by Wahida Clark
“Okay . . . and what’s that?” His breath stank of the rotten bullshit that was about to fly out of his mouth any second. Here it comes.
“Well, all of these types of loans need to start with 14 percent interest.”
“Fourteen percent?” I repeated, shocked. I looked at him as if he’d passed me the whip and asked me to beat his slaves for him. He’d lost his mind. My stare lingered. He can’t be serious. That amount is outrageous! I was about to get up and walk out, but I pondered his offer briefly. Yeah, he thought he was getting over by exploiting my people, giving them high interest loans that any knowledgeable person would never pay. However, I saw an opportunity to help a lot of people, and my brain had already started churning out a plan to get around that interest rate crap. I could work my magic once I got an opportunity to get creative. And it sounded like he was giving me that power.
“What exactly would the position be?”
“Special accounts manager.”
“And the meaning of special?” I asked, raising a freshly waxed eyebrow.
“Well, we’ll leave that to you. We can get creative. But, of course, we want the bank to be known for bridging the gap and giving minorities opportunities that no other bank has done. And the best part of it is: we’ll give you your own team with underwriting power to approve loans up to $5 million! We’ve got about $500 million to lend. Who knows, you can be the Oprah Winfrey savior for your people. Think about what you can do. Not just for yourself, but for your community.” Never in America does a bank suddenly tell a black person they have access to so much money, to give to more black folks. Something is off with this. This is corporate America, and we aren’t welcome here.
“Of course, I’ll accept. I love it! Thank you so much for the opportunity, Mr. Darding.” We shook on it. My name was already ringing bells. I surely didn’t want to sound off any alarms. If I felt that he was up to something crazy, I would back out. But I’d wait until that happened, if ever.
I exited the bank, jumped in my Benz, and celebrated with a fat-ass blunt. Yeah, Milla Winfrey had a crazy ring to it! But I also found out that if something sounded too good to be true . . . it usually was!
Chapter 2
Sunny-SolÉ
* * *
My momma named me Sunshine-Solé because she knew I would shine. And I do—like a D color diamond sparkling in the sun. Maybe she should’ve just named me Diamond since I wore so many of them. That’s probably why the prosecutor kept glancing back at me. I shouldn’t have worn my wedding ring set. Every time I raised my hand, I’m sure I blinded the judge and prosecutor because they both were acting as if they couldn’t see the scandal unfolding right before their eyes. Shit, no disrespect, but Ray Charles could even see this bullshit. You see, my husband and I had always been getting money. We had so many legitimate businesses, that all of our street money got washed flawlessly. There was no proof that we moved a few bricks, printed a few thousand pounds of counterfeit money, and worked out a fair deal with the Italian mob to run our businesses in their territory. The illegal dealings are only a small part of our major operations. One would never know what we were doing, but the Feds insisted on sniffing and digging until their hunger got the best of them, and they went in for the kill.
About three months ago, I had finally had the house to myself. I’ll never forget it. While relaxing in my master suite Jacuzzi, I was skimming through the DuPont registry and scoping out that new Bentley Bentayga and listening to CNN. My alarm system went off, followed by a call from the security company. There was no knock and enter. No warning. They just broke the door down and shouted, “We’ve got a warrant!” My breath left my body as I stood naked in the water with my mouth hanging open. I stepped out of the tub as fast as I could and grabbed my La Perla edenic silk robe from the heated rack. It was as warm as a freshly baked loaf of bread, but the goose bumps appeared as though I was bare in the middle of Antarctica.
“Who’s in my crib?” I screamed, as if my life was in danger. Before I could walk out of the bathroom, ten or so FBI agents swarmed in front of me.
“Ma’am, you need to get dressed and come with us,” an agent said.
“Do you have a warrant?” I asked. One of them flashed it in my face so fast I could barely read it.
“Now, like I said . . . get dressed.”
“Where the fuck is my copy?” I asked, grilling him. The left corner of my top lip rose. He ignored my question and my frown.
“You need to put on something decent.” Damn, it was uncomfortable the way his blue eyes roamed from my head down to my toes.
“I would, if you get the hell out. Get out of my bathroom, and I’ll get dressed.”
“We can’t let you out of our sight.”
“Then it looks like we have a problem.”
“Looks that way,” the smart-mouthed one said, smirking. I smiled back.
“What’s your name?”
“Special Agent Jackson, and this is my team.” I nodded but never took my eyes off him.
I calmly spoke, “Suri, activate security cameras. Activate vocal record. Male FBI agents are standing in my bathroom trying to force me to undress in their presence while . . .”
He threw his hand up in defeat and rolled his eyes. And I crossed my arms.
“Somebody get a female agent up here,” he said, cutting me off. “Come on, guys, step out. Search the bedroom. And be thorough!”
They didn’t find anything but money. A whole lot of it. About a million dollars. But what they reported finding was $100,000. They stole the rest. They charged my husband, H, with money laundering, but they couldn’t connect anything to me. He is currently on trial, but it seems he’ll be going home. You see, when you live the way we do, you always have security cameras. The footage showed them going into our stash room and piling money into duffle bags. It clearly showed much more than $100,000. With that evidence, there should be no problem with my husband getting vindicated. I couldn’t wait for the jury to see those crooked muthafuckas getting busted stealing our money. The case had to get tossed.
My husband’s lawyer got up to speak. My king turned and winked at me. I gave him a head nod and blew him a kiss.
“And now, Your Honor, the defense would like to present to you our most crucial piece of evidence yet—the security footage from the Williamson family home.” The video began to play on the big screen. It clearly showed them taking money, but then the video suddenly turned off.
“Your Honor,” said the court technician, “we seem to have experienced some type of glitch that corrupted the file.”
“Fix it!” Mr. Caltron, my husband’s attorney said. “Fix it!” They tried for the next half hour, and then broke for recess. When court resumed, the file had been totally corrupted, and they claimed there were no copies. I could not contain myself.
“This is bullshit! Y’all not playing fair!” I stood up and shouted. “This is unacceptable. They just don’t want to be exposed. Those agents are all dirty. All of ’em!” The judge, Brenda Doom, could have called a mistrial. Something. Anything! But instead, she called it an “unfortunate event.” And she said the trial would continue. This was unheard of. The one thing that could prove our case was no longer available. Was this shit even legal? I didn’t know what to do. So I walked toward the judge.
“Mrs. Williamson, you may want to calm down before I hold you in contempt of court.”
“I don’t give a shit! A black man can’t get a fair trial in this country. This is outrageous!” The marshals intervened and literally dragged me out of the courtroom. They told me to leave, or I would be arrested. I was beside myself with anger. I was so hot tempered. I felt like the Phoenix. They deaded my king and me on our bread, and they were trying to cover it up. Actually, they weren’t trying to cover it up . . . They’d already done it! I felt violated. But if it was the last thing I ever did, I would get to the bottom of this and expose these “corrupted-ass suits” one way or another.
Enough was enough
!
Chapter 3
Eshe
* * *
Did I forget something? I thought as I arrived at my office early. Puzzled, I pulled up in a customized black Range Rover, followed by two black Escalades. Each one was driven by two of the most loyal men I had in my life, Marcellus and Jeremy. They both worked for me, but they were more like my brothers. Jeremy, who went by the nickname Jerry, stepped out of his truck first, rocking a Tom Ford suit. He walked over to my truck and opened my door. A light drizzle fell, so he held an umbrella for me. I held onto his arm. And when Marcellus exited his truck, the three of us entered the building. They both would protect me with their lives, and their loyalty was priceless.
Marcellus used to work for a luxury car dealership. I knew he was a lyrical beast with great potential when I saw him moving cars to dope boys who didn’t have an ounce of credit. Jeremy was a kingpin in the dope game. He barely missed an indictment, but witnessing how thorough he ran his organization, I knew he’d be a good corporate thug. He brought a different energy to the office environment. Everybody respected them. I entrusted them to run the company in my absence.
We all went into our private offices to get to work. We traded gold, oil, natural gas, diamonds, rubber, and pretty much anything that sold on the international market that was worth millions and in large amounts. I was anxious to check what my bank roll was hittin’ like since I closed a pretty good deal a few days ago. This morning was payday, and that always got me excited. I pulled up my account online, and my smile flipped into a frown. I didn’t like what I was seeing. No deposits today.
The balance was exactly the same, $9,659,000.19. I was sitting on seven digits, but I went to bed last night expecting to wake up sitting on eight. I called my client to find out what was going on and why my money hadn’t transferred over yet. I expected to see another $500,000. He answered on the first ring.
“Kev, what’s up? Did something happen at the trade desk that I need to know about? Why didn’t the deal close?”
“Yeah, something happened all right! Some bullshit! They’re telling me I can’t trade, and my application is denied.” I slammed my fist on the desk and bit my bottom lip.
“What do you mean you can’t trade? Why did they deny your application?” I asked my potential client. His name is Kevin James, a young black man who owns a small gas station in North Carolina.
“Because, well, they said I don’t have enough assets.”
“I’m looking at your bank statement right now. You’re the CEO of a company worth over ten million. You’re only trading with less than a million. You have more than enough money. What the hell are they talking about?”
“No, the oil company will only deal with someone worth $100 million or more. I’m nowhere near that valuation. I just got the new trade instructions today. Looks like I’m out. Even though I’m only spending less than 10 percent of that, they’ve made the requirements impossible.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. It’s the stupidest rule I’ve ever heard of. Okay, Kevin, let me find out what’s going on, and I’ll call you back. I’ll figure something out.” I ended the call and immediately announced to my staff that we were having a meeting. They piled into my office.
“Hey, guys,” I said to the eight of them. “We’ve got some serious work to do. We’ve been setting up trades for folks for months now. We’ve introduced more African Americans to the world of commodity trading than any other company. We’ve made many of our brothers and sisters rich beyond their dreams. Thanks to you guys, we’ve done some beautiful things together. But there is another side to this. Something I do not like. I’ve noticed now that since more minorities are getting involved in these types of deals, the requirements have gotten damn near impossible. They’re pushing us out. And you guys know me . . . I am not going to let that happen. So here’s the deal: anyone who calls us looking for assistance in qualifying for a trade deal, put ’em through to me. If the deal closes, you get 15 percent automatically!” I raised the commission by 5 percent. We were used to closing deals that hit around $500,000, so my employees easily saw $50,000 checks on a weekly basis.
“Sounds good to me,” Marcellus said, rubbing his hands together.
“Me too,” added Jerry, who was in charge of marketing, and he also had another job . . . my enforcer. When someone owed us money or didn’t pay, Jerry had a way of making sure they made good on their promises. “I need to holler at you, though,” Jerry said when the meeting was over. “In private,” he whispered.
I got up from my very comfortable seat and dismissed everyone except Marcellus and Jerry.
“What’s on your mind, bro?” I asked.
“We’ve got a problem,” Jerry said.
“A serious one,” said Marcellus. I sat back down.
“Tell me!” I closed my eyes briefly, not knowing what to expect.
Jerry nodded to the side, indicating for me to follow him. Once again I was out of my seat. We got on the elevator and headed down to the basement of the thirty-five-story building.
“Why are we down here?” I asked. All I could hear was the click-clacking of my Giuseppe heels against the concrete floor. Neither of my brothers spoke. We turned a corner, and they eyed one another. They lifted what looked like an oversized trash can, and I jumped back, grabbing my chest. The body of a middle-aged white man wearing a very straight cut Canali suit lay inside.
“Boss Lady . . .” Marcellus tried to say something. I shook my head.
“Close that shit,” I said, disgusted.
“Eshe, I caught him in the office last night. I came back here after I realized I left my wallet. It was about midnight, and I caught him trying to plant some dope in your office,” Jerry said.
“What the hell!”
“He had a gun. So I didn’t think twice; I hit ’im in the head immediately.”
“Jerry, why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your trip. I knew you’d be back this morning. After I searched him, I found this . . .” Jerry showed me a badge. The man was a U.S. Secret Service agent.
Awwww, fuck!
Chapter 4
Milla
* * *
Milla Winfrey has a nice ring to it. My coworkers had a money clip with MILLA WINFREY engraved on both sides. It was their way of acknowledging my hard work. I hustled like Oprah. A diamond stud sat perfectly in the middle. Cute. And I definitely kept it full of them big-face Benjamins. I left the office and headed over to Hit Makers, the studio in Harlem where so many hip-hop hits were made. I’d just got a call from Cedrick Williams, CEO of Platinum Records.
When I got inside, there were so many chicks walking around in skimpy clothing; it looked like they were auditioning for a video. For a moment I thought I was on a set. Studio groupies. Most of them were broke, trying to find a man to pay their rent. I had the opportunity to use my goodies to come up, but I found that using my brain led to better opportunities and monetary stability. That’s what I was about . . . being comfortable. I could write checks and never worry if they would clear. This new position gave me a lot of power. And I planned to use it.
“So what’s up, Cedrick?” I asked as I walked into the engineer’s room in the second-largest recording room, known as Studio C. Jadakiss was in the next room over, Studio B. Cedrick smiled, and then nodded. He continued to bop his head to the music as his newest artist, King-G, also known as KG, laid down a track that was definitely going to be a hit. He was a beast. He had about seven mix-tapes out and was without a deal. Everybody wanted to sign him, and so did Cedrick.
“Annnnd . . . That’s a wrap!” The producer cut the track, and King-G took his headphones off. He then walked out of the booth and gave Cedrick and the producer a pound. The producer bounced, leaving just the three of us.
KG was very handsome. He was about six foot two, covered in tattoos, and caramel toned. He kept himself in shape—fine was an understatement. But I’d seen many of his type, and they all were inte
rested in the same type of girls: THOTS. So I didn’t even bother taking a third look.
“King-G, this is Milla Davison. If you don’t mind waiting for me over in the studio with Jay, I’ll be there to holler at you.”
“That’s cool. Nice to meet you, pretty,” King-G said. I smiled. He exited the room.
“So what you need, Big Ced?” I asked. He began talking in a hushed tone.
“Listen, I’m just gonna keep it straight with you. Platinum Records is about to go bankrupt. We signed two other mix-tape artists and thought we had stars. Their singles went crazy. But both albums flopped. We lost $20 million between the two of them. It really put us in a bind. I know King-G can get us out of this slump. He’s a star. Just listen to this.” He then began playing a few cuts. His music was like nothing I’d ever heard. He was most definitely going to be the next big thing. I liked Cedrick; he was a gambler and a risk taker. I respected that because it took risks to reap rewards. Nobody knew that better than me.
“That’s dope. Sounds good. So what do you want from me?” I wanted to get to the point of this meeting. He said it was urgent.
“I want to sign him. But I don’t have the money to give him the type of signing bonus that these other labels are offering. So I wanted to know if you can help me borrow the money.” He twisted his head in one of those “I’m not so sure” gestures.
“How much we talkin’?” I asked.
“Maybe $3 million!”
“Three mill? That’s gonna be tough if your assets are strapped.”
“Come on, Milla. You’re the only person I know that can make this happen. Everybody knows you’re the go-to lady.”