by Nikki Turner
The call came from Jimmie, the downstairs doorman. “Mr. Wiseman, federal agents are on their way up to your place.” Jimmie lowered his voice to a whisper as he said, “While they were waiting for the elevator to come, I think I heard one of them say something about having a warrant for your arrest. I told the elevator butler to stall them the best he could, but I’m sure they’ll be taking the stairs as well. That’s all I know. I wish I could be more of a help.”
Logic had been more than generous when it came to tipping Jimmie over the past two years for keeping an eye on things when he wasn’t in town; that generosity had just bought him a few extra minutes. Before Jimmie hung up, he also pulled Logic’s coat to the fact that when he saw the warrant, it had the wrong address printed on it—unit 2771 instead of the correct address, which was 2717.
The twelve FBI agents were dispatched to execute the arrest warrant for one Logic Wiseman for an assortment of charges, including money laundering, loan-sharking, and murder. It had taken the government a while to find someone who was willing to speak out against him. Logic was usually very careful with the people whom he chose to deal with, and between his more-than-fair business practices and his ruthless tendencies when crossed, no one wanted to go there with him.
Officer Stephen Newman was in charge of the investigation and had prayed on many a night that there would be a break in the case. Then one day, about two and a half weeks earlier, the answer to that prayer walked into his office and said, “I was told that you’re the one that I needed to speak with if I had information to give on Logic Wiseman.” Followed by “Oh, by the way, my name is Tre Wilson, the film director,” the informant said vainly.
When Logic hung up the phone with the doorman, his eyes rested on his wife of thirteen days. He wasn’t afraid or nervous for himself, because he’d known for a long time that this day could, and would, eventually come. But a federal indictment didn’t automatically equal a prison sentence. Some people say that the party isn’t over until the fat lady sings, but Logic’s saying went a little different: the party isn’t over until the fat lady shits. Right then, there was no room for her because he was still on the toilet. And as far as Logic was concerned, he had a lot more shitting to do. But he did need to get Isis as far away from shit as possible.
“You gotta get out of here,” Logic said to his wife as calmly as he possibly could. “The alphabet boys are on their way up here with a warrant for my arrest and probably a warrant to search this place.”
Isis digested his words and then stood up quickly. “If I have time to get out, then you do too. I’m not leaving without you, Logic.”
“I knew you would say that. That’s one of the reasons why I married you,” he said. “They probably have all the exits to the building covered by now, but they won’t be looking to stop a woman by herself. So I’m not asking you, I’m telling you to get out and save yourself. Plus, I need your help.”
“Anything, Logic. Just tell me what to do.”
“Okay, Princess, but we have to move fast.” Logic proceeded to give Isis instructions. “I got a suitcase in the closet with $1.5 million in cash in it; it weighs about thirty-five pounds. Do you think you’ll be able to carry it?”
“To where?”
“There’s an all-black ’85 Riviera parked on the parking deck.” He handed her a slip of paper after retrieving it from an end table drawer. “This will tell you exactly where to find the car. Just drive to a hotel and wait for either me or my lawyer to call. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know what the damage is.”
Isis threw on some sweats while Logic pulled the suitcase out of the closet and something from the safe. “Don’t let anything happen to either of these.” He passed her the suitcase, a ledger that listed everybody who owed him money, and a ring of keys. “If for some reason you’re forced to have to make a decision to leave either the money or the keys behind…let me make this absolutely clear: Guard the keys with your life. And remember, regardless of what happens to me, I love you. Now give me a kiss and get out of here.”
Isis was nervous when she stepped out of the door. She didn’t want anything to happen to Logic. The suitcase was heavy but manageable. She hadn’t known that money weighed so much. She strolled to the elevator and pushed the button to go down.
It arrived within seconds. Isis stepped into the elevator and transformed, removing herself and replacing herself with Wonder Wife, finding the guts to be strong and carry out the plan for Logic.
Just before the door closed, two men came around the corner. “Hold that door!” one of them shouted, running toward her. Isis’s heartbeat quickened until it was pounding as fast as a drummer at a college football game after his team had just scored a touchdown. “Do you mind if I ask what apartment you just left from?” The man doing the talking flipped out his ID and badge.
“Not at all,” she said. “I was coming to bring my son some more clothes over to his grandmother’s house, but she wasn’t there. She got some nerve. She always does that, you know. Call me all morning asking me to bring more clothes, like I have nothing else to do. You would think the boy was running through the house buck naked or something, as much as she called. Now I’m going to be late for my appointment at the gym. Who’s going to pay my personal trainer? Don’t get me wrong—I love my mother and all. She’s the only one I got, but—”
“That’ll be all, miss.” The agent cut her off before she rambled on all day. “You have a nice day.”
When the door closed, Isis let out a huge sigh of relief. Thank you God, she said to herself as she looked up. So far so good.
Once the elevator reached the underground parking deck, she started to breathe a little better, until she saw three more agents standing around. Watching! She tried telling herself that there was nothing to worry about; they were looking for a six-foot-two-inch bald man, not a five-foot-seven-inch woman with hair down her back.
You can do this, Isis.
There it was. The old-school car was in mint condition and parked exactly where Logic said it would be. She walked over to it, put the key into the door, slid behind the wheel, and then turned on the ignition.
Vrrooom.
It started right up, and Isis was on her way. But where the road would take her, she had no idea.
Chapter 17
Logically Speaking
Logic was being held in the county jail. It had 1,500 prisoners, but one floor was reserved to keep only federal detainees; that was the floor where Logic had been housed for five days. According to his lawyer, the case they had against him was bad—but not insurmountable. They had two witnesses who were going to testify against him. He didn’t have a bond, and a bond hearing was laughable. So he had plenty of time to sit back and think about his future, Isis, and their future together. He decided to give her a call to share his thoughts.
“Baby,” Logic confessed, “you know I love you with all my heart. A lot has happened in these two short months since we met. I never in my life thought I would’ve ever loved anybody as wholeheartedly as I’ve loved you. But the truth of the matter is I’m no good for you. Some might go as far as saying that I’m a no-good muthafucka, and they might be right.”
Isis had been laying low in a Ritz-Carlton suite for five days, waiting to get a call from Logic, but she never would have thought he would talk that way. That was the last thing that she needed to hear. “Don’t say that,” she said. “That’s not true.”
“It’s true. I’m old school. My morals and tactics run totally against the grain of the way cowards live nowadays, and there are one thousand times more of them than there are guys like me.”
“I agree,” she said. “Your principles may be different from others’, but I’m talking about us.”
“If I’m not able to protect and take care of you, what good am I to you?”
“Then let me take care of you,” she said.
“A lot of coward niggas out there would love to harm or disrespect you, thinking it would hurt me. And you
know what? It would hurt me. It would tear me apart.”
“You’re talking crazy, Logic. It’s not that easy, and I will not disconnect from you. Not for those reasons. I’m tired of letting other people control my life.” She had her mind set.
“Listen, baby, you got a career to babysit. Devote your time to being the next Jacob the Jeweler, Harry Winston, or David Yurman, not to me.” Logic went on for a few more minutes trying to reason with Isis, talk her into annulling their marriage, but she wasn’t going for it. “Look, this is what I’m going to do, since you are hell-bent on fucking with me, I might as well make it worth your while. I’m going to plug you into a few influential people who, by wearing your jewelry, can jump-start your career. People that owe me favors: rappers, actors, and ball players.”
Isis listened, trying to take in everything that her husband was sharing with her. His wisdom could prove to be priceless.
“These…associates, let’s call them, are not to be trusted, but they can be counted on to some extent, because I have what you call a love-hate relationship with them. They love me when they are borrowing my money, but they hate me when it’s time to pay up. They hate even more the damage I’ll do to protect my investments if they don’t. I’ve helped a lot of these people get their start or make it through troubled waters. I’ve also fucked up a lot of mu’fuckas who ain’t play fair in return. This is why you must be selective as to who you let know of our relationship. Sometimes it’s going to be better if I can just get you the meeting with certain individuals but no one knows that I’m your husband. That way we can tag-team these clowns without them knowing who was in the ring.”
Isis listened to Logic’s way of thinking. Deep down inside, she agreed with most of what he said, but it still hurt her heart that once again she would be left to endure the heartless streets alone. Not to mention being a woman trying to come up in a male-dominated field. “So, no more talk about you leaving me, then?” she said.
“Okay, baby, but there’s one more thing.”
“You’d better not say you have another wife.”
Logic laughed. “Not exactly. But I need you to promise me that you won’t ever sell the Riviera, at least not without my permission.”
“Is that all?” she said.
“That’s all. Park it somewhere safe.”
“Okay. Do you have anywhere in Miami that you can suggest?”
“Put it on the auto train and send it up north to a storage in Virginia somewhere where you can put your hands on it if need be.”
“No problemo, but do you mind if I ask why?”
“Yes, I do. But what I don’t mind telling you is to call Smooth Breeze as soon as we get off the phone. He’s good people; plus, he owes me a lot of paper and pays faithfully.”
“No disrespect to your gangsta, but for how long do you feel that he will continue to pay you?” Isis had been through the jail thing a few times. And she knew that once a man goes to jail, people start to show their true colors.
“Well, you are going to tell him that I said he needs to escalate everything I told him in the club about letting you make something for him. As a matter of fact, wait until I call you tonight and we’ll call ’im on the three-way together.”
“Anything else, baby?”
“That’s just the beginning. There’s this Al B. Sure-looking muthafucka that boxes and shit. I’m going to have him shout you out and wear your Web site address on his shorts when he fights, and wear your T-shirt and jewelry when he’s getting interviewed.”
“That’ll be real good publicity if you can make it happen.” Isis was getting really excited.
“Eventually, I’ll plug you with this gay-ass NBA joker and a couple of football dudes too.”
“Those people make so much money,” she said. “How come they owe you those types of favors?”
“Everybody doesn’t make the super payday, and regardless of how much money you make, if you spend more than you take in, guess what?”
“You get broke,” she said.
“Worse. You end up owing a muthafucka like me.”
Later that day while Isis was trying to figure out things at the hotel pool, her Aunt Samantha called.
“Ice, are you behaving yourself?” she asked. “Well, never mind that. Of course you aren’t…you’re a newlywed. Ty and Anthony are having a christening for little Abigail and they want you to be there.”
Isis took family very serious, and she already felt guilty for not inviting Samantha to her wedding. And she really had only one good reason for not doing so: She hadn’t wanted Samantha to try to talk her out of it. Even though Ty and Anthony weren’t blood, they were family. “When is it?”
“It’s next Sunday.”
Isis thought about all the things that she had to do, and then said, “Tell them that I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
After soaking up plenty of rays at the pool, Isis went and stopped by the mall and did a little shopping. Logic had been on her mind all day, ever since she had spoken to him earlier. She knew Logic was going through a lot. Two people were supposed to take the stand against him. One was that guy Tre, from whom he’d taken the Ferrari at the club. Although that was disappointing, it didn’t worry Logic too much. Tre could be touched before he ever stepped foot in a courtroom. But the second witness was a problem because no one knew his identity. The only thing that Logic’s attorney, Michael McGetty, could find out was that the person was a reliable informant. Aren’t they all?
As promised, Logic called Isis later that evening. “I’ve been waiting for you, handsome,” she told him after accepting the collect call.
Logic spoke quickly. “I don’t have long, because they gonna lock us down early for some bullshit. I need you to call three people.”
“I’m ready when you are.”
“Peace. First dial 555-4307. That’s Breeze.” She clicked over and did as she was told.
After she got Smooth Breeze on the line, she clicked back. “Here you go, Logic.”
“Breeze, what up?” Logic said.
“The sun, moon, stars, and modern-day slavery, but what else is new?” Breeze said.
“What’s the soonest you can see Isis about what we talked about?
“I got a concert tonight at the arena in Ft. Lauderdale. I can leave her tickets at the door with backstage passes.”
“Nigga, you smoke so much weed you may forget you talked to me tonight,” Logic said, half joking. “Have the tickets sent to her hotel with the passes in an envelope and leave them at the front desk with her name on it.”
“Done,” Breeze agreed. “Anything else?”
“If one of us comes up with anything, Isis will give you a call.” Logic then told Isis, “Kill that line.” The line went blank. “Now dial 555-6369.”
The second person she got on the phone for Logic was an NBA player named Fonz. Logic shot a few quick words, and Fonz agreed to meet Isis within the next hour to discuss purchasing a few pieces of jewelry.
“Okay, now that we have that part straight, I need you to make one last call: 555-2106. Her name is Sly.”
“Her?” Isis asked, with a tinge of jealousy in her voice.
“Yeah, she’s a bitch,” Logic said. “A loyal bitch at that. I need to get her to make sure that your transition is smooth to my world and Miami, being that you’re fresh to the ways of the city.”
Isis took offense. “I can handle myself.” Even through the phone, Logic could tell that she had her hands on her hip when she said it.
“I know you can, Princess, but let’s do it my way this time. Besides, Sly is like a sister to me.”
Logic spent about seven minutes on the phone with Sly explaining to her how Isis was new to the area and how he needed her to watch out for her and make sure that she had everything she needed and or might think that she wanted. Sly agreed without hesitation, knowing good and well that Sly the Spy was going to be on her ass.
Chapter 18
The Fonz
; Isis entered the luxurious lobby of the Loews Hotel with her leather show bag on her shoulder securing the pieces and designs that she was going to use to seal a deal with Fonz; a deal that would require him to wear her custom-made jewelry exclusively using his name and fame. This favor was exactly what she needed to launch her career, and Isis was confident that the danger she was putting herself in by tiptoeing across the lobby’s slippery, marbled floor in four-inch Roberto Cavalli pumps would not be in vain. She was determined that the result of her meeting with Fonz would be her designs getting the attention they needed to catapult her into becoming the most sought-after jewelry designer on the East Coast.
Move over, Jacob the Jeweler…Ms. Ice is after your crown.
She had just stepped out of the women’s bathroom, which seemed more like a personal dressing room for a superstar, after touching up her makeup. And now she was standing in the lobby where Fonz was supposed to meet her, trying to search him out. After a few minutes passed and there was no Fonz in sight, she whipped out her cell phone and dialed his number. How hard could it be to spot a six-foot-eight-inch basketball player in a hotel lobby?
Fonz was at the bar throwing back shots of cognac with a couple of his friends when his phone started vibrating. “Damn, who da fuck this?” Fonz spat as he pushed back a double. Glancing down at the screen he said, “Oh, shit, Logic’s bitch. I forgot I was supposed to meet that ho about some damn jewelry.”
“Fuck that bitch,” one of his drinking partners riffed. “Who the fuck she think you is, Shaq or some shit? You supposed to front-man a jewelry line?”
“I’m feeling so lovely off this 1738 right about now, I just might.” Fonz pushed the reject-caller button. “Fuck her.” Then he called out to the bartender, “Hit me wit one mo’, Joe.”