A Street Girl Named Desire: A Novel (19 page)

As planned, Carvelas had programmed a DAT tape to play the instrumental version of Lil Dollar'shit single. It was common practice for some rappers to lip-sync over a track at an outdoor event, because with the lack of acoustics, the rapper would run the risk of sounding horrible. Because the hook took up most of the song, background vocals were a must. Carvelas made sure to stay in the back where he belonged; he didn't want to ruin Desire'snight by arousing suspicion in Dollar. Plus, he'd had about all he could take on the night of the Source Awards. He might have to show Lil Dollar that he was also from the hood if the arrogant rapper stepped to him again. But that didn't happen. Everybody was too focused on the performance. The energy made them all feel as if the air crackled. The crowd roared with anticipation as the stage lights began to flicker on and off to announce that the night'sclimactic performance was on its way. Tiah, Desire and Chanel huddled in the wings, pumping one another up as they sought shelter from the cold in one another'sarms.

“This is it, y'all,” Desire said. “We 'bout to get famous!”

“How many people y'all think watchin?” Chanel asked.

“Probably a billion!” Tiah exclaimed. Then, less excited, she asked, “Desire, you think Grandma one of them?”

Desire didn't have time to think about the question. Their time to hit the stage had come.

“THREE …

“TWO…

“ONE …

“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for the artist with the number one song in America. Performing his hit song, ‘Harlem Girl Lost,’ we bring you Lil Dollar!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Lil Dollar strutted onto the stage with a vengeance as the crowd went bananas. Desire and the girls were dead center when the music came bursting through the speakers. Lil Dollar bobbed about onstage. Having given the crowd the glimpse of him that they craved, he moved back toward the fringes of the stage. He would wait until it was time for him to rhyme before he came back to center stage. The frenzied crowd before them appeared to percolate with uncontained excitement. Desire was frozen for a brief moment. Both Dollar and Carvelas were out of her sight. Tiah and Chanel had blurred out of focus, even though they were right beside her. The hundreds of thousands of faces before her seemed like an endless stream ready to devour her. She couldn't believe that she was being seen by so many people at once. She didn't know if her voice could soar through this crowd. This was definitely not the audience at church. It was a dream and a nightmare at the same time. But her fears disappeared once the girls actually began their routine. At that moment, only two people knew something had gone wrong—Lil Dollar and Whip, who listened in horror from the side of the stage. They listened for a few seconds more, until they were sure their worst fears were confirmed.

“Goddammit,” Whip hollered. “They put on the instrumental version instead of the fuckin vocals!”

Lil Dollar turned from the audience and looked at his boss, unsure of what to do next. Whip was ready to race to the main engineer'sbooth. But a production assistant stopped him.

“No, Whip, listen,” the young man said, and he pointed toward the girls.

Whip paused, and turned toward the stage. He watched and listened to the three unknown girls sing the hook to the song beautifully. Lil Dollar even seemed to have settled down as he rapped to his part, on time and to the beat. One by one, the girls stepped closer to the audience as Lil Dollar settled into the background. The millions upon millions of people who watched the performance that night saw history in the making, as the girls became larger-than-life performers, dancing, singing and vogueing without missing a beat. Suddenly, the spotlight and every network camera focused on the three girls. The frown on Whip'sface disappeared, and Lil Dollar didn't seem to mind that he had lost the spotlight. The girls continued performing, and the crowd started to move forward just to get closer to them. They looked at one another and simply kept going. At the end of the song, Desire, Tiah, and Chanel stood in awe as a valley of people gave them a thunderous round of applause.

One person who was enthusiastically clapping was Carvelas, who had been watching with a pack of technicians from the sidelines. But Desire had already forgotten he was there. When the media stormed the girls after the performance, Carvelas found that he was not even permitted to move past security to tell Desire congratulations.

Desire, Cream, and Dream were the stars that night, and they were flown by helicopter back to the New Year'sEve after-party at Whip'smansion in the Hamptons. The girls' heads were still spinning as they rubbed elbows and mingled among some of the industry'sbiggest celebrities. They stood around in amazement as singers, actresses and even athletes lounged on plush leather couches, sipping Krugs and Courvoisier. The number of expensive diamonds in the room outnumbered the people, and the bling sparkled like tiny spotlights, adding to the feel of fame oozing throughout the room. Every major entertainment magazine and television show was there to cover the event. For the first time in her life, Desire felt important.

Whip wrapped his arms around the girls while the reporters took pictures. He smiled widely and made sure he was in all of their pictures.

“Whip, tell us about the girls.”

Without skipping a beat, he smoothly said, “I'm glad you asked. When I discovered these girls over a year ago, when I heard their voices, you could have knocked me down with a feather.” The girls hid their shock well. They were all experienced hustlers and knew exactly what Whip was doing.

Whip paused as if he were too overwhelmed to continue. “I had to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if they were real, 'cause my ears don't lie. So I said to myself, ‘Whip, God musta sent you these three girls, “cause they sound like angels.' So I waited to bring them out in a big way. And what better way to introduce to the world the greatest girl group since the Supremes than in the epicenter of the world, the city that'sso nice they named it twice—New York, New York!”

“So what'sthe name of the group?” one reporter asked.

Whip smiled, “I'm gonna let them tell you.” He took one step back, and the girls announced who they were. They said their names individually, then in unison they proclaimed: “We're DESIRE, CREAM, AND DREAM.”

Whip smiled as he applauded loudly, then said, “Yes, Desire, Cream, and Dream, the next big thing!”

Lil Dollar, who arrived late by limo, stood by and watched his boss steal the credit. He grew even angrier as he watched Whip offer the girls a record deal on the spot.

T
he music business is a multibillion-dollar industry, and hip-hop is a major reason why. The five major record companies consisted of aging white men who wouldn 't know real rap from Reynolds Wrap. As hip-hop morphed into a great leviathan, they would pay, handsomely, A&R reps who could find them artists, then sign them to the companies for pennies. But game recognizes game, and many blacks, mainly hustlers, had the vision and hindsight to capitalize and take advantage of the industry that was riding off their talent. Geniuses such as Russell Simmons, Sean “Puffy” Combs, Jay-Z, Damon Dash, Jermaine Dupree, Master P, and others were smart enough to learn that ownership and control were the keys. They created monopolies by
signing the most talented rappers and singers the 'hood had to offer, forcing the majors to come to them on their terms and make them young millionaires in the process.

Whip Daniels was one of those geniuses. He became 'hood rich before the age of fifteen by running short cons on old people and fools. He got into the rap game in 1981 by default, when a friend who managed a rap group borrowed a thousand dollars from him to buy studio time and press some records. Whip's silver tongue and penchant to manipulate and swindle paid off handsomely, when two months later the song became a hit. When the guy arrived to repay him, Whip reneged on the deal. He claimed that he lent him the money with the understanding that they would be partners. The friend rebutted, and Whip challenged him in court.

Whip won the case because he made his friend sign a blank piece of paper before he lent him the money. By the time they got to court, that same blank piece of paper was neatly filled in, stating Whip owned all recording rights and fifty percent of the publishing rights to the single—thus making him his first million. The friend walked away with virtually nothing because of the expenses he incurred promoting the group. To add insult to injury, the judge also ordered that he repay Whip the thousand dollars, with interest. Not only was Whip a shark when it came to business, he was no better in his personal life. His only friends were celebrities and the people who he was producing music with at the time; usually, once he got finished with his pet projects, he had made enemies of former friends, who would never talk to him again. Even worse, he was married to a woman whom he kept hidden in a huge brownstone in the Mott Haven section
of the Bronx. She had two children with Whip, but he never brought his family around. Furthermore, his escapades with the women who flocked around him because he was in the industry were legendary. He had fashioned a grandiose image of himself as a terrible Wizard of Oz—like ruler that nobody could get close enough to to really know, let alone take down. However, in the public eye he had the image of being a musical genius, the Quincy Jones of hip-hop.

There is no loyalty in hip-hop, because rap fans are fickle. And like rap fans, Whip had no use for washed-up performers. As soon as their records failed to produce, he'd drop them from their contract like a hot potato. Whip disposed of artists if their last album was weak and failed to make money. He didn 't believe in hustling backwards. Almost immediately after his background singers upstaged him on New Year's Eve, Lil Dollar's career took a serious nosedive. Although he had made a lot of money, he was a lavish spender who had accumulated hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Whip had filled Desire's head with the promise of stardom. Lil Dollar became a has-been within a couple of months. He was a liability to both her and CBR now, not an asset. She decided to be at Lil Dollar's loft when Whip told him that he wasn 't hitting the numbers CBR had hoped he would. Desire knew it was time to leave Dollar alone and fly solo. She had planned to tell him after Whip left them alone. Her plan went horribly wrong.

“What you want to talk with me about, Whip?” Dollar asked as he reached for a bottle of Heineken. He had two blunts rolled and ready on the opulent crystal-and-glass coffee table that centered the room. Whip stopped him. This was not a party, in his
mind. Desire was tense as she waited for Whip to drop the news. She lay back on the couch in pink silk pajamas, sipping a cup of chamomile tea since she'd had a long day rehearsing at the studio.

“Man, this isn 't an occasion to celebrate,” Whip said. Dollar looked concerned and took a seat next to Desire on the couch. Whip remained standing.

“There's really no easy way to say this,” Whip began, “so I'm just going to have to spit it out. CBR has decided not to renew your contract.”

Dollar took a long sip of the Heineken he had placed on the table, next to the blunts and all the jewelry he had just removed. He nodded his head quietly as if he had been expecting this announcement.

“I can write another hit,” he told Whip. He grabbed Desire's hand for support. She held it limply. She would have an announcement of her own as soon as Whip left.

“That's the problem, Dollar,” Whip continued. “Unfortunately, it takes money to produce. CBR just doesn 't think you've given them the numbers to make that investment again. One hit single doesn 't make you a success.”

Whip held up his hands as if he was ready to box. Dollar stiffened and then calmed down. He looked toward Desire as he tried to regain composure. Desire said nothing. Her silence was strange. She usually had his back.

“I'm sorry, Dollar,” Whip said. “There may be some opportunities for you to produce—”

“Fuck producing, motherfucker!” Dollar swept the champagne glasses he'd set out on the table for them onto the floor.
Glass shattered everywhere. “I'm a star, man. I ain 't no background nigga.”

“Baby, calm down,” Desire said, standing to grab Dollar's shoulders. Dollar turned toward Desire so that Whip couldn 't see him. She wiped his tears and hugged him as Whip stood uncomfortably in the middle of the living room with his hands in his pockets.

“I'm sorry, Dollar,” Whip said. “Man, I really am. I mean, you now how these things are.”

“Yeah,” Dollar sneered. “You promised me you was gonna have my back. You promised me you was gonna take care of me. But now I'm just a washed-up rapper to you, and you ain 't got no use for a nigga!”

“This happens to everybody, Dollar,” Whip said. “You can 't be on top forever.”

“Not unless yo name is Whip and you controllin all the shit. Then you stay on top forever. You stay rollin in dough forever.”

“Dollar,” Whip pleaded, “my time is coming too …one day, I might not be able to produce hit records anymore. You don 't think the public's gonna spit me out too?”