Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (12 page)

Kim accepted a glass of Dom Perignon from a smiling waiter who, in perfect time to Cheeno’s music, acrobatically danced among the guests, balancing a dozen or so crystal goblets on a silver tray. She took a sip then stood to the side, sizing up the crowd. She immediately noted that scattered throughout the room were more than a dozen security guards; despite an attempt to blend in, their rigid postures, darting eyes, and dark, off-the-rack worsted suits stood out like neon signs. Cheeno had told her he was expecting more than one hundred guests, and it seemed that at least half of them had already arrived.

Among them were some top executive suits, a few prominent stars, and celeb-status directors and producers. She had seen Debbie Allen, John Singleton, Clive Davis, Reuben Cannon, Tyra Banks, Quincy Jones, one of the Wayans clan, and either Russell Simmons or an exact 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 82

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look-alike—each holding court before a group of seemingly spell-bound listeners.

Rick Fox from the Lakers and, judging from his extreme height, another NBA player huddled with two or three friends whom Kim didn’t recognize but assumed were pro football players because of their hulking physiques. They stood near the glass doors leading to the patio, laughing and alternately peering out over the rapidly growing crowd inside or out at the half-dozen female revelers frolicking in the pool in fantasy-inspiring bikinis. Then there was the younger Hollywood set, the nouveau successful crowd that had broken through and soared to fame, fleeting or otherwise, on one or another of the sitcoms that flourished on the UPN, WB, and Fox networks. Still, this was not your typical Hollywood party.

Most guests were clearly from the Source/MTV/Vibe rap set—in town for the upcoming Source Awards, Kim concluded. There were some West Coast rappers, but most seemed to be part of Cheeno’s posse, a group of friends, musicians, and acolytes whom the rap-cum-movie star had brought with him when he left Newark. The rappers were easily distinguished from the Armani- and Gucci-clad Hollywood types by their attire. They were decked out in an assortment of colorful jackets, vests, and jeans or baggy pants (one leg rolled up) inspired by designers ranging from No Limit, Tommy Hilfiger, John Varvatos, and Sean John to The Gap and Banana Republic. Nearly all wore some kind of headware—including caps, designer head-rags, outrageous fedoras, berets, and specialty hats like construction helmets and mannequin caps. Most were bejeweled with enough ice or, as a Sex and the City character had called it, “ghetto gold” to stock a New York diamond district outlet. They were not difficult to spot. At first glance, Kim’s favorite was the Loose Ends MC who wore old-fashioned clod-hoppers and cut-off, black-and-white pajama bottoms under an elegant antique tuxedo jacket with tails. Except for a few who had opted for the 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 83

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revealing, minimal outfits favored by Lil’ Kim, their female counter-parts were less conspicuous.

This evening the sometimes explosive rivalry between the rap factions appeared to be under control. Although they clowned, trash-talked, and tried upstaging one another, no animosity was on display; a few of the East Coast Ain’t No Thang crew had even joined Watts Up, a West Coast group, and were lifting their glasses in a toast in front of the TV monitor. The rappers’ boisterous antics, along with the blaring video, set the upbeat, almost raucous tone of the party.

Kim smiled and calmly scanned the room, nodding to a few friends before setting out to mingle with the guests. She was long past being star-struck, unless, of course, business required she give that impression.

As she often joked, she was a show-business agent by accident and a sleuth by nature; seeming oddities and the unusual captured her attention much more than celebrities. Still certain people had to be given their props; so when she started making the rounds, she rapped briefly with Singleton, injected herself into a conversation between Quincy and Debbie Allen, and briefly cornered a Fox executive who had called about one of her clients. Before long, however, she gravitated toward a group of intriguing peripheral characters she had never met.

A tall, dark-skinned man wearing a Nehru jacket and tasseled fez, whose facial scarification suggested he was African, stood near the archway leading to the dining area talking to two bespectacled business types in Brooks Brothers suits. The two men, whose pale skin suggested a strong aversion to sunlight, gestured toward the wiry, nut-brown-complexioned black man with heavy dreadlocks, dark rimless sunglasses, wool trousers, and a brightly colored polyester short-sleeve shirt who stood beside them. At a Malibu party, the quartet seemed odd or, at best, unusual. They were engaged in heated conversation but, when Kim approached, the talk ceased abruptly; the black man with dreads turned and quickly moved into the dining room.

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“Didn’t mean to break up the caucus,” Kim laughed. “Just making the rounds. But I seemed to have disturbed your friend.”

“Oh, not to worry,” the younger Brooks Brothers suit replied in a clipped English accent, “he was never a very sociable chap. Perhaps, like the rest of us, he was simply overwhelmed by your beauty.” He bent at the waist and, lifting Kim’s hand, softly kissed it. “I’m Winthrop—

Winthrop James,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I’m Kim Carlyle . . . from New York,” she said, momentarily taken aback by the lingering, somewhat seductive kiss.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you—you are an artists’ representative if I’m not mistaken. Formerly Tiffany Jones’s agent. Am I correct?”

Kim nodded, surprised that he knew of her.

“This is Jonathan Wims, a business associate,” he said, nodding toward the other suit, “and Paul Mawuli, a visitor from Liberia.”

“And what brings you to Hollywood?” she asked.

“Oh, just boring business transactions,” Winthrop said. “Contracts, inventories, debits, and such—nothing that would interest you show-business movers and shakers.”

“And you, Mr. Mawuli?” Kim asked, smiling up at the tall African.

“Winthrop and I attended Oxford together,” Mawuli said; “we met, purely by chance, in the bar at the Park Hyatt in Century City. It was I who suggested he accompany me to Mr. Cheeno’s, ah, what is the idiom . . . blow-out.” He laughed ingenuously. “And, as usual, I’m impressed with the . . . ardor of your festivities.”

“Well, we do what we can,” Kim laughed, “but I should admit that this bash is hardly representative of our . . . festivities. Anyway, you’ve traveled a long distance. I assume it was not just to honor Cheeno.”

“You are an inquisitive beauty, aren’t you?” Mawuli said, smiling.

“No, not exactly. In fact, my secretary had been instructed to call you in New York. You see, I am here to propose that Mr. Cheeno consider shooting his next film in Liberia. Financially, it could be a windfall for him since costs are minimal—no annoying problems with unions, you 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 85

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understand. And, my group, well, we’re interested in expanding our investments—”

“Paul, you always go on so,” Winthrop interrupted, forcefully grabbing Paul’s arm. “I’m certain that Ms. Carlyle hasn’t the slightest interest in the details of your organization. After all, this is a party. Why don’t we get another drink and get into the spirit of things.”

“On the contrary,” Kim said, “it’s a fascinating proposal and I’d—”

“Well, perhaps the two of you can talk about it later. For now, I think we should mingle, take in some of this wonderful ambience,”

Winthrop said, as he led his companions away.

They had disappeared into the crowd before Kim could object.

Kim considered following them, then decided she’d ask Cheeno about the mysterious trio. She accepted another glass of champagne from a dancing waiter and made her way to the patio. A few of the rappers had disrobed and joined the group of would-be starlets and dancers who cavorted half nude in the pool or lounged in the Jacuzzi. An attendant approached Kim as she stood watching them.

“If you’d like to swim, ma’am, you may change in the cabana,” she said, pointing to the wooden bathhouse at the top of the stairs near the Jacuzzi to the left of the pool. “There are swimsuits or, if you prefer, no suit is necessary.”

“No, thank you,” Kim said. “I don’t prefer.”

As she returned to the living room, the lights blinked several times, then dimmed before a spotlight focused on the balcony above the crowd. A minute later, Cheeno stepped out of one of the rooms, lifted his arms above his head, then dramatically bowed as his posse led a salvo of yelps and screams. At five-ten and 165 pounds, his slight frame was dwarfed by the two enormous bodyguards who stood behind him.

They scowled menacingly as they surveyed the dim room, and followed him down the stairs staying just outside the circle of flickering light that traced his descent.

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continued for a least five minutes after the star reached the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in Prada clogs and a loose-fitting beige linen shirt-suit by Sean John, which was set off by a diamond-studded sterling silver pendant spelling out his name, he basked in the applause—preening, grinning, and mimicking a few dance steps from his “Booty Power”

video, which was still playing on the monitor. Finally, the lights went up again to a chorus of, “Cheeno . . . Cheeno in the house! Cheeno . . .

Cheeno in the house!”

Kim smiled, half amused and half admiring. She was still amazed at some of the excess and bombast of her younger clients, but, at the same time, she knew their youthful zeal and exaggerated style was what got them over. And when they got over, she also profited. Most certainly, twenty-three-year-old Cheeno was getting over.

It was he who, a year and a half before, had led her to the producer who backed his first film, which he had written. And, even when he signed with her three years ago, before cutting his first single, he seemed to be prospering. Most of her young clients struggled before they made it, taking part-time service jobs and living in run-down studios or cheap hotels. Cheeno had left Newark and lived in a one-bedroom Manhattan apartment when he came to her. He never talked about his lifestyle—the apartment, car, or occasional trip to Europe—

except to say that he had a mentor; and she never asked any further questions. Frankly, she didn’t want to know. He seemed like a good enough kid, and she was happy for him.

For nearly an hour after he appeared, Cheeno, shadowed by his bodyguards, moved through the crowd greeting his guests. Finally, he approached Kim.

“Hey, mama,” he yelled, and lifted her in a bear hug.

“Told you I’d make it,” she said. Cheeno was smiling broadly, but as he talked to her his eyes kept darting around the room.

“Yeah. The party’s live, ain’t it!” he said.

“You outdid yourself, sugar,” she laughed.

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“It’s only the beginning—only the beginning,” he gushed. “I got plans I ain’t even laid on you yet. Believe it, mama, I’m gon be big as Snoop, big as Tupac . . . bigger. You met Mawuli, right?”

“Yes, I did. So tell me, what’s that about?”

“Not now, mama, we’ll talk business tomorrow. You seen the crib, the pool, the Jacuzzis. This place is off the hook, ain’t it? C’mon, let’s go lay back and chill.”

“No, sugar, I think I’ll pass on that, but you go ahead.”

Cheeno quickly scanned the room again, then turned and started for the patio with his bodyguards close on his tail. When he stepped outside, he turned to them. “Check it—I know you brothas got my back but I got to have a sec by myself. We got security out at the bathhouse, ain’t we?”

“No doubt,” the taller, bald-headed guard snarled.

“A’ight. Y’all stay here. I’m gon change and go take a dip with these honeys. I paid for ’em, let’s see what they about. Stay here and keep an eye out.”

When Cheeno started toward the bathhouse, the guards stepped outside the glass doors, watching his every move. Kim turned and headed toward the dining room. Time to try some of those hors d’oeuvres, she thought.

Just as she stepped into the dining room, Kim heard shouting from near the monitor where a group of rappers were watching a new video by Nelly. She turned and saw that a scuffle had broken out. Four or five guys were in each other’s face and the scene was escalating. The volume of the cursing accelerated and, as nearby guests scurried to move back, a half-dozen security guards raced over and began pulling the men away from each other. It was then that the lights began flickering. At first Kim thought it was another staged happening, and, seeing that the fight was under control, she ignored it and moved toward one of the buffet tables. Then, suddenly, the room went black—ink black. She pushed her way back toward the arched entrance, but 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 88

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absolutely nothing was visible. Unlike before, even the outside flood-lights illuminating the pool area were off.

“What the fucks goin’ on?” someone shouted.

“Cheeno, turn on the damn lights. This shit ain’t funny,” another voice screamed.

“Nigga, get your hands off my ass!” a woman yelled and for a moment or two the sound of laughter rippled through the crowd.