Any Way the Wind Blows (9 page)

“Windsor, is that you?” I asked.

“Yes, this is Windsor. Who am I speaking with? Wait, I know this voice. Basil, how are you doing?” She sounded like the same old Windsor, optimistic and concerned about anyone she came in contact with.

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m blessed and highly favored, even though I’m a little bit under the weather,” Windsor said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Got a little case of high blood pressure and then you add in I’m going to have a baby, well, the doctor has me on complete bed rest for a while, but my baby and me are going to be just fine,” Windsor said.

“So when’s the big day?”

“Which one?” Windsor asked.

“When’s your baby due?” I asked, suddenly thinking about Rosa and wondering how her pregnancy was coming along. Damn, I didn’t need to be thinking about Rosa and her problems with Yancey and her song worrying the crap out of me.

“At the end of June or the first part of July,” Windsor said. She didn’t sound like she was seriously ill.

“I didn’t know you and Yancey were still roommates,” I said, forcing myself to sound unbothered and friendly.

“Well, not exactly. I’ve been house-sitting for Yancey,” Windsor said.

“That’s why I’m calling. I just heard her song on the radio. Doug Banks and Dee-Dee said it’s zooming up the charts.”

“Yeah, it’s doing great!”

“Do you know how I can get in contact with Yancey? I want to congratulate her,” I said, wondering if Windsor could detect the desperation in my voice.

“That’s so sweet of you. You can reach her right here. Does she have your number?” Windsor asked.

“Tell her it’s the same,” I said.

“I think maybe you should give it to me again. Yancey asked me to throw out a lot of stuff when she went to Los Angeles,” Windsor said.

“So she’s been hanging out in Los Angeles,” I said. Now I knew why I hadn’t run into Yancey or heard from her since our aborted wedding.

“Yeah, she’s been doing great out there. So give me the numbers, and I’ll make sure she gets them.”

“Thanks, Windsor,” I said as I gave her my home, cell and office numbers.

When I got to work, I sent Kendra over to Tower Records to get a copy of Yancey’s CD. I thought about going and purchasing it myself, but I had several contracts I needed to review by noon.

Kendra returned all excited, telling me about how much she liked the song and how Yancey B had a huge display in the record store.

“When did you first hear the song?”

“While I was listening to it at Tower, I realized this was the song one of my girlfriends had been talking about,” Kendra said.

“So the song’s pretty popular? I’m going to pop it in and check it out. Hold my calls.”

I slid the CD into my stereo and gazed at the cover. Yancey looked damn good sporting a gold halter top and skintight pants and serving much attitude. I hit the Play button, and Yancey’s voice filled my office:

I was relieved after the first verse, because I realized it was just a song. Yancey couldn’t be talking about our relationship,
since she never even caught me looking cross-eyed at another man. A long time ago, I’d been caught in an awkward position with a dude, and I’d learned a lesson. I continued to listen.

I was falling into the groove of the song when I heard someone knock on my door. I got up from my chair and hit the Pause button on the CD player and said, “Come on in.”

“’Sup, buddy,” Nico said as he walked into my office. He was one of the best-dressed dudes I knew. Nico had on an off-white French-cuffed shirt, with a mustard-yellow tie, navy blue pleated slacks and reptile loafers. He’d been lifting weights with me a lot and had transformed his basketball body into a solid muscular look, and developed a thick neck and broad shoulders. Now Nico was so into lifting that he made sure there was always a real gym near his hotel when he traveled. Once when we were in Florida together, visiting prospective clients at Florida State, he dragged me to a gym after ten o’clock. I had created a gym monster.

“’Sup, Nico,” I said as I watched Nico walk over to my desk and pick up Yancey’s empty CD case.

“Damn, dude, who is this?” Nico asked as he moved the case close to his eyes to inspect it more closely. “She kinda looks like that singer Pebbles from back in the day.”

“You don’t know who that is?”

“She looks familiar and tasty,” Nico said, as he licked his lips like he was ready to go “downtown.”

“That’s Yancey. The woman I was engaged to,” I said as I took the case out of his hand before he started to lick it. I could see I was correct in not introducing Yancey to Nico while we were dating. He wouldn’t have thought twice about trying to hit on her. Nico was both a baller and a playa hater. I had invited him to the wedding, but Nico told me he couldn’t bear to attend a ceremony celebrating a playa giving up his freedom.

“Damn, B, now I see how this honey almost got you to turn in your playa card. I bet she was pissed when you told her you wouldn’t give up your freedom.”

“It was a mutual decision. She wanted her career, and I still had some more hunney-hunting to do,” I said with a slight smile. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh yeah, she made me forget my bizness. Who’s the dude from CSU you just signed?”

“You talking about Daschle Thompson, right?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Can I get his phone number? I’m trying to sign a basketball player over there, and I want to see if Daschle knows him,” Nico said.

“Kendra has all Daschle’s information. I’ll reach out and tell him to expect your call.”

“Thanks, Buddy,” Nico said as he picked up the CD single-case and said to himself, “‘Any Way the Wind Blows.’
I’m gonna have to check Yancey B out.” When he looked back at me and saw the puzzled look on my face, he quickly said, “I mean, check out the CD. Got to support a sista who was almost like a member of the family.”

“Yancey always appreciates support from her family,” I said with a nervous grin.

• • •

B
efore I left the office for the evening, I got another e-mail from that crazy mofo out there trying to mess with me. I decided against blocking the messages, because I knew from the movie
The Godfather
that it was important to keep my enemies close. I opened the e-mail and read:
Why won’t you answer my missives? I am serious. I don’t want to have to post your name and picture on
brothersontheDL.com
—what would your business partners and clients think of that?

I
spent Monday in cold, sun-drenched New York, interviewing personal assistants at the Motown office near Fifty-seventh and Seventh Avenue, and looking for a director. I saw about six candidates, most of whom had worked for stars like Ashford and Simpson and Queen Latifah. The most qualified was a young lady named Nancy, who had worked for Diana Ross and Quincy Jones. She had excellent references, but there was a slight problem. Nancy looked like a model and had show business aspirations of her own. I had a rule: Never trust a beautiful woman to cover my back, especially one who carried her extra demo tapes in her purse and wore “I’m a Stank Ho” blue jeans. In light of that, I’m leaning toward this pleasingly plump sister, Amy, from the Bronx. She’s a little rough around the edges, but I think she’ll be fine for running the errands I hate, like picking up laundry and buying my toiletries. I also needed someone to help me with Windsor until she and her family decided whether or not to try and move her back home.

I had insisted that Windsor stay with me in New York
until the baby arrived, but Windsor was worried about being in the way and not being able to pay rent since she wasn’t teaching anymore. I told her not to worry, even though I was concerned she’d have another medical emergency. Wardell had assured me that if she got sick again, he would be in New York as soon as he could. I couldn’t help but envy Windsor a little. She had a man who loved her so much that he would just drop everything to be by her side.

I shared a deli lunch of corned beef and chips with Michel, who seemed happy that I was in New York.

“So you think I’m going to like this director?” I asked Michel as he took a swig from his can of root beer.

“He’s up and coming. And I worked with him on a Chanté Moore video—it was one of the best of her career,” Michel said as he picked up the empty paper plate sitting in front of me. Our attempts to get two of the top directors, Billy Woodruff and Paul Hunter, had been unsuccessful. Both were booked for up to a year, and since they hadn’t heard of Yancey B, both had passed. But that’s okay. I intended to make them regret that decision when I got to my second or third video. By then I would have my choice of directors.

“Are you surprised by how well your first single is doing? I mean, I looked at some reports yesterday and it’s the most requested song in ten markets,” Michel said.

“I’m not a bit surprised. I’m just waiting for it to hit the top forty,” I said confidently.

“It’s well on the way,” Michel said. “I mean to hit the charts after the first week is amazing for a new artist.”

The phone in the conference room rang and Michel
picked up the receiver while I touched up my makeup. Just as I was closing my compact, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Michel said. The door opened, and in walked a man with an almond-brown leather coat, a hat and sunglasses. Hmm, I thought, who does this guy think he is? I’d only seen big stars wear sunglasses indoors.

“Are you Desmond Fowler?” Michel asked.

“I would be he,” Desmond said. His voice was deep and strong, and he had a commanding presence.

“Have a seat. This is Motown’s newest diva, Yancey Braxton, a.k.a. Yancey B, and I am Michel Rodriguez, head of A and R for our East Coast operations.”

“Nice meeting you,” Desmond said as he took off his jacket and hat. He had thin dreads the size of a new number-two pencil and honey-colored brown eyes. He was tall, I would say a little over six feet, with a lean build. He was handsome in an adult homeboy kind of way.

“Nice meeting you,” I said as I extended my hand toward Desmond.

“Did you bring your reel?” Michel asked.

“Sure did,” Desmond said as he reached into a leather duffle and pulled out a videocassette.

“Who have you worked with?” I asked.

“In terms of?” Desmond asked.

“What stars have you directed?” I asked trying to make what I thought was a simple question clearer.

“The only stars I believe in are in the sky. And I haven’t worked with any of them. But if you’re talking about people who sing and dance for a living, then I’ve worked with quite a few,” Desmond said.

“Like who?” I asked.

“Eric Benet, Kenny Latimore, Peabo Bryson,” Desmond-said.

“Any female singers?” Michel asked.

“I just worked with Tamia.”

“Ooh, I loved her last video,” I gushed. “It was very sensuous.”

“So you liked it? Thanks. I think that was some of my best work,” Desmond said.

“Why don’t you tell us about yourself,” I said.

“What do you want to know besides the fact that I’m a damn good director? Naw, make that a slamming director,” Desmond said confidently.

“You don’t have a resume?” I asked.

“Everything you need to know is on that tape,” Desmond said.

“Where did you get your film training?” Michel asked.

“I went to undergrad at the University of Minnesota and went to film school at NYU, but I dropped out.”

“Do you mind my asking why?” Michel quizzed.

“I learned what I needed to know and then moved on.”

“Have you listened to my music?” I asked.

“Yeah, and it was jive-tight.”

I must have had a puzzled look on my face, because Desmond looked at me and smiled. “That means great. Your vocals and lyrics are real strong.”

“Thank you.” I smiled.

“You’ve seen the treatment for the video?” Michel asked.

“Yep, I read it.”

“You know this might be controversial and we’re on a
tight schedule. We need to shoot this in a week or two. Will that be a problem?”

“Not as long as you pay me and my staff overtime, and we shoot up in Harlem.”

“Harlem? I don’t think so,” I said as I looked cross-eyed at Michel.

“Then I can’t do it,” Desmond said as he got up from his chair.

“Why do you have to do it in Harlem?” I asked.

“You must be from L.A.,” Desmond said.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“’Cause Harlem is the joint these days. Besides, I have a wonderful relationship with a studio up there who can pull this shoot together fast. It’s top-notch,” Desmond said.

“Let’s talk about the treatment,” Michel said.

“Yeah. How do you see it?” I asked.

“Some of the stuff is cool. But this is your video and you should be the focal point, not the dudes. I mean, we need them to convey the song’s story. I’d like to see you in something real sexy, but dressed down and revealing with your hair flowing. I would begin with a close-up of your face, with you singing the chorus without music, kinda like Whitney Houston did in ‘I Will Always Love You.’ Like this: ‘I can see your love goes … any way the wind blows … even though I know I have to … I don’t want to be without you … I can see your love flows … any way the wind blows …’” Desmond said as his words and singing melted together.

“You have a great voice,” I said.

“I do all right for a director,” he said.

“We still have to cast the men, and do you think we need dancers?”

“No dancers. Just this beautiful lady, the dudes, the sets and a little computer magic,” Desmond said.