A Love of My Own (13 page)

“I'm heading home,” I said.

“Thanks, Raymond. I needed to meet somebody like you,” Sebastian said as he gave me another tight hug. This time I was prepared for his powerful embrace.

19
__________________

I don't care how many stories I read about celebrities, I'm still surprised by how people who swear they love them will turn over the goods on famous people in a heartbeat. I was reading the final rewrite on the cover story we were finally running on Yancey B. After the story was delayed and all the commotion her publicist had caused, I was ready to put this story to bed. Two days before the magazine was being put to bed, Kirsten called and said she had some explosive information that must be added to the story.

The next morning she turned in a story with supporting information on tape and documents revealing that Yancey B., after receiving the MAC (Mothers Against Crack) Entertainer of the Year award, had entered a forty-five-day rehab for crack and alcohol addiction.

Kirsten had come in at the request of our lawyers to review the story and new information. Before she was to meet with one of our attorneys, I sat with her at my conference table over tea and toasted bagels.

“This is powerful stuff, Kirsten. Tell me again how you got the information,” I said.

“It was the strangest thing. Some lady called me on my cell and said ‘I understand you're doing an article on Yancey B. I have some dirt that no one in the music industry is aware of.' She told me she worked at the Montana clinic that Yancey B. had gone to, and that for a price she could get me the medical records and insurance forms,” Kirsten said.

“How much did you have to pay?”

“It wasn't much. I put it on my expense report. I mean, how much money could you spend in a place like Montana?” Kirsten said, laughing.

“So you sent her the money and she sent you the records? Aren't you concerned the records might be fake?”

“Yeah, I was at first, but the papers had her social security number and next of kin. I called the insurance company pretending to be Yancey Braxton and questioned when certain invoices were going to be paid, and after I had given them her social security number and date of birth, someone gave me the date the rehab had been paid,” Kirsten said as she paused and took a sip of her tea. I spread some chive-flavored cream cheese over my bagel and nodded as Kirsten continued to talk.

“There's more. I contacted Yancey B.'s mother, Madame Ava, and with a little hesitation she was more than willing to talk because she said she felt it would help other young women dealing with substance-abuse problems. She agreed to an interview, which was taped, and I even got her to sign an affidavit supporting the tape. What I couldn't believe was I offered to come to California to do the interview, but Yancey B.'s mother is loaded and offered to fly up to New York to meet me,” Kirsten said.

“I can't believe her mother would give you all this personal information,” I said, looking at the words typed on the white paper and shaking my head.

“Yeah, I was surprised as well. I mean, I had the background information about Yancey B. giving up a child she had when she was young, but that had already been covered in
Essence
and I understood her plight. I didn't want to rehash that. I was leaning toward doing a fluff piece about how hot her career is with the music, stage, and movies. I mean, the diva is a legitimate triple threat,” Kirsten said.

“Yeah, she is, and Yancey B. knows it,” I said, recalling how she had behaved during the photo shoot.

“Her mother was in entertainment as well, and there might be a little rivalry between them.”

“Did you ask why she was willing to cooperate?”

“Of course.”

“What'd she say?”

“Ava said the family had tried to keep it a secret, but when she saw Yancey accepting the award from MAC, she couldn't remain silent. She showed me some of the receipts she had from paying some of the initial costs and plane tickets she had purchased to go to Montana to visit Yancey. I made copies of them and included them in your packet,” Kirsten said as she patted the large manila envelope she had prepared for me.

“Boy, this is going to make big news. Are you prepared to go on the talk shows when all of this is exposed? I know the entertainment shows will pick up on this. I mean, with the entire baby-mama drama and divas in distress, this is going to make that stuff look trivial,” I said, thinking how this story might bring the respect I'd been looking for when it came to my magazine.

“Yeah, I'm ready. Already hired a trainer to work off the ten television pounds I need to lose. I can't believe how this fell in my lap, but I am not going to turn away from a gift,” Kirsten said.

On the tape Yancey's mother talked about how Yancey had done drugs in high school, even working part-time as a call girl to support her habit. Yancey had kicked the habit and had been clean for more than seven years, until she fell in love with a bisexual football star who had called off their wedding the morning they were set to be married. Ava told Kirsten how Yancey and she had gone on vacation to help pull Yancey together, and she had relapsed but had managed to keep it from wrecking her record and movie deals by telling the record company she was making a movie and telling potential producers that she was working on a new album. Yancey's mother had said she had warned Yancey about going to high schools and colleges speaking out against drugs and lying about never doing drugs when quizzed by students.

“I don't think we can or should use the information about her working as a hooker. I mean, it's old news and there's no way of verifying that kind of information,” I said.

“Well, Ava told me she could put me in contact with the lady Yancey worked for, but I don't really think we need it,” Kirsten said.

“Still, I'd like to stay away from that. Did you try to get Yancey's side of the story?” I asked.

“I did. I called her and told her I needed about an hour to clear up some facts and some new information I wanted to include in the article, and she told me she was preparing for a world tour and didn't have time. I called her publicist and manager, encouraging them to have Yancey speak with me, and neither one of them returned my calls,” Kirsten said.

“Okay, if the lawyers approve this, we've got a real exclusive. Great work, Kirsten,” I said as I stood in front of the conference table.

“I'm just glad you didn't run the story when you had intended. Maybe some other writer or television person could have gotten the story. This might be my Pulitzer,” Kirsten said as she put a copy of the story and the packet in her plaid bag.

While Kirsten was putting on her jacket, I walked to the outer office and gave the packet of information and the story to my assistant. I told her to tell the legal staff that I needed a response right away.

From
Bling Bling
Confidential

Veronica had a request Davis didn't know how to handle. She wanted media mogulette Oprah Winfrey at her next dinner party. When Davis suggested Diana Ross, who he knew personally, Veronica told him it had to be Oprah since one of her good girlfriends had recently dined with Oprah in Palm Springs. Besides, Veronica said we have more money than Oprah and she should be grateful to meet the McClintons.

Davis knew Zola had recently been on a committee with Oprah
at their alma mater, Tennessee State, so he asked Zola what she thought would be the best way to get Oprah's attention. Zola suggested that Davis donate a large sum of money to one of her favorite charities, like A Better Chance (ABC), an organization that took deserving minority students from the inner city and small towns and sent them tuition-free to exclusive prep schools on the East Coast.

Davis told Zola he would have no part of an organization that would put minorities in such a fish out of water environment and would rather give money to an organization that helped minorities to make better use of what they already had in their own neighborhoods.

Zola was shocked and disappointed and told Davis he already did that every time he paid taxes, and she would be more than happy to take him to some of the schools she'd seen in New York and show him how his money was being wasted.

Veronica's request was denied.

20
__________________

Before my day got started, I gave Basil a call at his office. I wanted to tell him about Sebastian and see when he could meet with him.

“'Sup, Raymond Tyler? What did I do to start my day off so good?” Basil said.

“I guess you're living right,” I said.

“What can I do for you? Or what can I do to you?” Basil asked with sex dripping off every word.

“I got somebody I want you to meet,” I said.

“Who?”

“Actually it's somebody you already know, or at least you've met.”

“So you don't want to have nothing to do with a playa so you giving me to somebody else. Does he look as great as you?” Basil asked.

I was wondering how many conversations he had like this every day in his office, as I tried to keep my mind on the business at hand.

“It's not that kind of party. He's an ex–football player like yourself who just got cut by the Chargers. He's really good friends with my brother, Kirby, so be on your best behavior when you meet him,” I said.

“Why do I need to meet him?”

“He's interested in becoming an agent. You might need somebody to help you with the young boyz. We aren't getting any younger,” I said, laughing.

“Speak for yourself. Also, ain't every ex–football player trying to be an agent?”

“He remembers meeting you and had good things to say about you,” I said.

“Where did he play?”

“Florida State.”

“Then I know I don't want to meet him again. I spent a lot of time in that country-ass town, and most of the brothers down there end up signing with the white boys,” Basil said.

“Will you at least meet him and talk with him about the business?”

“What am I gonna get out of it?”

“The satisfaction of helping out a young brother.”

“I need more than that.”

“I'll bring him by so you'll get a chance to see me,” I said.

“Now we're talking. When and where?”

“You tell me,” I said.

“I haven't been to the Shark Bar in a while. Let's meet there,” Basil said.

“Cool. Is it still on Amsterdam?”

“Yeah, between Seventy-fourth and Seventy-fifth. Meet you guys around seven.”

“Cool. Have a nice day.”

“I'm sure I will. Look how it started.”

Davis called just before I was getting ready to leave the office to meet Basil and Sebastian. He wanted to talk about yet another company in London he was trying to buy and one he wanted to sell. I was beginning to wonder when he ever just cooled out and relaxed.

I couldn't get a cab even in front of my office building, so I walked a few blocks and caught a train to the Seventy-second Street station. It never failed that when I walked out of this particular station I looked toward Columbus Avenue and the block where the Nickel Bar used to be. A bar where I had many fond memories during my stay in New York during the late eighties. I would think about my friends, many of whom were dead, the music, and the many Friday nights when I entered with hopeful anticipation that I was going to meet the man of my dreams.

A few minutes later I saw the dark blue awning with
THE SHARK BAR
emblazoned across it. I walked into the dimly lit small bar area and immediately my eyes met Basil's. He was smiling broadly, and I realized that he was already talking with Sebastian. I walked over toward them and Basil extended his hand and said, “Mr. Tyler, so good to see you again.”

Sebastian turned around quickly with a pleasant smile and said, “'Sup, homes? Thought you'd forgotten 'bout a brotha.”

“'Sup, Sebastian. Just got caught up with something at the last minute at the office. I see you two have reacquainted yourselves.”

“Yo, dude is cool. I might be able to find something for him,” Basil said.

“Great,” I said as I looked toward the bartender. I ordered a cranberry juice because I was debating going back to the office to get a head start on the information Davis had given me about the companies he was buying in London.

I was taking a sip of my cranberry juice when Sebastian pulled out a white envelope and handed it to me.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Take a look,” Sebastian said.

I opened the envelope and saw a contact sheet with several pictures of Sebastian in several stages of undress. I mean, he had on clothes, but the pictures showed what an incredible body Sebastian was hiding beneath his baggy jeans and jacket.

“What are these for?” I asked, making sure I wasn't staring too hard at the pictures.

“I'm going to use them in my ad for training,” Sebastian said.

“Let me see,” Basil said as he reached for the pictures.

“I wanted to ask you what magazines and newspapers I should run ads in. I'm also gonna get some cards made and leave them at gyms around the city,” Sebastian said.

“These are tight, dude. Just make sure you don't run ads in some of those gay magazines. I mean, with these pictures, your phone's going to be ringing off the hook and those faggots won't be looking for training,” Basil said, laughing but looking at me from the corner of his eye.

“I hear ya, 'cause I ain't looking for no faggot clientele,” Sebastian said as he exchanged dap with Basil.

I felt my body become warm and I placed my drink on the bar and made eye contact with Basil and said, “You two seem to be getting along just fine. I'm leaving.” I didn't say good-bye to either Sebastian or Basil.

I was halfway down the block, heading toward Seventy-second when I heard Basil call my name. I didn't stop but increased my pace. I could hear the sound of shoe soles running and a few seconds later Basil was standing in front of me, moving backward.

“Ray . . . man . . . stop and talk to me. What was that about?”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“Why did you leave like that? Left me hanging with youngblood. Old dude doesn't know what to think,” Basil said.

“Basil, I don't give a fuck what either one of you thinks,” I said as I kept walking toward the subway station. I could see the bright lights of the hot dog stand made famous for still selling food for under a dollar, and people moving with care along the sidewalks. I was making eye contact with strangers rather than Basil.

“Ray, come on, man. Talk to me. I'm sorry.”

I suddenly stopped and turned toward him and said, “That's the only truth you've probably spoken today. You are a sorry mutherfucker.”

“Why you got to make everything about being correct? We're just boys hanging out. Playing the game.”

“I'm too old for games.”

“Come on back to the bar. I promise I won't use that word again.”

“I got more important things to do,” I said. I saw the light change to green and I darted across the street like I was running the hundred-yard dash, leaving Basil in the dust.