I needed to curtail my frustration and stay focused. Keep my eyes on the prize, as the old folks would say.
Chapter 31
Two weeks later, with our story being out of the news, life was getting back to normal. Blake was out and about in L.A. with DeMarco and some of the guys from LADS. I thought it would be a good time to call my sister to give her an update on her son’s visit to L.A.
“What’s going on, little brother?” Marlena said. She sounded excited when she picked up the phone. “How’s my boy?”
“Blake is fine,” I said. “He’s hanging out with some of his new friends. He’s a good kid. People like him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“You sure it’s not an act? That boy is quite an actor.”
“So far, so good,” I said. “We’ve been getting along just fine.”
“Well, he don’t call noboby,” Marlena said. “Is he there? Can I speak to him?”
“He’s out right now,” I said. “He’s got some friends and they’re showing him the so-called cool sites of L.A. I think they’re over at Universal CityWalk now, then Roscoe’s later.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I knew sending him to L.A. for the summer was the right thing to do.”
“Well, considering the circumstances he dropped in on…I guess so.”
“Your little video-ho thing,” Marlena said and chuckled. “Blake told me about the little boycott thing you wanted to start against Tommie Jordan. Me and all my girlfriends love us some Tommie Jordan. No way I was gonna be able to participate in that. Sorry, Malcolm.”
“I see. Thanks for the support.”
“Thank God Mama and her church friends don’t get into all that celebrity gossip stuff online or on TV,” she said. “So you don’t have to bring this up to her. She’s out of the loop.”
“Good to know.” I was happy knowing I didn’t have to explain everything to my mom. It would be too much for an older woman raised in the Midwest all her life, and who prided herself on raising the perfect son.
“Y’all and that fast living out in L.A.,” Marlena said. “But you’ll be happy to know I turned down two grand to talk to Livonia Birmingham about you. She’s good. One of her producers tracked me down at the auto plant.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“As a heart attack,” Marlena said. “I coulda used that two grand, but I wasn’t about to sell my kid brother out like that.”
“What did Livonia Birmingham want? About me?”
“I guess she wanted to get some dirt on you and Tyrell Kincaid,” she said. “Of course I had nothing to give her but dead air and a dial tone.”
I thought people were through trying to connect me with Black Hollywood’s closeted super couple. I guess not.
“I appreciate you not selling me out, Marlena,” I said. “But there’s not much to say. I just gave him a shoulder to cry on after Tommie Jordan did his thing at that sex-club establishment and got caught. Everyone blew the rest out of proportion.”
“Alleged sex-club incident,” Marlena said. “I still don’t believe Tommie Jordan is gay.”
“Believe what you want,” I said.
“And I can’t believe you got a sex tape out there floating on the Internet,” Marlena said. “Thank God Mama and her friends ain’t into all that celebrity gossip. The Young and The Restless and General Hospital are enough for them.”
“Thank God.”
“Lord have mercy,” Marlena said. I could almost envision her fanning herself. “These celebrities should be ashamed for pulling you into their mess.”
“I’m not in it. I just want LADS back, and my name. I’m not looking for fame or money from this.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” Marlena said. “I knew all this was a bunch of bull. Though you need to go kick that Deacon’s ass for leaking all your kinky videos online. Blake will do it in a heartbeat, he’s a fighter in case you didn’t know.”
I knew my nephew had a bit of a fighter spirit. But violence against Deacon wasn’t what I had in mind. I’d already killed his laptop. That was enough for me.
“I know, Marlena,” I said. “I’m trying to keep him centered and from doing anything stupid.”
“Well, I love you, little brother,” Marlena said. “And believe me, all those guys—Deacon, Tommie, Reverend Lamont, all of them will get their due.”
“Thanks.”
“And maybe you’ll hook yourself a rich ball player in the process,” she added. “Lord knows we could use a break.”
“I think Tyrell Kincaid’s a good boy in all this,” I said. “I’m not even thinking about him.”
My doorbell rang. Wasn’t expecting anyone to visit me. Blake had his own key, Kyle was away for a conference in Vegas, Tyrell was off in seclusion, and paparazzi had died down but still had to stay a certain number of yards from my place. I peeked out the peephole. Looked like a driver, concierge type person. I hoped it wasn’t a photographer type disguised to get more dirt on people I could care less about.
“Hold on, Marlena.”
I opened the door.
“Your presence is requested at The Standard in an hour,” the driver / concierge said and handed me an envelope. “He told me to tell you this is no trick and no paparazzi. He just wants you to join him for a dinner meeting at The Standard.”
“Marlena, I’ma have to call you back,” I said.
“Sounds like you’ve got a date?” Marlena asked. “So just call me later and we’ll catch up. And tell Blake to call his mom sometimes.”
“All right, I will,” I said. “Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime, little brother,” she said. “Bye.”
After we hung up, I told the driver / concierge I’d be just a moment. I looked at myself in the mirror. I’d put off getting a fresh lineup one day longer than I wanted, and I felt a little rough around the edges going to see Tyrell. On the night the paparazzi had snapped a picture of us in his truck, with Tyrell going in for a kiss, he’d mentioned getting a room at The Standard or Mondrian. Maybe he was ready to come out of seclusion and pick up where we left off. I just wished he’d given me a call or a little notice that he was ready to see me.
I smiled. Felt good to know that Tyrell still wanted to see me. Though he was still embroiled in his drama with Tommie Jordan, I knew this was his sign that my patience was paying off and that he was a man of his word. And if that was the case, Tyrell wouldn’t mind an overdue haircut on me.
Chapter 32
It’s funny how living in L.A., we all had our patterns. For me, my routine generally went Silver Lake to South L.A. and back to Silver Lake.
So as the driver / concierge wove through West Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard, I looked in awe at all the sites and people I normally didn’t see on my daily routine. It was nearing seven thirty on a warm summer evening, and the streets were lined with people heading to chic restaurants for dinner. Every now and then I saw a paparazzi group swarming outside a boutique or storefront looking for the celeb-o’-the-day. Lucky me, my time had passed and I was out of the spotlight as something or someone juicier came along.
I called Blake as we pulled into the front of The Standard. He hadn’t known I’d be out for the evening, and I thought it was the responsible thing to do—let him know where I was and that I’d be away, possibly all night. Blake didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail to that effect for him.
The driver / concierge opened my door, which led to the sliding glass doors of the hotel.
“Your key is in the envelope I gave you,” he said. “You’re in Penthouse 3A. No need to check in at the front desk.”
“Thanks,” I said and reached for my wallet to give him a tip.
“No need,” he said and swatted my hand away. “But you’ve been requested to leave your cell phone, so as to avoid any interruptions for your evening.”
How romantic…Tyrell wanted a completely romantic evening, just the two of us.
“Thanks
, but I can’t,” I said. I knew I could explain to Tyrell once I got upstairs. After all, I had Blake to watch after and couldn’t just be out on a random Saturday without giving him any guidance. Tyrell would understand. “I’ll let him know why.”
The driver / concierge nodded, as if he didn’t want to put up a fight. “Have it your way, Mr. Campbell,” he said before heading to the driver’s side of the car. “A car will pick you up when you’re ready to go back to your…apartment.”
“Thanks,” I said and entered the sliding doors.
I had only seen photos of The Standard online and on those entertainment shows that featured fancy celebrity pool parties. I’d heard that it was the hangout spot for out-of-town performers, their entourages, and fans. The interior of the hotel looked a hundred times more impressive in its modern, sleek, and simple presentation in person than in pictures. I took the first available elevator to the penthouse level, anticipating seeing Tyrell for the first time in weeks.
The elevator exited directly into the penthouse. I saw an impressive dining table topped with lit candles, two plates of food topped with silver covers, and all the linens and flatware one would have for a romantic dinner for two. Patti LaBelle crooned in the background, but Tyrell was nowhere to be found.
“Hello,” I said out loud. “I’m here, Tyrell. I got your invitation.”
“You weren’t invited…I sent for you.”
Hamilton, Tommie Jordan’s agent, emerged from a side room and walked toward me. He wore a satiny brown smoking jacket, similar to what one would imagine that old guy from Playboy or Penthouse wearing, and matching brown lounging pants.
He held out his hand. “I’m Hamilton James.”
“This must be some sort of mistake,” I said. “Tyrell Kincaid…”
“Hmm, you thought Tyrell Kincaid invited you here? For a romantic tryst? You’re funny and not too bright, Marcus Campbell.”
“The name is Malcolm, not Marcus,” I said.
“I don’t care about the name.” Hamilton motioned for me to sit on the adjacent sectional in the nearby living room area. He sat across from me and poured two glasses of champagne. “To me you’re nobody.”
The whole scene reeked of shadiness, with a strong hint of Alexis Carrington Colby from the ’90s.
“If I’m nobody, then why am I here, Hamilton?”
He handed me a glass and took a sip of his drink. No way would I share a drink with the Black devil of the entertainment industry. All the advice he’d given Tommie about the sex-club scandal worked for Tommie and backfired on me.
“You’re here because you’re—excuse for lack of class when I say this—fucking with my money,” Hamilton said. His voice deepened and lost its professional edge and the hint of a British accent that he’d used the last time I encountered him—at Tommie and Tyrell’s mansion. “I’m not about to have some ’hood-rat fags from South Central and two country bumpkins from Indiana fucking up my business or Tommie Jordan’s career.”
To my knowledge, the Internet blogging had gotten some bites from national media, but I hadn’t imagined it having any long-term effect on Tommie’s career. Maybe I was wrong. Except for Kyle, I was out of the loop on the entertainment industry.
“Hamilton, do my speaking voice and good grammar sound like your average everyday ’hood rat or country bumpkin?”
“We’re in L.A.,” Hamilton said and swatted a hand in the air like he was getting rid of a fly. Of course, he was just being dramatic. The faux accent returned. “Everyone’s an actor. Half of Black L.A. is fronting proper English.”
“Well, I hate actors and everything about your phony industry,” I said. “And I’m not particularly feeling being with you right now.”
He held up his glass to toast. I declined.
“So you’re probably wondering why you’re here?” Hamilton asked. “I am too, but you’re a lot tougher than I thought.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I said. I held up my glass for a toast, but still did not drink from the devil’s cup.
“You’re nobody, Malcolm,” he said. “Nobody. But I realize that it takes more than a fresh pair of Nikes to get you and those ’hood rats from LADS to learn their place.”
I was confused. I couldn’t have been a threat to Tommie, or Tyrell for that matter. I was doing my best to stay out of the public eye after the initial Tommie sex-club scandal and the insinuations of me being the third wheel in their friendship / relationship. Our plan to reclaim my name and get LADS back was not working, to my knowledge.
“Why am I here, Hamilton?”
“Look, I know you and Tyrell want to be together,” Hamilton said. “And I think it’s inevitable that it will happen. They’ve broken up, but they’re not divorced.”
“Divorced?”
“They married in Massachusetts a couple years ago,” he explained. “Dumb move on Tyrell’s part since he makes more money and has the most to lose in a breakup, but he’s a sentimental sap…like you.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
“Look, Malcolm, you can have Tyrell in time,” Hamilton said. “But not while I’m representing Tommie. I’m doing my best to keep this ‘gay’ shit out the public eye so that Tommie can make a living for a little while longer, Tyrell can quietly get his divorce, and then both can be free to do whatever they want without losing their basketball or singing careers.”
Hamilton poured himself another glass of champagne. I’d sat mine down on the side table. Still didn’t want to break bread with the devil, but was enjoying Hamilton’s antics as he got more and more buzzed off the champagne.
“So, Malcolm, if you can ride this out for just a few more months, you can have more money than you ever imagined because Tyrell can stay closeted and still play ball, and I can let Tommie loose to be a free agent—who listens to forty-year-old hook singers anyway—and I’m still in business.”
Hamilton, if he was being honest, was offering me an alliance. My silence, get the guys from LADS to back off for a while, and I’d get to be with Tyrell. No strings attached. No drama. It all sounded good in theory, but there were too many variables I didn’t know about.
First, I wasn’t in this for Tyrell Kincaid. And I definitely wasn’t in this for his money. I just wanted my career and to help my community. And what if Tyrell didn’t even feel for me anything beyond a friend or confidant? He’d certainly been missing in action for weeks. What if anyone else—a judge, a courthouse clerk, someone who worked for Hamilton—leaked details about Tyrell and Tommie to the media? With all the tabloid news sources out there, anyone could make a few thousand dollars by sharing a document or opening their mouth. In this 2009 economy, anything was possible.
“I don’t trust you, Hamilton James,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”
“You don’t have to,” he said and sipped from his glass. “All you have is my word. And as you can see, my thoughts and my words make things happen. Tommie’s got a career, still. And you don’t.”
Point taken.
“And what if I don’t go along with you?”
“I know your nephew wants to be a rap star,” Hamilton said. “But like most Hollywood wannabe types, he’s been willing to do a little bit of work on the side. Like uncle, like nephew.”
Hamilton pulled a remote control from his smoking jacket and turned on the flat screen monitor on the opposite wall of us. I saw my nephew Blake on the receiving end of Compton’s and my ex Deacon’s pornographic rage. In the background, a voice that sounded familiar was giving commands and directions for Compton’s and Deacon’s next moves on my nephew. How and when did Blake have time to go out of my house to make such a video? I was upset and saddened at the same time.
“Gay porn does not a rapper make,” Hamilton said and smiled. “That’s just raw footage. Wait ’til it’s cleaned up.”
“No way,” I said. I was dumbfounded. Didn’t know what else to say. Did a quick mental Rolodex of memories thinking of when and how B
lake had time to hook up with Compton and Deacon and make gay porn.
“And there’s more where that came from,” Hamilton said. “My partners are really anxious to make some money off this one…a fresh face, a young piece of Midwest ass. Unlike the middle-aged uncle.”
Hamilton turned off the sound. At least I wouldn’t have to hear my nephew seemingly enjoying himself. Still, that voice giving directions…
“Why my nephew? I said. “This is between you and me. Leave Blake out of it.”
“Looks to me like he’s in it, on it, receiving it,” Hamilton said. “Is this what you call Midwestern values? Hmm, maybe that’s what we can call this one. Midwestern Family Values. Or maybe Family First.”
“You can’t release that video with my nephew in it,” I said. There was no way I would allow Hamilton to put that video out for the public. Nor would I allow Marlena to know what her son had gotten himself into since moving to L.A. “I can take whatever you dish out, but you’re not going to mess up my nephew’s life.”
“Good. Now we’re negotiating.” Hamilton nodded. “I see you’re the man of integrity they all say you are.”
“I don’t want that video going public,” I said. “Turn it off. I don’t want to see anymore.”
Hamilton showed a little humanity and turned off the video. He walked to the dining room. I followed.
“Do we have a deal, then?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes, Hamilton, we have a deal.”
At that point, I didn’t care about anything but my nephew’s future and reputation. Pursuing Tyrell was the last thing on my mind. That paternal instinct to protect those younger than me kicked in.
“Call off the LADS boys, the boycotts, the blogs, and all of that other foolishness, and Tyrell will be yours on a silver platter—all his millions, no drama,” Hamilton said. “Understood?”
“Understood,” I said. I was done. I walked toward the elevator. Pushed the button. “I hope Tommie appreciates how ruthless you are. You’re a perfect agent and manager.”
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