Larger Than Lyfe (39 page)

In his burgeoning mail stack, Mars came across a postcard depicting Rio de Janeiro and its Corcovado Mountain with the huge, Christ the Redeemer statue for which Rio de Janeiro was most famous. The brief message from the sender said,
“I miss you…SO much.”

The postcard slipped from Mars’s fingers and fell to the ground. He sat there for a few moments as if someone had just sucker-punched him. It, for whatever reason, left him dazed and confused. With all of the speculation by the media, he couldn’t help asking himself the question: Was there any possibility that Keshari might be alive? Was there any possibility that there was truth to the media speculation?

NO! he finally told himself. It was a malicious joke, just as he was starting to come out of his debilitating grief. Undoubtedly, it was Portia Foster, pissed at him for blowing her off yet again when she’d reached out to him immediately following Keshari’s death. He dropped the postcard on the cocktail table, grabbed his keys and his gym bag and went to meet his friend at the athletic club.

He came home that night accompanied by a beautiful, Black and Korean sista that he’d met sipping mochachino on the patio at Magic Johnson’s Starbucks in Ladera Heights. She had the most interesting name, Ntozake, like the Black poet, and she looked a lot like Keshari. He didn’t ask a lot about her. She told him that she was a singer/songwriter and that she was working on a CD. In broad and slightly evasive terms, Mars told her that he was an attorney. In all honesty, he didn’t want to know anything about her and, that night, she didn’t appear to be very interested in getting to
know him in any great detail either. There was a strong, physical attraction between the two of them and that was pretty much all that needed to be said. It had been
a long time since Mars had had a one-night stand, even though the entertainment industry was the quintessential smorgasbord for them. For a time toward the beginning of Mars’s legal career, when the money started to get a lot longer and he was feeling his ego and himself like most of the other men in the industry, he’d been only too happy to indulge in them…no strings, no emotions, no complications. Things were different for him now, mentally and emotionally. One-night stands were not really his thing anymore. But with Keshari gone, his emotions were currently a “no man’s land”
and a one-night stand was perfectly acceptable.

Mars lit candles, he put a sample of everything good in the jazz and neo-soul genres on his CD changer, poured Ntozake a glass of wine, and then fucked her with complete and reckless abandon. When it was over, he went out onto his terrace and fell asleep and Keshari came to him again in his dreams.

With her hands on her hips and that $40,000 sable coat swinging open, exposing the sheer perfection of her naked body, she whispered to him over and over again, “I’m still here…I’m still here…I love you.”

Mars snapped awake and went into his bedroom. Ntozake was gone and he was glad. He hoped that he never saw her again. It was four in the morning and he sat in the middle of his living room floor, studying photographs of Keshari and him together, tracing the contours of her beautiful, smiling face with his finger. When he dozed off again, he was clutching a sterling silver-framed photograph of Keshari that usually sat on his cocktail table. He would love that woman forever.

One evening while going through his mail, more than one month
after receiving the first postcard, Mars received a second one. This time, a scene of wealthy, Brazilian sunbathers was depicted on an ultra-exclusive beach area in Ipanema.

The postcard’s message said,
“I’m still here. I love you.”

Mars located the first mysterious postcard that he’d received and studied it. Then he carefully studied the second one. The interesting thing about both of the postcards was that they had been typed. Postcards from vacationers were not typewritten. Someone who did not want their handwriting and possibly themselves identified had sent Mars these two postcards. However, Mars did not know if this “someone” was an individual or a group.

Both postcards had São Paulo postmarks. Mars studied every detail about the two postcards and thought of some of the conversations that he and Keshari had had prior to her death. There were times when she would get so philosophical and intense, telling him things that seemed almost locked inside a riddle. Then, out of nowhere, it all started to come together. Either that or he was truly losing his mind. The postcards had to have come from Keshari. As crazy as it sounded, Mars was certain of it. But he needed to try and get more confirmation.

Mars went to David Weisberg’s office. Celeste, David Weisberg’s legal secretary, was extremely pleased to see him. The last time that she’d seen Mars, he had been an emotional basket case, grieving over the loss of the woman he loved like the world had ended. He’d been unable to function on even the most basic level.

“You look really good,” Celeste told Mars, “and I thank you for the orchid and the roses and the weekend at Canyon Ranch. It had been a really long time since I had gotten spoiled like that. I think you made my husband jealous.”

“You deserve to be spoiled,” Mars responded with a smile. “And I cannot thank you enough for all that you did for me.”

“Just so you know, Mr. Weisberg is not in the office. He had a meeting with a client.”

“If you don’t mind,” Mars told Celeste, taking a seat at her desk and winking at her flirtatiously. “I’d really like to wait. This is important.”

“Well, I was just about to go out for lunch. Why don’t I order something and have it delivered for both of us?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Mars smiled. “My treat.”

David Weisberg arrived back at his office a little over an hour later and Mars was still seated at Celeste’s desk, enjoying their conversation and the pan-fried noodles and orange chicken that she’d ordered for lunch.

“Mars, what a surprise! What can I do for you?” David Weisberg asked.

The two men went into David Weisberg’s office and closed the doors.

“Mr. Weisberg, what I’m going to ask you is probably going to leave you questioning my sanity. Even I am having to question my sanity every now and again these days. But, perhaps, if you look at this, you’ll better understand why I felt so compelled to come and see you.”

Mars placed the two postcards on David’s desk squarely in front of him.

“Is Keshari still alive?” Mars asked without hesitation.

David Weisberg stared down at the two, typewritten postcards from São Paulo, Brazil and was instantly pissed at Keshari for being so damned foolish.

“WHAT?!” he said distractedly, still staring down at the postcards. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. What exactly are you even suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Mars answered. “I’m asking you directly…is Keshari still alive?”

“Of course not,” David Weisberg said again. “What you’re asking me clearly suggests that you believe I took part in a major impropriety and I can assure you that I would not jeopardize more than twenty-five years of legal practice to aid and abet a very serious illegality, no matter how much I cared for Keshari.”

“So, who do you imagine sent me these postcards?”

“I know nothing about your personal life,” David Weisberg said. “Therefore, I couldn’t even hedge an educated guess to answer that question.”

Mars slumped back in his chair and buried his head in his hands. His life was starting to come together again and a couple of postcards in the mail threatened to pull him back apart.

“I’m sorry,” David said. “I’m so, so sorry. I know how much you loved her. I know that she loved you. But she’s gone. She’s dead. And it’s time for you to let her go and move on with your life.”

“Before Keshari’s…passing,” Mars said, “we talked a lot about so much and she repeatedly seemed to be trying to tell me something. She kept telling me how her whole life was changing. There was a strange sadness, like she knew that something was about to happen, but it was too dangerous to divulge even to me. My heart, my mind, my gut tell me that Keshari sent me these postcards. I saw the expression on your face when I placed them in front of you. It was shock from recognition, followed by what appeared to be anger. I know that you’re not going to tell me the truth, but that expression
on your face when you looked at those postcards said everything.”

A
s if the entertainment newswire over the past several months had not already been a three-ring circus, Mars Buchanan stepped boldly and unapologetically back into the spotlight and promptly resigned from his position as West Coast general counsel at ASCAP. Some executives who knew him said that they had seen it coming. Mars hadn’t been the same since his return to work following Keshari Mitchell’s shocking suicide.

When Keshari and Mars were still together, Mars had talked candidly about his desire to one day take advantage of his many industry contacts and inside knowledge and st
art his own artist and athlete management firm. The level of autonomy that he would hold as owner of his own company had always been tempting and could definitely prove lucrative. Keshari was his inspiration, he’d told her. She was a shining example that it could be done.

In a press conference at ASCAP’s Los Angeles offices, Mars was strategically evasive about his future business plans and he assured the media that he was not leaving ASCAP on bad blood. After the loss of someone truly significant to him, Mars said, he’d come to realize how precious time was and he believed that he needed to dedicate his time and energies to new endeavors that were more in tune with the current phase of his life.

Mars flew to New York and visited his family after the press conference. He had no desire to remain in L.A. and deal with the
annoying harassment of the media pursuing him for a story. Mars’s father was shocked at his son’s completely unexpected resignation from his prestigious position, but he also knew how talented and determined his son had always been. He could do anything that he put his mind to and if he said that he intended to start his own company, he would, and it would, without a doubt, be a huge success.

Before Mars left his parents’ home to return to Los Angeles, he told them that he was going to do some traveling for a few weeks before he actively proceeded to lay the groundwork for his new management firm.

Mars’s sister asked him where he was going.

“I’m strongly leaning toward Brazil,” Mars said.