The Take Down

by Mark Anthony

  There was a brief pause in the conversation as Angela thought hard about what I was saying.

  “Yeah, Jessica, I can’t make a connection with what you’re saying, I…”

  Trying to appear disgusted with her, I cut her off and blurted out an Italian phrase, “Madone!”

  “What the fuck is your problem?” Angela asked. “All I’m saying is I can’t make a connection because if I’m gonna manage somebody or make someone’s career it’s gonna be in pop music. Not with that gangsta rap nigger-music shit!”

  “Angela, so what are you saying? That you don’t like rap music? I hope not, because it’s not even really about the music.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just telling you that I would rather—”

  “Look, Angela I’m gonna set this up and I’ll call you. Just please be ready to move at the drop of a hat when I call,” I said as I again cut her off in the middle of her words. I was showing a bit of disrespect toward her, which is something she wasn’t used to.

  “Jessica, what the fuck? Oh, I take fucking orders from you now? You’ve got some pair of balls, Jessica!”

  I purposely wanted to push Angela’s buttons and I was succeeding. But I had to get her to see where I was coming from without sounding like I was up to something that could possibly hurt her. And I knew that the best way to get someone to see your point was by making them feel like they were an idiot for not seeing what seemed so obvious.

  “All right, Angela, I’ll be totally honest with you.”

  “Thank fucking God! You know you were really starting to piss me off.”

  I sort of laughed into the phone.

  “Jessica, this is not funny! You’re lucky I like you because I don’t just let anyone call me and joke and laugh when there isn’t anything funny. I don’t have time for that shit,” Angela stated with her classic New York–Italian street accent.

  “Angela, the other day … Um, I don’t know … Maybe a month or so ago when everybody was at that club out in Island Park … What is the name of that club? You know, the one on Long Island … Spratz on the Water. Now think back … Who was everyone going crazy over? Remember the guy from Howard Beach? The rapper, White Lines? Angela, he is a million-dollar meal ticket! The guy could be bigger than Eminem!”

  “Holy shit! Jessica, you are so right!” Angela stated through the phone, sounding as if she had just received a revelation from God.

  “You see what I’m saying, Angie? Who gives a shit if it’s pop music, rap music, country music, or whatever kind of music? At the end of the day what it boils down to is will the music sell five million copies or not?”

  Seeing exactly where I was coming from, Angela jumped right back in. “Yeah, Jessica, and when you think about it, Eminem sells more records than the biggest pop and country acts combined!”

  “Exactly! And White Lines would have much more street credibility than someone like Eminem. Plus, as far as I’m concerned, he really sounds good. Can you imagine a white boy rapper with street credibility? He’ll sell ten million records in his first week! And Angela, you’ll be managing him, making ten percent at least, off of everything that he earns … And when you need models for his many music videos, who are you gonna call? Do you see my vision?”

  “Jessica, when can you set this up?”

  “Well, like you said earlier, Horse has so much going on right now with his legal issues, but I called him earlier and I’m waiting for him to get back to me. So when he calls me I’ll set things in motion.”

  “Okay, let me ask you something and also tell you something. Number one, don’t you dare fucking tell him who my father is! Let me do that … And number two, how do you know him so well that you can just call meetings with him?”

  “Angela, I don’t run my mouth to people. That is the first thing … So don’t worry about me talking about your father. I mean no disrespect, but do you ever hear me mention your father’s name?”

  Jessica cut me off and stated, “No, no, no, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that I don’t want to get by because of who my father is. I mean sure, he’s a great man but I want to make my own way in life.”

  “Angie, that’s not a problem … But to answer your other question, I met Horse some time ago and he’s used my agency a couple of times when he needed models for his artists’ music videos or photo shoots.… Remember I was telling you that I own White Chocolate Models?”

  “Right, that’s right, that’s right. I forgot about that.”

  “So I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Okay, do that … And Jessica, keep this quiet. Keep it between me and you. Don’t talk to nobody about White Lines. Let me take it from here, okay?”

  I assured Angie that her last wish would be my command. She had taken my bait. Now I had to get in touch with Horse and make sure that I sold him on the meeting so that I could put things in motion and reel everyone in.

  There was no better job in the world than my job. I was getting paid to lie and be somebody that I wasn’t. And in the process I was living out a life only seen in the movies. But this was no movie. I knew that I had to be extremely careful because all it would have taken was one false move and my life could have been snuffed out very quickly!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  If there is one thing that the criminal underworld hates it is a snitch. A rat, a canary, a stool-pigeon, whatever adjective you want to use in order to describe people who give information to the authorities—they are the scum of the earth. What is so funny and ironic is that there are literally thousands of so-called rats, and some of them literally get paid to talk and others do it just to get or keep their asses out of a sling. Regardless of their motives for ratting out others, snitches help people like me, as well as local law enforcement to do our jobs each and every day. In fact we wouldn’t be able to do our jobs as effectively if it weren’t for the rats in the underworld.

  When Horse got raided, most of the information that we had compiled had come about as a result of my undercover investigation and our wiretaps and surveillance. But we did have some inside help. One of the lead agents had a well-connected confidential informant who went by the name of Chris Mims. Chris had worked security for most, if not all of the big names in hip-hop. He had full access to what went on inside hotel rooms, tour buses, and record industry closed-door meetings. Chris had been cooperating with law enforcement for about two years. He had been caught with an illegal handgun, which in New York State gets you a mandatory one-year jail sentence. And in order to avoid jail time, yup, you guessed it, he agreed to cooperate with authorities and help supply us with information when we needed it. That was a real punk move on his part, because a year in jail is nothing, especially if he was supposed to be really street.

  The problem with Chris was that he could always give precise information as to why something happened or when something was gonna happen but he could never supply us with that damaging incriminating information or tip that we needed. And that is why my investigation was so important. See, after I’d come into the picture, we were able to get closer to our subjects and know their movements and what they were talking about. We were able to put pieces of a puzzle together and having someone like Chris around to supply us with that puzzle piece was vital to our obtaining legal permission to get things like wiretaps.

  In fact, Chris was the one that told us with guaranteed certainty that Horse would have the illegal handgun in his home when we raided it. He also told us that whenever Gun Clap artists went on tour that Horse would supply them with weed and cocaine for the trip. It was sort of like a bonus that he would give them, and Chris knew that the bonus cocaine and weed would be in the house.

  As I would later find out, the toughest thing about dealing with a confidential informant is that they have the ability to sit on both sides of the fence. They can supply you with false information that could make you look like an absolute fool if you used the information to conduct a search or make an arrest. Informants sittin
g on both sides of the fence could also potentially be dangerous and life threatening to law enforcement if the informant decided to tell his criminal cronies who in fact it was that was investigating them.

  The lead special agent in charge of the White Chocolate operation had made a decision very early on to not let any of the confidential informants know who I was. The agent in charge had made it clear that if and when Jessica Jackson became too visible on the criminal radar to the point where informants began to question agents as to who I was, that all of the agents were to be mute on the subject and act as if I was just some sophisticated good-looking black broad who owned an up-and-coming modeling agency.

  I knew of all the other confidential informants that were being used as part of the White Chocolate investigation, but it was just something about Chris Mims that I didn’t trust. Something about him just didn’t sit right with me. I mean yes, he did fit the typical big, black, muscle-bound bodyguard image. But my distrust of him had nothing to do with his image or his physical appearance. It had more to do with a gut instinct that I had about him.

  He’s just like the other informants, I told myself, as I tried to dismiss my reservations about Chris. I wanted to clear my mind of any wavering doubts because I was ready to follow up with another phone call to Horse and I wanted to make sure that I was speaking to him with a clear head. It had been forty-eight hours since I last called his office and he had not returned my phone call. From tracking all of Horse’s movements I knew that he would usually arrive at his Midtown Manhattan office at about 11 A.M. every morning. So when 11:15 rolled around I didn’t waste any time in calling him.

  I dialed the office number and I got Tamika on the phone once again.

  Trying to sound as polite and sophisticated as ever so that I would be taken more seriously, I said, “Yes, hi, Tamika. It’s me again, Jessica. Listen, Horse never got back in touch with me and I was wondering—”

  Tamika cut me off in midsentence. “Jessica, I gave him the message. You’ll just have to be patient with him but he’ll get back to you. And if not, his assistant will definitely follow up with you.”

  I couldn’t stand Horse’s arrogant-ass assistant and I needed to get this meeting thing with Angela in motion ASAP.

  “Tamika,” I whispered into the phone as if I was about to tell her a secret, “look, this is between me and you but I am really trying to set something important up with Horse. I have never asked you for anything and I have never given you a hard time. But if you put me through to him right now, I’ll make sure that a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar gift certificate gets delivered to you this afternoon.”

  With typical black girl attitude, Tamika sucked her teeth, and although I couldn’t see her through the phone I could tell that she was also probably rolling her eyes and twisting her neck.

  “Okay Jessica, hold on,” Tamika replied as she noticeably breathed a sigh of disgust into the phone.

  So much for thank you for the gift certificate, I thought to myself as I waited on the other end of the phone desperately hoping that Tamika would put me through to Horse. As I waited on hold for about two minutes I began to practice rolling my eyes and twisting my neck and sucking my teeth in the way that I envisioned Tamika to have done it. It became comical and I almost burst out laughing at the wrong time.

  “This is Horse. Get at me!” Horse stated as he’d finally come to the phone and took me off hold.

  “Horse, hi, how are you? This is Jessica,” I said in my rosiest voice.

  “Oh, what’s good ma’?”

  “Well I wanted—”

  “Yo, I didn’t forget about that money. We’re gonna get it to you. It’s just that it’s been real crazy over here, a whole lot of drama. Ya heard?”

  Horse was referring to money that Gun Clap records owed White Chocolate Models for some print work that some of our models had done for his artist that went by the name of S&S.

  “No, I’m not calling you because of that. Take your time with that. I know you’re good for the money.… Listen, Horse, I know that things must be crazy for you with everything that has been going on, but I think I can show you something that could totally take all of this negative attention away from Gun Clap.”

  Horse laughed. “What the hell are you talking about ma’?”

  “Well, first of all, you know from the time I met you in the bowling alley in Chelsea Piers that I have never asked you for nothing. I never asked you for a handout, never. And when you found out what I do for a living it was you that asked me if my company could get you some girls for your videos…”

  “True dat, okay so what are you getting at?”

  “Well now I do need a favor from you. Do you know Paulie Calvino?”

  “Paulie Calvino the Mafia boss? That Paulie Calvino?”

  “Yes, him.”

  “Nah, I mean I know of him. Just like I’m sure he knows of me, but I never personally met him. That’s ’Preme’s man though. But why you ask?”

  “Well me and Paulie Calvino’s daughter are good friends and she is managing this guy from Howard Beach. He rhymes and I think he is pretty good. Matter of fact, I know he is good. Eminem type of good.”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha ha ha! Whoa! Are you for real? Jessica there ain’t no fucking rappers coming out of Howard Beach. This nigga is a white boy?”

  “Yes he’s white but—”

  Horse cut me off. “Jessica, on the strength, no disrespect but I’m not looking for no Vanilla Ice rappers that—”

  I knew where Horse was going so I interrupted him just as he had rudely interrupted me. “Horse, like I said, I haven’t ever asked you for anything, I’m just asking you now if you can give me and Paulie’s daughter about fifteen minutes of your time. Hear the kid out and see what you think, that’s it. If you don’t think he’s any good then fuck it, she’ll shop him to another label. But I promise you that he is not a gimmick Vanilla Ice kind of rapper.”

  “A’ight that’s cool. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. So what name does dude rhyme under?”

  “White Lines.”

  “A’ight, I’m feeling that. So you said the kid can really rhyme?”

  I was excited that Horse was rolling with the idea, but I didn’t want that excitement to come across to him.

  “Horse, I wouldn’t waste your time if he wasn’t. I know you get a million people coming to you with demo tapes and whatnot. But what’s funny is that I saw this kid at a club out in Island Park…”

  “Where the fuck is that?” Horse questioned.

  “That’s on Long Island, not too far from Rockville Center, over in that area.… But anyway, I see this young Italian kid performing and he really sounds good. And I was thinking to myself how rappers are always talking about their ‘street credibility’ and how ‘they live what they rap about’, and I’m saying to myself, this kid looks like he has street credibility. He would be a perfect fit for Gun Clap.”

  Horse paused, and then he laughed.

  “So the kid is nice with the mic, and he has street credibility? This is a white boy? Okay so what’s in it for you?”

  “Nothing is in it for me. Of course if he gets signed and becomes bigger than Eminem I just want you to call me and let me supply the girls for the video shoots, the posters, the stickers, the album covers and all of that,” I said as I laughed through the phone, trying to break the ice.

  “A’ight so listen. If this kid is that nice, bring him through tomorrow at one thirty and I wanna hear him spit … But yo, I got first dibs on this cat, right?”

  “Yes, nobody even knows that he exists.”

  “Cool, keep it that way. So come through tomorrow.”

  “Okay, thanks love.”

  Just as Horse was about to hang up the phone I caught his attention one more time. “Horse! Before you go…”

  “Yeah what’s up?”

  “I was just wondering if we could also maybe hang out together one night … You know, maybe go to the club and just have a good time or
something?”

  “Who? Me and you?”

  “Yeah, me and you … You could bring some of your friends too if you want and I could bring some of my girlfriends and we could have a good time.… Or me and you could chill alone together if you want?”

  Horse was silent. He didn’t respond.

  “What? You don’t wanna be seen in public with my sexy ass or something?” I playfully asked as I broke the awkward silence.

  “Oh nah ma’. It’s all good. I mean, you know, anything could happen, you kna’imean?”

  I smiled and I giggled a little in order to break the ice. Then I chimed in with my seductive puppy-dog voice that I knew Horse or any man for that matter would fall for. “Horse? Are you turning down my offer, sweetie?”

  Horse laughed on the other end.

  “What’s so funny, love?” I asked.

  Calling people “love” was a bad habit that I’d had for years, but it was sort of appropriate to use it in this case.

  “Nah, I just didn’t expect that to come from you that’s all … But yeah, we can hang out. Umh, damn. Yo, hold on a minute, I gotta take this call.”

  As I waited on hold, I knew that I had just scored big time with Horse.

  * * *

  “Sorry I put you on hold, I gotta go, but listen, take down my new cell number real quick. And don’t give that shit out either!” Horse emphatically stated.

  “Horse, you know I wouldn’t do that,” I assured. “What’s the number?” I asked as I stood handy with my pen and took down the digits.

  “Just call me and we’ll work something out. A’ight?”

  “Okay good. So I’ll come by tomorrow around one or one thirty.”

  “Fo’sho,” Horse replied as we both hung up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The thing about doing any kind of undercover investigation is that you have to allow yourself to never feel any kind of pressure. Pressure in undercover work only leads to you coming across as too eager or like you have some kind of agenda. And when that happens you start to raise red flags among the people that you are investigating. Ideally you just want to go with the flow. You never want to ask too many questions but you always wanna be observing people, places, faces, times, cars, addresses, and how certain individuals interact with others. And in my case I could only rarely wear a wire or take any kind of notes or anything because I was fearful that something like that would later come back to haunt me if I ever got caught or if any evidence of notes ever ended up in the wrong hands.