“She gave the shots to Winslow? For what purpose?”
“Blackmail, of course,” Jake said. “Why else?”
“How did she blackmail him by using evidence of her own infidelity?”
“That’s the whole point of the story,” Jake said. “This is how conniving she can be, how ruthless. She told him to waive the prenup and follow standard California divorce laws or she would release the pictures publicly and freely admit to the affair with me. She would tell the media about how inadequate in bed he was, about his small dick, about how he’d never given her an orgasm.”
“Humiliation,” Greg whispered, shaking his head. “My God. He never would’ve worked again. They wouldn’t let him sweep up the studio parking lot after something like that.”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “And it wouldn’t have hurt her reputation a bit. If anything, it would’ve made her more alluring, sexier to the public. Especially when you throw in the whole playing around with bisexuality thing. Winslow caved to her. What choice did he really have? He knew her well enough to know that she would have gone through with it. He gave her half his shit and she gave him the negatives for the shots.”
“How does he know that Mindy doesn’t have another set of negatives, or that Peterson doesn’t?”
“He doesn’t,” Jake said. “And neither do I. In fact, I’m quite certain that Peterson, at the very least, has his own set of negatives. Something like that is simply too juicy to give away. But none of those shots have seen the light of day and it’s been almost five years now. She must have paid Peterson a good amount of money to keep his trap shut and those pictures to himself.”
“Incredible,” Greg said. “And what happened to you and Mindy after this?”
“I’ve only seen her one time since this went down,” Jake said. “That was at your gig, the premier of Northern Jungle, remember?”
“I prefer to forget everything about that film, but yes, I remember. That was the night she and Mike came out publicly as a couple.”
“The same night that Pauline agreed to manage Celia,” Jake agreed. “I was actually shocked to see Mindy there. We hadn’t officially broken up or anything, but it was clear to me that I’d served my purpose and had been discarded. She made no mention of what had happened between us, make no allusions to it, acted like none of it had ever happened.”
“And you’ve not seen her since?” Greg asked.
“I’ve neither seen her, nor talked to her,” Jake confirmed. “I did write a song about her though. It’s on my first solo album.”
“Nothing is Different Now,” Greg said, naming that tune without even having to think about it.
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Take that title to heart, Greg. Take it to heart.”
The next day, Jake and Laura traveled in Jake’s BMW to the rehearsal studio that Gordon maintained in Compton.
“Are we safe in this neighborhood, sweetie?” Laura asked nervously as she took in the passing scenery of liquor stores with bars on the windows, dilapidated public housing apartments with homeys hanging out in front in trench coats drinking forties, homeless people pushing overloaded shopping carts, and their own faces the only white ones in view.
“As long as we stay in the car and keep moving, we should be fine,” Jake said with a shrug.
“Very comforting,” she said, seeing that a particularly dangerous looking young black man was staring at her intensely as they waited for the light to change at the intersection of Alameda Street West and East Compton Boulevard. She averted her gaze from him as quickly as possible and felt great relief when the green light allowed Jake to start driving again.
G’s studio was located just off Alameda Street, on a small lot just before the residential neighborhood began. The building was small and nondescript, and completely surrounded by an eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire. The building and the fence were both unmarred by gang graffiti, which was remarkable because virtually nothing else in sight could say the same. Jake had had been here a few times before, back when they had been working on Step Inside, and G had told him that the neighborhood gang all knew that the building was owned by Bigg G and that he rehearsed here, thus they had put out the word that the building was hallowed ground, not to be touched, and that no one who entered or left the building was to be fucked with in any way. This was mostly because the gang in question—it was a branch of the Crips in this part of the hood—respected G and the voice he provided the inner city, but it also helped that G made a point to spread some money around the neighborhood with generous donations to the youth clubs, the library, the community center, and the local high school music and sports programs.
As Jake pulled up to the gate that guarded the entrance, two such gang members came sauntering over in his direction. Both were dressed in jeans and long, baggy shirts that fell well below their waistbands to conceal the pistols they undoubtedly carried. Both had blue shoelaces in their Air Jordon sneakers and blue bandanas on their heads. They approached within ten feet of Jake’s car and then stopped, looking at the two whities who had invaded their hood. The one in front then seemed to recognize Jake. He smiled and gave him a nod of greeting.
Jake smiled back and returned the nod. He then punched in the four-digit code G had given him to open the gate. The control box beeped three times and the gate swung upon. With a final nod at the two bangers, Jake drove into the parking lot and parked in front of the main doorway.
“That was a little bit scary, wasn’t it?” Laura asked.
“Naw,” Jake said. “I’m sure they’re just G’s unofficial security force, keeping an eye on things. As long as we have the code to get in, they won’t fuck with us.”
“Again, comforting,” Laura said.
By the time they stepped out of the car, the bangers were nowhere to be seen. Jake opened the trunk and pulled out a guitar case. He slung it over his shoulder with the carrying strap and then pulled out a box that contained a few effects pedals, a pre-amp, and various cords for attaching everything together.
“Do you want me to carry something?” Laura asked.
“No, just close the trunk and then go push the intercom button on the door.”
Laura did this. G’s voice came on the intercom after a few seconds. “Who is it?” he asked, though there was a security camera pointed at the door and he undoubtedly knew who was there.
“A couple of tighty whities,” Laura told him.
“You got that shit right,” G’s voice replied with a chuckle. “Hang on, Teach. I’ll let y’all in.”
The door buzzed and Laura turned the handle, allowing them entrance into a large single room with a high ceiling. Near the back of the room was a desk where G sat next to Neesh, who, other than Laura, was the only female present. On the desk was a computer and a video monitor, the latter showing the view from the front door camera and the gate camera. In the center of the room the instruments had been set up. There were the two drum sets, the table where the turntables sat, and an electric piano. Surrounding the instrument area were the amps and the speakers, all connected together with black cables. Three microphone stands were arrayed in the front of all this. About ten feet away from the mics was a sound board, where everything could be adjusted.
G’s band were all sitting in chairs near their respective instruments: Ricky Mack at the turntables, James Whitlock and Fro Allen on the two bass guitars, Lucky Powell and Evan Jackson on the drum sets. At the sound board were High Top Biggins and Stinky Stewart, G’s primary sound men, both of whom were graduates of the same program at the same university where Sharon Archer had gotten her masters.