by Wes Lowe
“That being said, the performance was okay but not perfect.” Tim proceeded to destroy the take. Every person needed improvement. The bass player hit a wrong note in the chorus. The drummer started a fill too early. The guitarist took too long to get in the groove. Abby was pitchy in several areas.
But the harshest criticism was for Olivia. Her playing was stiff. “But no worries. We’ll nail it down sooner or later.”
For the next forty-five minutes, Tim ran through another half-dozen takes. As the hour progressed, Noah could see how his original comment was totally premature. Tim’s comments improved each subsequent take.
After take seven, Tim was quiet. All eyes were on him as he sat at the console with his hands folded.
Tim motioned for the engineer to get out of his seat. He took his place in the center of the room and hit the talkback button. “Abby, Olivia, come in here.”
When the girls arrived, Tim started playing the song back. When it ended, no one knew what he was thinking until a wisp of a smile appeared on his face and he announced, “That’s a wrap.”
The room exploded with cheers and applause.
“What took you so long? You were giving us all heart attacks, Tim,” said Queenie.
The words tumbled out of Tim’s mouth. “Because that’s all I can do for today. We’re at that eighty-five percent level, which is where most people finish and never advance. To push them to the next level, ninety and above, is going to take a ton of work. What needs to be done? You two are too nice. Too perfect. The little private school girls need to be roughed up. To press, to twist that knife until they bleed. But…”
As Tim paused, everyone waited in anticipation for his next words.
“But what?” asked Noah.
Tim’s head bobbed up and down. “This game is called the music business. To succeed, you need both music AND business. I can help with the music side but, without the business part covered, you’re just pissing in the wind.”
“One hundred percent of the publishing and twenty-five percent of the net on everything else,” stated Queenie without fanfare.
Abby’s hazel eyes studied Olivia, waiting for her opinion. The lawyer gave a quick nod. “Sounds about right.”
“No,” said Noah. “We’ll do fifteen percent of the net and sixty-five percent of the publishing.”
27
Playing the Harvard Card
Queenie had to think fast. Noah might not be interested if Olivia wasn’t involved. And that would give her no chance to go after her real goal—the money that Noah ripped off from her father.
But at the same time, being too agreeable would be suspicious.
“If this was just about me, I could do that in a heartbeat but I’ve got others to consider. How about twenty percent of the net and seventy percent of the publishing?”
Noah chortled. “Are your partners that greedy that they’d be willing to kill the deal for a measly five percent?”
“I didn’t say anything about partners. It’s for the kids.”
This revelation came out of left field with Noah, JJ, Olivia and Abby, wondering what Queenie was talking about.
“You heard Kenny’s story and there’s a million more just like his except most of them don’t have happy endings. The music world is full of predators. I’m trying to put something together so that the average person or those that need a hand can get a chance at the brass ring without having to sell their souls.”
Now Queenie had their interest. “You see this studio here? You saw the building and where we are? Well, I want to transform part of it into an arts center and music complex for kids, especially underprivileged ones right here. The New Amsterdam Arts Center. I’ve been talking with the managers of Skyscape about using their facility.”
Kenny took over. “There are some great schools out there already but I would never have gotten a chance. Couldn’t afford even the cheapest public ones and, even if I could, my English wasn’t good enough.”
Noah’s hot buttons were being hit and he listened more intently. Helping kids. Giving chances. Minorities.
Queenie hit Noah with beckoning eyes. “I met Kenny and Tim before Skyscape opened. No, I haven’t turned a band or artist into a hit yet but, just from being here, being part of a totally professional environment with some of the top musicians, producers and industry pros, has supercharged my experience. That’s what I want to do with the kids. Working, hanging and studying with world-class engineers, equipment and musicians instead of high school garage bands and old Windows PCs. Give the needy a chance to work with the best because that’s what will bring out the best and, if it doesn’t? Who cares? They’ll have been kept off the streets and bring that positive experience to their next phase of life. That costs money, money I don’t have. The only thing I have are points…percentages. I need as much as I can have because I have to be totally ready to be ground some more when I pitch to the Manhattan Investors Syndicate for a hundred and fifty million bucks tomorrow morning.”
“Would you mind if I sat in on the meeting?” asked Noah, putting up a guard to hide his interest.
“Hey, this is not amateur hour where I bring along anybody who wants to tag along. Of course, I mind. This is business, my life’s dream. I’ve worked too hard and care too much to have any schmo come along for the ride.”
“Some schmoes control a multi-billion-dollar charity,” said Olivia. “Like Noah. He’s the president of the Chad Huang Foundation. Seriously.”
Queenie feigned surprise. “You? I’ve been trying to get hold of someone to speak to but nobody at your office ever returns my calls.”
It was a calculated lie. Queenie never phoned anyone there but unreturned calls were common in any business or charity, especially when the person is requesting funds.
Noah sighed. “Sorry, I’ll have to speak to the staff about that. I don’t know much about music but I like your ideas. Maybe I can help with negotiations…or sweeten the pot.”
A broad grin filled Queenie’s face. “That would be so totally awesome. I’d love to have you, Noah Reid, president of the Chad Huang Foundation, attend,” said Queenie.”
“Um, do you mind if I join you, too?” asked Olivia.
Queenie shook her head. “Spoiled rich kid who wants to play in a new sandbox because she doesn’t want to write wills and handle divorces so she decides to play the piano? If I brought musical eye-candy along, I wouldn’t be taken seriously.”
“How about if I come as your vice president of the New Amsterdam Arts Center, formerly VP of the Chad Huang Foundation, an organization that is involved with a very similar target demographic that you’re proposing?”
“Why on earth would you do that?” asked Queenie. This is even better than I hoped for.
The same question was running through Noah’s mind.
“I was okay when I was accompanying Abby with solo piano, but in the studio tonight? For all Tim’s nice words, I know I was the weakest part and couldn’t hold my own with all those great musicians. As much as I love to play the piano and am Abby’s best friend, I would only be a flat tire on a Ferrari. But, if I’m part of this deal you’re putting together, I can still be involved in the arts...and play that very nice piano in Studio 5.”
“I don’t know, Olivia. You’ll always be wondering what would have happened if you’d stuck to music,” said Queenie.
This girl’s no dummy. There was an almost imperceptible nod of Noah’s head.
“I speak the language of business. And my Harvard Law degree makes me legit in any business meeting in the world.”
Queenie looked at Noah, then Olivia. “Sounds like a plan. The Park Hotel. Devonshire Room. 8:00 a.m. Don’t be late. Either of you. Now excuse me. My long day isn’t finished yet and I need some privacy to finish my pitch.”
Manipulate!
28
No Rest for the Wicked
Leaving Queenie to chat with Kenny, Noah, JJ, Olivia and Abby descended the elevator in silence.
&n
bsp; As the foursome exited the Vector Building, Noah held back a thousand words and simply asked Olivia quietly, “So, how’s it going?”
Before Olivia could answer, a dark panel truck raced around the corner and screeched to a halt in front of them. Eight masked assailants wielding baseball bats leapt out. Two grabbed Abby and Olivia from behind. In their tight dresses and heels, they were easy pickings. The other six swung their bats at Noah and JJ.
As the girls screamed in protest, their attackers taunted, “Shut up, bitch. You’re crazy. Yes, yes, yes.” The voices were those of young teenage males, maybe not even old enough to drive.
Even Shaolin grandmasters have their limits. Drained from all that had happened in the last few weeks, JJ and Noah’s reflexes were fractional shades slower than peak performance. Badly outnumbered, their efforts were no match for angry, drug-fueled teenage hoods.
Reaching up, JJ picked off one bat just before it cracked his skull. He twirled a flying kick to his attacker’s midriff, knocking him down and winding him, but he couldn’t avoid the two-handed thwack club directed at his chest coming from another direction.
As soon as he sensed the cylinder touching his chest, JJ reeled back to avoid getting his ribs crushed, only to find himself in the path of a switchblade aimed at his head. He saved himself by jerking his head back. A thin line of blood rolling down his cheek showed how close the call was.
Now off balance, he couldn’t stop the convergence of three thugs swinging lumber at him like wild men. One blow landed on his butt. JJ buckled and a wallop to his head sent him to la la land.
Noah did a handspring and landed on the back of the teen gripping Olivia’s throat. The harsh impact made the young thug release Olivia, but a vicious swat from another perpetrator slammed Noah’s legs. Only by falling backward to the ground did Noah escape the blow. But now he was vulnerable, flat on his back, and several of the gang rushed him and started kicking. Instead of retreating, Noah launched a counter-offensive, sweeping with his arms and kicking his legs out. One blow caught a young goon on the jaw, sending him crashing into one of his comrades before both landed hard on the sidewalk.
In the flurry of activity, Noah spotted an oncoming bat directed at his back but he had no time to react. The blow sent him crumpling to the ground.
Gasping, Noah tried to pick himself up and was rewarded with a boot to the head. He gasped, “Just give everything to them.” Then he, too, flopped unconscious.
Abby and Olivia helplessly watched the attacks on JJ and Noah with horror. They threw their purses at their assailants. Abby whimpered, “Please. Don’t hurt us.”
Ignoring her, some of the hoods rifled through their purses and stuck their hands down the girls’ blouses to see if any money was hidden in their bras. Nothing but cheap thrills from their bodies but seven hundred bucks from their purses. Quick searches of Noah and JJ’s wallets struck the jackpot—five thousand bucks.
Fifty-seven hundred bucks’ take. Not bad for five minutes’ work.
“Let’s beat it,” ordered the leader.
The hoodlums hopped back in the truck and took off.
Fifteen minutes later, the truck would be abandoned. Gasoline would be poured all over it and it would be set on fire along with the baseball bats, gloves and masks. In a perfect world, someone would spend the time on forensics searching for traces that would allow law enforcement to track down and convict the criminals, but reality was nothing like TV or the movies.
Decimated funding for law enforcement dictated that any complaint, if lodged, would stay at the bottom of the never-ever pile. After all, nobody died and these rich foreigners weren’t going to lose any sleep over pocket change of a few thousand bucks.
The city that never sleeps wasn’t sleeping now either. Half a dozen bystanders looked the other way while Noah and JJ got beat up. Abby and Olivia screamed for help but, funny thing—no one heard them.
With Olivia and Abby dousing bottles of water on their faces, Noah and JJ regained consciousness. The two women wanted to take them to the ER, but they refused. It was a guy thing and the two had suffered much worse in their martial arts training.
“Still like New York, JJ?” mumbled Noah. “In less than a day we’ve been mugged, gotten new wardrobes, visited a cool jazz club, saw an awesome recording session, then been attacked, mugged and robbed again.”
“Let’s cancel tomorrow morning,” said Olivia. “You’d be insane to go to an 8 a.m. meeting.”
“It has nothing to do with me,” replied Noah. “JJ told me earlier, ‘New York needs us here.’ I agree. If nothing else, it makes me want to do it even more.”
“Stop trying to save the world, Noah,” retorted Olivia as she and Abby got into a cab. “A dead hero is still dead.”
JJ and Noah watched the taxi disappear around the corner. If they had been able to see inside, they would have seen Olivia crying on Abby’s shoulder.
“Didn’t I tell you? People I get close to die and don’t say it isn’t true. You and I were just a hairsbreadth away from joining our mothers and fathers.”
The assault on Noah, JJ, Abby and Olivia was not a random attack. It was planned by one whose tentacles of darkness were interconnected and wide. Their assailants had left several burner cell phones at the scene of the crime with their lines open to transmit the conversation. The very determined young woman who had orchestrated the mugging to its last detail listened intently and smiled with self-satisfaction. The anonymous tip to the young hoodlums worked out perfectly and didn’t cost her a dime. Even if the perpetrators were apprehended, she would be protected because the ruffians had no idea who gave them the untraceable lead.
Queenie made another call.
“Well?” asked the late middle-aged Chinese male at the other end of the line.
“Everything going to plan. Tomorrow is D Day.”
29
Make it or Break it
New York―Wednesday morning
Queenie stood at the entrance to the private meeting room she’d booked at the Devonshire Hotel. A New York classic overlooking Central Park, the room she’d picked was a balance of storied elegance and a distinctive contemporary spirit. No flowers on the ebony table that seated eight. This was a working meeting. Instead, a basket of fresh organic fruit, individual bottles of Italian mineral water, and two flasks of Blue Mountain coffee sat discreetly to the side.
While a personal room captain was included in the three-hundred-dollars-an-hour cost, Queenie dismissed him after he brought in the refreshments. With so much at stake, she wanted the meeting to be uninterrupted and, more importantly, that no information she or her cohorts disclosed traveled outside the small luxury room.
Olivia and Noah were already seated. Olivia was none the worse for wear after last night’s activities dust-up outside the Vector. She looked the consummate professional, wearing the power blue business suit she had originally purchased for work at her father’s firm.
Noah was another matter. While conservatively dressed in business attire with a navy blue blazer and grey pants, it was still impossible to completely hide the black eye he’d received from the previous night’s altercation, even with Olivia and Queenie spending half an hour applying cosmetic make-up.
At precisely 7:58 a.m., three grey-haired and dark-suited men arrived at the door.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Messrs. Field, Garvey and Styles,” greeted Queenie as she led the trio into the room. She pointed to Olivia and Noah. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought two guests along with me.”
“I thought we were just meeting with you, Queenie,” interrupted Leonard Styles, the youngest of the three old guys.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted you to meet…” said Queenie.
“This is a business meeting, not a schmooze fest,” said Jeff Garry, the suit on Leonard’s right.
“No problem. We understand,” said Olivia. “Noah and I will make our way out.” She and Noah arose.
“Sorry about that, Olivia. My
very bad. I should have cleared it first,” apologized Queenie.
Byron Field, the most senior of the three, had been studying Noah and Olivia quietly. Hearing their names, he suddenly spoke out. “Noah as in Noah Reid and Olivia as in Olivia Southam from the Chad Huang Foundation?”
Olivia, knowing Noah was on the verge of telling the stuffed shirts to take a hike, jumped in first. “Yes, we are but, in my case, I’m no longer with that organization. I am now the vice president of the New Amsterdam Arts Center. Noah remains the foundation’s president.”
Byron broke into a friendly grin. “Please stay. Both of you. I’m sorry my colleagues rushed to quick judgment. We have so many requests for funding that we often have to be brutal in not wasting anyone’s precious time,” said Byron. “Noah, I’ve heard much about your foundation’s generosity to North American and Asian youth. We would be remiss if we didn’t hear what you have to say and what role the Chad Huang Foundation might play with the New Amsterdam Arts Center. I’m Byron Field, president of the Manhattan Investors Syndicate. My associate Jeff Garry is on my right. The junior of us…” Byron glared, “…is Leonard Styles.”
“Pleased to meet you all,” said Olivia with polite diplomacy.
Noah, on the other hand, just gave a simple wave of greeting. So if I have money you’ll meet with us but, if I’ve got no dough, I’m chopped liver?
The Manhattan Investors Syndicate was a real company and the name of its president was really Byron Field, a name that Garret chose when he was setting up the shell company for Frank. Privately held, there was little information on it available but what information there was hinted at it being a monied credible firm with significant assets.
Leonard and Jeff, or Ian Thorpe and Bill Davies—their real names—were smaller players in the charade. They had the right combination of criminal brawn and acting chops needed for the roles they had to play. On occasion, Frank used them to silence or teach welching clients a lesson when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. They also had a touch of the acting bug, having been extras on several of New York’s film sets. For them, the gig with Frank and Queenie promised to be an easy and fun paycheck.