exactly?”

  “I’m saying. Back in the day, I did a few tour dates with Z. He’s got . . . issues.”

  “You’re talking to the woman who wrote Cleo Wright’s book.”

  Birdie made a face that said “touché.” Alex walked over and wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist.

  “He got three hundred fifty thousand for his book,” Alex said. “And I’m getting thirty percent.”

  “Nice. I’m getting three hundred fifty thousand for this tour. And half of it is yours.”

  Alex’s face fell. He knew how sensitive she was about making her own money.

  “I’m sorry,” Birdie said, holding up a hand. “Out of line.”

  “Why are you blocking me? You really want me to stop working altogether now that the money is coming in from your music?”

  “Truthfully? Yeah, I do.”

  “And I’m supposed to do what exactly,” Alex said. “Sit on the couch and watch television until you get back?”

  “You can come with me on tour—”

  Before he could get the sentence out, Alex was shaking her head vigorously.

  “I’ve seen those girls. Shopping in a different city each day. Backstage at the concert at night in their new outfits. And then doing it all again the next day. No lives.”

  “Remember when you interviewed Josephine Bennett. And you asked her why she designed wedding gowns when Ras made more than enough money?”

  Alex nodded.

  “You told her that if you were in her shoes, you’d find ways to fill your days without working.”

  “Birdie. What is this really about? For real.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you spending time with this dude while I’m on tour. That’s what this is about.”

  “Then you need to get over it. Because I don’t care how big you get, I’m still a writer. Forever. And wherever that road takes me, I’m going. I love you. I’m loyal to you. And I’m proud of you. But I’m not going to lose myself in your world.”

  Birdie caught Alex’s eye and stared her down. She lifted her chin in defiance and didn’t blink.

  A minute later, Birdie was still staring at Alex. And she still hadn’t blinked.

  “How long can you do that?” Birdie asked.

  “Do what?” Alex said, her eyes welling up.

  “Not blink.”

  “Until I get my point across.”

  “Eyes looking kinda dry over there.”

  Alex broke into laughter and rubbed her eyes. Birdie laughed with her and they ended up back in bed.

  “One time,” Birdie said, “I did a show with Z at Irving Plaza.”

  “Yes,” Alex said.

  “He was being interviewed at the same time by some chick from the LA Times. Real buttoned-up chick. Asked us to stop smoking. Real jumpy. Acted like she’d never been around rappers before.”

  “I know the type,” Alex said.

  “So, she’s hanging with us for the whole night. Has a couple of drinks, loosens up a bit. But not much. I saw Z whisper into this chick’s ear. And she put her hand up her skirt and took her panties off. Z put ’em in his pocket.”

  Alex covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Whoa.”

  “She ended up hitting off Z, Damon, and Rodney.”

  “Birdie,” Alex said, turning to face him. “That was the real her. The jumpy reporter was an act.”

  “I’ve seen Z operate. And I think he does have that ability to get under people’s skin. He can be very manipulative. I want you to be careful.”

  “You think I’m gonna peel my panties off and give ’em to Z?”

  “No. But I know how you get with your subjects. And I just want you to be careful. That’s all I’m saying. Just report the story. Don’t try to save his life.”

  “I don’t do that,” Alex said.

  Birdie narrowed his eyes and twisted his lips.

  “I don’t!” said Alex.

  Alex had written a story about a man who spent life in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and she was still helping to pay his son’s college tuition three years later. There was the high school student who got jumped into a gang. Alex spent three months writing a story on gang culture for the New York Times. And she still wired the kid money whenever he asked.

  “Maybe once or twice,” said Alex.

  “Just stay focused.”

  Alex sat up and ran her hand over her head.

  “Bird? I went to the hospital where Ras and Josephine’s daughter was born.”

  Birdie got out of bed.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I was just curious! I wanted to know who the young girl was.”

  “Didn’t I ask you not to do that?”

  Alex dropped her head to her chest and murmured “yes.”

  “We agreed. You’re not going to try to find out whatever Cleo is trying to say. Leave it alone. You won’t do anything but get someone hurt.”

  “You’re right, Birdie.”

  Bird sat on the edge of the bed and turned his wife to face him.

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise.”

  Birdie kissed his wife on the forehead and went into the bathroom to shower. He didn’t know why he bothered to make his wife promise to leave it alone. If there was ever anything Alex would lie to him about without a second thought, it was a mystery she couldn’t help but solve.

  Jake lowered himself into his bathtub slowly, exhaling as he adjusted to the extra-hot water. It was the only way he could get moving in the morning, a long soak to loosen up his knees. It always reminded him of a photo of Michael Jordan he once saw in a magazine. It was taken at his house and he had his legs submerged in a huge bucket of ice. His back was slumped and he looked beat down.

  That’s how Jake felt every single morning. Except he wasn’t a ballplayer; he was a rapper. A rapper who was getting old. There was a knock on the bathroom door.

  “Yo,” Jake said.

  Ian opened the door and brought in warm towels, Bengay, and Ace bandages.

  “Breakfast is served.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jake leaned back in the tub, a washcloth covering his eyes.

  “Sir, ordinarily I wouldn’t disturb you.”

  “Stop calling me ‘sir’.”

  “Your wife . . .”

  Jake took the washcloth off his face and looked at Ian. For some strange reason, he thought Ian was going to say she was alive. That she had survived the crash and was in a coma at a hospital. And she woke up this morning and asked for Jake. Jake had buried his wife’s coffin with his own hands at the small, private funeral. He knew she was dead. But somehow, hearing Ian say the words your wife in the present tense scrambled his brain.

  “What about her?”

  Ian hesitated.

  “What?” Jake said again.

  “We need to talk about donating her things.”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Giles, it’s not healthy to live here as if—”

  “Since when is it your job to keep me healthy?”

  “It’s not. But I think it’s time to—”

  “I said no, Ian.”

  “Sir, your wife gave me strict instructions on every facet of her life.”

  “Ian, what’s your fucking point?”

  “She wanted certain items stored. Some things she wanted donated. And some things she wanted sold and the money di
sbursed to several charities. I think that we should honor her wishes.”

  “Leave me alone,” Jake said, sinking deeper into the tub. “Please.”

  “And also,” said Ian, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I found something you might want to keep. This was in a lockbox at the top of her closet . . .” Ian handed over a box wrapped in plain brown paper. On the top it said, For Jake. It was dated nineteen years in the future, which would have been their twentieth wedding anniversary. Only Kipenzi would have a gift ready twenty years in advance.

  “Thanks,” Jake said.

  Ian left, closing the door behind him. Jake got out of the tub and bent his knees a few times. He toweled off, put on his robe, and sat on the teak bench with the box in his lap. Inside was a receipt, faded and ripped at the edges. It had been laminated. Jake was confused. Two orders of pancakes at the Brooklyn Diner ten years ago?

  And then, a smile crept across his face. The first time he met Kipenzi, he took her out for a late-night breakfast at the Brooklyn Diner. She’d kept the receipt. It was definitely something Kipenzi would do.

  Jake let out a chuckle and then turned the receipt over. There, in Kipenzi’s signature pink, always perfect script: I can’t wait to be your wife.

  Jake clenched his teeth and felt something pinch his chest. On that first date, before he knew her last name or where she was from, Jake had asked Kipenzi to marry him. She’d laughed him off and said yes, not really seeming to mean it. But she knew. She’d accepted his proposal at that moment. Even though all this time, he didn’t know it. He’d worked on getting her to marry him for years after that first date. And it was all completely unnecessary.

  Jake allowed himself a quick crying jag: he pinched his nose, bent his forehead, and cried, heavy and loud, for ten seconds. Then, as always, he stopped himself abruptly and got back to preparing for his day.

  He put the receipt in his top dresser drawer, with all of his other important papers. He filed the whole thing in his brain under Grief, in case he needed to access it later. And then he let it go.

  Damon was already in Jake’s living room, pacing the floor, when Jake came down for the day.

  “What’s the problem?” Jake asked, picking up a screwdriver, his first drink of the day, which Ian had brought in on a tray.

  “Ciph and Rosenberg put out a podcast,” Damon said. “They had Z on the radio this morning . . .”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know, he just sounded like he had beef with you. He didn’t say your name specifically but it was suspicious . . .”

  Jake went to his office at the rear of the penthouse, Damon trailing behind him. He sat down at his desk and opened up his laptop. After a few keystrokes; he was downloading the podcast.

  There was Z, talking to the DJs about his upcoming projects, including a book he was writing. He threw out some subtle lines about people not accepting that he wasn’t a mess anymore. It didn’t have to be Jake he was talking about. But it definitely could be. When the interview ended, Jake exhaled hard and sat back in his chair.

  “I can get you on the show tomorrow,” said Damon.

  “For what? I’m supposed to start a beef with Z?”

  “I’m just saying . . . you can’t let him get that.”

  “He’s been my boy for damn near twenty years. If he wants to trip because he can’t get over what happened to Kipenzi, so be it.”

  “The blogs are saying that you won’t say anything about him since he’s clean now—”

  “The blogs. That’s what I pay you to do? Read blogs?”

  “You pay me to keep my ear to the street,” said Damon. “And that’s what I’m doing.”

  Damon left Jake alone in the office. Jake turned the podcast on again. And listened closely.

  A week later, Damon slapped a magazine down on Jake’s desk at the label.

  “Check it.” Damon said.

  One of the hip-hop tabloids bore the splashy headline “Z Says Jake Is an Alcoholic!” There was a picture of Jake coming out of Zander’s album release party, and he was definitely less than sober. He had one hand draped over the shoulder of his bodyguard and the other side of his body looked like it was about to collapse.

  Jake picked up the paper.

  “We don’t know that Z really said this, though,” said Jake, scratching his beard.

  Damon shrugged.

  “Just don’t look good.”

  “This is some bullshit,” Jake said, tossing the magazine in the trash. “I’ve got other things to worry about. Where is everybody?”

  Damon opened the door to Jake’s office, and various employees began streaming in with notebooks and coffee cups in hand. They all sat down on the various chairs and sofas in the office and chatted with each other while Jake arranged paperwork on his desk.

  “I know y’all saw this mess in the paper. I’m not speaking on it. And neither is anyone else at this label.”

  There were head nods and murmurs of agreement.

  “And if I find out y’all are talking to the press, it’s your last day in this office. I promise you that.”

  With that, Jake settled back in his chair.

  “So what’s going on this week?”

  As his staff ran down the schedule for the week, including whose album was dropping, what videos were being shot, and who was getting signed to the label, Jake half-listened and nodded when it seemed appropriate. But he was really thinking about Z. Did he really talk to the press about him? It seemed completely out of character for the new Z. Wasn’t he supposed to be self-actualized or something?

  Jake felt for his cell phone in his pocket. He could call Z immediately. And say what? Ask him if it was true? Jake felt like it would be a punk move to call him and ask, Did you really say that?

  For the rest of the afternoon, Jake’s office hummed. His employees dropped their heads when he walked by. His publicists fielded calls from the press for the entire day. Jake stayed in his office, brooding.

  When everyone was gone for the day, he called for his car, slipped out unnoticed, and directed his driver to Peter Luger’s. There Jake looked around for Lily. There was no sign of her. Jake posted up at the bar and signaled for a drink. Within an hour, he was drunk enough to start thinking about how he was going to deal with Z.

  Jake wasn’t a stranger to corny rap beefs. He’d gone back and forth on wax with Ghostface, Ludicrous, and T-Pain. There was a straight-up hand-to-hand fight with Tupac back in the nineties.

  But it was a new century. Was he really going to beef out publicly? Forty-one years old and trying to come up with words that rhymed with bitch and wack?

  A tall, thin woman with a spiky jet-black haircut brought a drink over to Jake’s table. Jake lifted up his head to thank her and did a double take. It was Samantha, a chick Z used to mess with years ago. They’d actually taken turns with her at first until Z caught feelings. And then she became an unofficial part of the crew. Z was foul back then. He’d take Samantha and his wife on the same tour bus, moving from the front, with Sam, to the back with Beth, whenever he felt like it.

  “Hello, Jacob,” Sam said, setting down the drink. She waited with her hands clasped behind her back. Jake gestured for her to sit and she did.

  Samantha was the only person besides Kipenzi and his mother who called him Jacob. Years ago, she’d managed to get ahold of his driver’s license and found out his real name. She called him nothing else. No matter how many times he said, Don’t call me that, she would just laugh and say, I do what I want. Eventually, he stopped fighting it. Jake hadn’t seen Samantha in years. He remembered Z crying in the studio after she came by to tell him she was getting married. He thought they would still see each other after that, but she disappeared. Jake couldn’t understand how Z had that much love in his heart for women. Z would kill someone who even looked at his wife. And yet he was crushed when his jump-off got married?

  “Jacob?” Samantha asked, leaning in close. “Are you okay?”

  Jake tried t
o focus. There were two Samanthas weaving in and out of each other, wavy and distorted. Four ears, four eyes, four breasts . . .

  “Let’s go,” said Jake, getting up from the table and walking quickly toward the back exit. Sam followed.

  Jake’s driver was in the employee parking lot. He came around and opened the door for Sam, who slipped into the back seat of the white Maybach. Jake pushed himself in behind her and collapsed on the back seat, throwing his head back on the headrest.

  “You need a smoke break?” Jake asked the driver.

  “I do,” said the driver. “Thank you, Mr. Giles.”

  The driver didn’t smoke. But in the past year, he’d learned what that question meant. As soon as the driver closed the door behind him, Jake unzipped his pants, grabbed Sam by the back of the neck, and forced himself into her mouth. Eyes closed, he waited to gauge her reaction. If she flinched or tried to pull back, he’d let her go. She didn’t. She took him completely into her mouth, while somehow managing to use her tongue to lick him at the same time.

  She came up for a breath and looked up at Jake.

  “I never thought you were checking for me like that,” she whispered.

  “I’m not,” Jake said.

  Samantha went back to work, undressing herself and blowing Jake simultaneously. Somewhere, in a sober corner of his mind, Jake wondered if screwing Samantha was his (lame) way of lashing out at Z. While Z was a changed man and seemed to be happy with Beth, he definitely wouldn’t have cosigned this random move.

  When she was completely naked, Jake pushed her away and turned her over, her knees up in the back seat. He slid inside her easily. She was warm, wet, and tight. Jake’s mind was still swirling from the Dewar’s. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up on Sam’s back. He caught himself and continued pushing, harder. Samantha started to whisper Oww you’re hurting me, Jacob, which just made him go harder. He pulled out just before he came and Sam hurried to take him in her mouth and finish him off.

  Jake looked down and saw his wife’s face; that left eye hanging down by a bloody vessel. She held her husband in her mouth, her face bloody and bruised, her one good eye welling with tears.

  “I love you, Jake,” Kipenzi said.

  Jake closed his eyes and fell back against the car cushion. He opened them again slowly, praying he wouldn’t see his wife’s disfigured body again. There was Sam, struggling to find her clothes strewn all over the back seat. Jake zipped himself up and waited.