GHETTO SUPERSTAR (16 page)

Fabiola didn't want to listen. She just wanted to go to sleep, but she was afraid she might never sleep again. Why did everything have to be awful? She had lost everything. Everything. From out of nowhere the phrase
All I got is my word and self-respect
popped into her thoughts. Suddenly, she kicked the comforter off—startling Shug—got out of bed, dragged herself to the bathroom, and began to get herself together. If the mirror was any indication, it was going to take a minute.

Shug asked, “Where you going?”

“I got a promise to keep.”

* * *

Two hours later Fabiola stepped into Casino's room looking and smelling like a new woman.

“So, how's everything going, hummingbird?” Casino asked and then shot a glance at Tonk.

Tonk got up from his seat. “I'll be close by. Y'all need anything?”

“No, thank you, Tonk,” Fabiola said graciously. He nodded and left the room. “You look a little tired—how come?” Fabiola asked Casino, not answering his earlier question.

Her attempt at being evasive didn't stand a chance of going unnoticed, but Casino played along. “Maybe because I don't sleep well my first night in new places—never did. Plus, I was up half the night waiting for your call.”

“I like this place better than MCV.” Fabiola played the selective-hearing card. “How're the nurses treating you? They better be rolling out the red carpet. And you better be cooperating with your therapy.” Fabiola sealed her lips with a pointed index finger and a smile.

“The nurses seem to all be great. I'm being treated like a king—as I should be—and therapy is kicking me in the ass, but at the end of the day I'll win that battle as well,” he answered. “Now, are you going to tell me what happened?”

She risked a peek at his face with those big beautiful brown eyes of hers.

“With what?” she continued to play like all was good in the hood.

Viola had confided in Casino everything that went down, but asked Casino not to say anything to Fabiola about it.

“Judging by the look on your face, the meeting with the magnificent Johnny Wiz, the big lunch meeting,” he said.

Fabiola dropped her gaze. “I don't really want to talk about it.”

“A problem can't get solved if you keep it bottled up inside. Yesterday, Johnny Wiz was the topic of the day. You were supposed to call me last night to share it all with me. I never got the call, and now you say you don't want to talk about the man. This tells me that you
need
to talk about it, and then maybe we can figure out where to go from here.”

“Goodness gracious—I don't know where to start,” she confessed. “Do you want the
Reader's Digest
or the blow-by-blow version?”

“I've always been more of a boxing fan.” He pressed a button, causing his bed to move to the full upright position.

“Johnny Wiz is a jerk,” she blurted out.

“Most of us can be jerks every now and again. Some a little more than others is all.”

“He was a bigger jerk than most,” she capped.

“I see. But if we let that be grounds to kill all deals, nothing would get done in this world. You have to be able to move past that. Him being a jerk isn't going to slow you down, is it?”

“I can try to move past it, but I don't think he can.” Fabiola rubbed her hand through her hair. “A lot of mean-spirited words were thrown around.”

“So you bruised the ego of one limp-dick muthafucka—the show doesn't stop there.”

“But he's one of the most influential limp-dicks in the industry,” she countered.

“There are no
buts
. Do you have what it takes to be a star?”

“No doubt about it,” Fabiola answered with more confidence and authority in her tone than she actually felt. “I've known I had what it took since I was a baby.”

“Then fuck Johnny Wiz. One monkey don't stop no show.”

Fabiola was eye to eye with Casino, and she was staring at confidence—confidence in her. “What do you suggest that I do?”

“I know this guy that dabbles in the music business. He has Grammy-nominated work in his portfolio for producing and writing, and he owes me a few large favors. I've called in one of those favors by getting him to help you make a record.”

“He lives here?” Fabiola asked in disbelief.

“No. He's in New York and he's expecting you to arrive on Sunday evening. His studio and expertise are going to be yours Monday and Tuesday and you come home on Wednesday.”

“Oh my God, Casino,” Fabiola cried out. “This is too good to be true.” She was already calculating the little bit of money she had saved up and how much the trip was going to cost her to be in New York for two days.

“No. You're too good to be true, and don't ever let anyone tell you different. And I have one more thing for you.” He ran his hand down the front of his pajama top, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Look in the bottom drawer of that dresser.” Fabiola did as
she was told. “The little wallet,” he said, “belongs to you. You didn't think I would send you out of town without any spending money, did you?” The wallet was filled with five large. Fabiola cried tears of joy as she hugged Casino.

“Thank you. I promise I won't disappoint you or let you down.”

He smiled. “I know you won't.”

eavy rain and high winds up and down the East Coast were the cause of more than the airline's usual amount of flight delays. So many unsatisfied customers were lying around, asleep inside of LaGuardia Airport, that it was starting to look like a giant slumber party that no one wanted to attend.

Fabiola's flight finally made it to its destination, more than two hours after its scheduled arrival, but the important thing was that she was there—New York City. This was only the second time she'd ever been to the big city; the first was when she won the talent show. Hopefully, this time the final outcome would turn out better. After making
her way to baggage claim, Fabiola found more than just her luggage.

“Are you Fabiola Mays?” the man holding the sign with her name on it asked. He was wearing the traditional black chauffeur's uniform.

Just like in the movies
, she thought. “Yes, that's me,” she spoke up. “I'm Fabiola, but how did you recognize me?”

“Your eyes lit up when you read the sign.”

Fabiola gave the chauffeur a quizzical look.

“I've been doing this for a long time,” he said with an Eastern European accent. “My name is Traupee. Now, how about we go find your luggage?”

Casino never mentioned a car service. What other surprises might he come up with?
She smiled. After Fabiola pointed out her suitcases as they traveled around the carousel, Traupee put everything on a cart and led her outside.

Following Traupee out of the building, she sucked in a lungful of polluted New York air without complaint. It was an upgrade from the canned air that the airports and planes were manufacturing. But she hadn't come to New York for clean air; she was there to feed her hunger pangs for success and her starvation for stardom by taking a bite out of the Big Apple.

“This is your car, Ms. Mays.” The driver interrupted her thoughts.

“Thank you,” she said, sliding onto the backseat of the black-and-gray Chrysler 300. The driver shut the door for her, placed her bags in the trunk, and soon they were pulling into the mad airport traffic.

“The hotel is about thirty minutes away,” the driver informed her from the front seat.

Fabiola felt her way through her pocketbook digging for her phone. After finding what she was looking for, she dialed
Casino's number. “I finally made it,” she said after hearing his voice on the other end. “Safe and sound.”

“Good. When you told me about the delays I was concerned about you.”

“Aaaww.” Fabiola was warmed by his comment; she could hear the sincerity in his voice. “Well, I'm on my way to the studio now.”

“Excellent! Now, can you do me one other favor?” Casino asked.

“Is Beyoncé one of the luckiest, hardworking chicks in the game?”

“Don't forget to call me as soon as you leave the studio, or before, if you run into any problems—big or small—while you're there.”

He sounded like he was getting his strength back, and although she didn't really know him before the shooting, it was easy to imagine what he would be doing after he was back on his feet and out of the hospital. She envisioned him moving around, calling shots, and making things happen for all those around him. It brought a smile to her face. “Of course I will, Casino, but only if you can do one other thing for me?”

“Name it.”

“Tell me how I will ever be able to pay you back for your generosity.”

He said five words before ending the conversation: “Accept nothing less than success.” And the call was over.

While she was thinking about what he had just said and all he had done, the phone rang. Maybe that was him calling back. “Casino?”

“Nope, it's me,” Shug said. “Where you at, gurrrl?” Shug and Adora had dropped Fabiola off at the Richmond International Airport about five hours ago.

“Gurrrl, I'm in the car service en route to the hotel.”

“Car service?” Shug screeched. “Umph, you doing big things, ain't you?” She didn't even wait for Fabiola to answer her question. “Well, by the time you take your shower, we'll be parking our car and hauling our shit up to your room.”

“What?” Now it was Fabiola's turn to be surprised. “And who is
we?”

“Me and yo sister—who else?” she said. “Every star needs an entourage. We may not have been able to afford those last-minute high-ass ticket prices that Mr. Casino blessed you wit, but that wasn't going to be enough to stop us from being there wit our girl. We just wanted to make it a surprise. We on the Jersey Turnpike now. Surprise! Bitches are on the way!”

“Damn, that's crazy. Y'all dropped me off at the airport and damn near beat my butt to New York.”

“All that bullshit they take you through at the airport these days. Gurrllll, when you were taking off yo damn shoes and sitting on the tarmac listening to your iPod, we were on I-95 making our way.”

“For a whole lot less money, too,” Fabiola heard her sister scream in the background.

“Well, call me when y'all get here. I'm not gon' talk to y'all butts all the way up 95.”

About sixteen minutes later the driver pulled up in front of an enormous hotel located across from Central Park. “This can't be where I'm staying,” Fabiola told the driver. “This place is beautiful … and it looks expensive.”

The driver checked his paperwork. “This is the place,” he confirmed.

Fabiola looked at the paper she had in her pocketbook and agreed, “That's what it must be then.”

Casino didn't half-step when it came to good taste. The hotel was beautiful. The high ceilings, gold décor, and plush carpet looked like something from an episode of
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
. By the time she checked in, took a shower, and got comfortable, as promised her entourage was pounding on the door with a cart full of luggage. They all hugged.

“This shit is off the hook, girl,” Adora said.

“It is real nice,” Shug added.

“It's kinda like the one we stayed at when we came up here for the Hot Soundz competition, except it's better in every way,” Adora said.

“That dude likes you for real,” Shug informed her best friend.

“I think he just likes helping people out. Some people are just like that.”

“Maybe he wanted you to get familiar with it because one day he plans to marry you here,” Shug teased.

Adora opened up the hotel room window and screamed, “GRIP YOURSELF NEW YORK CITY!”

Although they stayed up all night, first thing in the morning the three girls caught a cab to the Brooklyn studio where Fabiola was scheduled to meet with the producer. After ringing the bell a tall brown-skinned guy wearing a Sean John outfit let them in, offered them a seat, and walked off. Fabiola expected the place to be a little plusher. The studio was basically two rooms with a closet for a sound booth. The first room doubled as waiting room/entertainment room. There was a late-model big-screen television wired to a Sony PlayStation on the far left wall, surrounded by five beanbags. As far as furnishings, the rest of the waiting area consisted of an old brown-and-tan sofa and table set that probably came off the assembly line some time during the late seventies. A handwritten sign that read
QUIET! GENIUS AT
WORK
was taped to the wall, alongside posters of artists from the seventies and eighties. Fabiola, Adora, and Shug looked at one another and then took a seat on the antique sofa.

From the sofa, Fabiola could see a dude sitting behind a table with a lot of electronic equipment, wearing headphones.
He must be Taz, the producer
, she thought. He was a funny-looking man with light skin, big ears, and a crooked nose that stood out even more with the Cartier glasses he wore sitting on top of it. The lenses of his prescription glasses were so thick they made his eyes look distorted. He was screaming in a loud deep voice at the girl that was in the booth trying to sing. When the producer wasn't screaming, making demands, and cussing, he was bopping his head back and forth with his hand cupped over the earpiece of the headphones. The girls watched intensely.