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  She pulled hard as Hassan flailed wildly. However, Hassan was cleverer than Alexei, the last person Queenie tried to garrote. He fell backward, crushing Queenie against the floor.

  Crippled, Queenie cried out and released her hold. Hassan pulled his dangerous hand back and was about to pound Queenie’s nose into the back of her head when a Shaolin star flew and punched into the middle of his forehead.

  Hassan stumbled backward. Recovering, Queenie pushed him off her, grabbed her pecker and slashed him across the throat, severing the jugular, carotid artery, and trachea. The dying man gazed up to see Kenny standing over him. He garbled his final words. “I knew I should never have trusted a Chinaman.”

  Kenny put his boot onto Hassan’s neck, pushed down and snapped it. “Actually, your mistake was to not trust me more. If you had, you wouldn’t be dead, asshole.”

  Queenie shot a glance of fake annoyance at her savior. “Took you long enough, Kenny.”

  “I wanted to enjoy watching him suffer. He was so damn full of himself and treated me like shit. Wanted to catch every moment of it.”

  The security guard put his index and third finger into his mouth. Blowing hard, he released a whistle so loud Queenie feared her eardrums would shatter.

  Almost immediately, five illegal minions, three Chinese and two Mexicans, brought in a body bag and cleaning materials. Methodically and thoroughly, the clean-up and disposal process began.

  This was another dirty secret of the Vector Building. Not everybody who entered left alive. And, of course, for an appropriate fee, the owners would sanitize and eradicate any evidence of remains.

  As the clean-up continued, Queenie asked Kenny, “Is anything happening here tonight? I want to invite someone over.”

  “Tim Martin’s here.”

  “That cokehead is working late?”

  “He’s under the gun. Recording company’s pushing him.”

  Queenie shrugged. “He’ll do. Let’s go.”

  16

  Faking it

  New York

  Queenie and Kenny walked into Studio 1’s control room, an ergonomically designed space for people who spent too much time there. Everything was functional, comfortable and useful. Tables at exactly the right height, adjustable incandescent spot lighting, video monitors so accurate and vivid they made you feel like you were on the set of a music video. Attention to detail even applied to the chairs and sofas. From Scandinavia, there was something about the well-built comfort from the land of snow and cold that made the creative juices flow.

  A scowling Tim Martin sat at a recording console listening to a playback of a YES BABE tune. Thirty-seven-year-old Tim had made his bones as a music producer of scores of young singers and boy bands. He’d generated over half a billion dollars for the young artists, choosing the songs, crafting their arrangements and producing their albums. Sadly for Tim, his ineptitude at negotiating contracts and a serious substance abuse problem kept him from keeping most of his share.

  He and Queenie had known each other for years. She sometimes introduced artists to him but, for Tim, her more important function was supplying uncontaminated drugs of superior quality.

  Last year, he produced YES BABE’s debut album. The band was a nightmare to work with. Egos, drugs, jailbait girls in the studio… Tim never wanted to work with them again. However, the group earned more than fifty million dollars on their worldwide tour and sold a healthy six million copies so, despite his protests, the band’s manager exercised its option to have Tim produce another album. There was no other reason for him being at the studio at this hour.

  Seeing his visitors, Tim hit PAUSE on the digital recorder and ranted, “I hate this shit. Hordes of children fall all over the spoiled brats who call themselves musicians, screaming they’ll love them forever. It’s not music; it’s a damned factory and I’m just the guy in charge of the assembly line.”

  Having finished his tirade, Tim turned on the charm and asked, “And how is my favorite dope dealer doing tonight?”

  Queenie took out her cell and played thirty seconds of video from Abby and Olivia’s audition. “Abby and Olivia. What do you think?”

  Tim answered in a smarmy, singsong voice, “Abby and Olivia.” Shaking his head, he reverted to his normal voice. “First thing they got to do is make a name change. Sounds like a couple of spinsters.”

  “Yeah, I know that. But do they have talent?”

  Tim rolled his eyes. “Talent is highly overrated but, more important, they’re over the hill. Alicia Keys and Adele were both under twenty when they started making waves. Those girls appeal to the blue rinse Michael Bublé crowd and they are nowhere near his league.”

  “Can you fake being interested, Tim? I’ll make it worth your while,” pleaded Queenie as she dropped a little plastic bag of white powder onto the console in front of the music producer.

  Tim glanced at his computer. “I make these guys think they’re gods. Of course, I can fake it. Pig’s ear and silk purse. That kind of crap. Done it a million times. But I don’t think I can stomach any more shit.”

  “These girls have access to money. Hundreds of millions. Make nice to them and maybe they’ll throw some of it my way.”

  “Enough to finance my film?” asked Tim, a hint of enthusiasm growing as he shaped a line of coke on the mixing console. Tim had begged Queenie for years to help him get out of the music business by investing in his screenplay. Maybe this was his chance to get her to open her Rolodex to investors.

  Queenie’s eyes sparkled. “How about two million as seed capital to get you started? You can finagle the rest.”

  Tim’s eyes bored dreamily into Queenie’s. “Abby, Olivia, I’m gonna make you stars.” And, with all the charm of a snake oil salesman, he winked. “And you, harmony hags, can take that to the bank.”

  “That’s what I want to hear.”

  Queenie punched in a phone number.

  “Hello,” said Abby’s now familiar voice.

  “Sorry for the late notice, Abby, but I wanted to see if you and Olivia are interested in taking a quickie tour of Skyscape Studios tonight as soon as you can come over. The manager’s a friend and one of the acts is finishing earlier so I begged him to let us see it. Can you and Olivia make it?”

  “Skyscape as in Studio Skyscape? Omigod. Of course we can make it.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “Every musician knows where Skyscape is. I’ve walked by the Vector Building fifty times.”

  “Meet me in the lobby in an hour.”

  “Got it.”

  Queenie turned to Kenny. “Can you fill the other rooms with musicians? And no crappy garage bands either.”

  “Consider it done. I got a list of producers, bands and musicians that’ll jump at getting a free session here, any day, any night, any time. Nobody minds saving a couple thousand bucks.”

  17

  The Times, They are a Changin.’

  Approaching New York

  Now on the last leg of the trip to New York, roles were reversed for Noah and JJ. Noah was dead to the world, but JJ was wide awake with his eyes glued to the window. He could just feel New York’s presence and the Shaolin kung fu grandmaster was stoked. He had no idea how long it would be before they arrived, but he wanted to be awake to see the New York skyline from the jet when he got there.

  Noah opened a sleepy eye to see JJ’s eyes fixed outside the cabin window and listening intently to something on his earbuds. He tapped his friend on the arm. JJ removed his earbuds and whirled to Noah.

  “What are you so serious about?” mumbled Noah.

  “I’m waiting to see the Statue of Liberty.”

  “We got at least another hour or two. We’ll take a tour and you can see it then. Get some rest.”

  “I have lots of time to rest. But I want my first impression of New York to be Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom holding the torch high in the air.”

  Noah was impressed. “Your uncle must have made one hell of
an impression on you. Not many know that’s who the Statue of Liberty is named for and what she stands for.”

  JJ was silent for a few moments. Noah thought it was because he was being respectful but was flabbergasted at JJ’s next words.

  “I don’t have an uncle on either my mother or father’s sides. And I know hardly anything about what happened at Tiananmen Square. Much of that knowledge has been withheld or censored.”

  “What?”

  JJ inhaled. Time for the big reveal. “I said what I said because you would never have agreed to come to New York otherwise.”

  “So what?”

  “You know what.”

  Noah gritted his teeth. “You’re a liar, a disgrace to the Shaolin, a contemptible human being…”

  Noah hung his head, then lifted it up. “Thanks, JJ. You’re right. I should be there for Olivia but was just too damned proud.”

  He lifted a fist over the barrier separating the two and fist-bumped JJ.

  “We’re good?” asked the Shaolin martial artist.

  “Yeah, we’re good, but what the heck are you listening to?”

  JJ removed his earbuds and handed it to Noah. “I’ve been listening to the songs on the airplane’s playlists. I don’t know why anyone would want to hear someone with such a scratchy voice who sounds like he’s drunk.”

  Noah listened for a few seconds, then chuckled, “This song’s for you, JJ. That’s Bob Dylan and he’s singing The Times, They are a Changin.’ That was a seminal song of the 1960s. Hippies, LSD, psychedelic music, sexual revolution… America was being turned upside down.”

  “I don’t think things have changed very much. That’s happening in China and everywhere else, too.”

  Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  It took almost six hours for Noah and JJ to get through customs at John F. Kennedy International. Officials were particularly skeptical of JJ’s Shaolin dress, especially after he insisted, “I am not a terrorist.”

  “The last person who dressed like you was the Dalai Lama, and you definitely aren’t him,” was the TSA officer’s reply.

  Before JJ continued, Noah moved his finger across his mouth, telling him to zip it, but he was too late.

  “Of course I’m not. I am a Shaolin martial arts grandmaster. The Dalai Lama has no knowledge of warrior kills at all.”

  Noah groaned. You idiot, JJ. The ‘warrior kills’ comment was going to have us stuck here.”

  “Hey, help me here,” said the inspector, calling for additional security. It was the beginning of intense interrogation, full body scans, and a slow methodical search of JJ’s body, his garb and his carry-ons in a private screening room.

  Noah had no problem getting through. While he waited for JJ, he made a call. “Hey, Olivia. We’re here.”

  “That’s nice, Noah. I appreciate your coming,” was her polite reply. “I think you’ll really enjoy yourselves tomorrow night.”

  “I’m sure I will. Oh, I brought a friend along. He’s always wanted to see New York. You got some time to show some strangers around?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Abby and I have other plans now. Tomorrow, we want to keep practicing until it’s time. This is our big chance and we want to be completely prepared. We’ll meet you directly at Café du Music.”

  “Sounds good. See you soon.” Noah’s fists balled after hanging up the phone. While he tried to be optimistic, he had kept his expectations low but this… What other plans? Was it really too much for Olivia to come out and say hello? Or to have a coffee with him before the showcase? I mean, she and Abby had played together forever. They didn’t need to practice. I knew we shouldn’t have come.

  JJ’s ordeal over, Noah dismissed his toxic thoughts as he saw JJ’s eyes bulging like baseballs as they left the security area. “Check that out, Noah!”

  Noah’s head shot around and saw JFK looking like JFK. Big city crowded American airport. “What do you want me to see, JJ?”

  “There are no Chinese signs. Hardly anyone is speaking Chinese; almost everyone is speaking English.”

  “JJ, this is the United States. Not Singapore, not Beijing, not Hong Kong. What did you expect?”

  JJ sniffed. “I have never seen so many white, black and brown people before…and I have never been in the minority. It’s unbelievable.”

  Noah paused for a moment. This was something he never gave a thought to. The Caucasian young man had been born and raised in China and having Chinese surround him was entirely normal. Noah never thought of himself as white or yellow.

  Noah shrugged. “Get used to it, JJ. America’s a melting pot. Even weirdos like us can fit in somewhere.”

  JJ glared at him. “You are the weirdo. I am normal.”

  Trading barb for barb, Noah replied, “You are one disrespectful mother. You know that? Come on. Let’s catch an Uber to our hotel.”

  18

  Gravitas

  New York

  Queenie’s concentration was laser-focused as she stepped onto the elevator. With an incredibly tight deadline and many of the pieces coming together, there was little margin for error.

  But shit happens.

  It wouldn’t take long for Hassan’s partners to figure out something was seriously wrong and, more importantly, Noah was coming to town. He might be a newbie, but despite her front, financing and economics was not her strength.

  She needed someone with more ‘gravitas’ and made a call.

  “My dear Queenie,” answered a velvet baritone voice. “Don’t you realize this is past my bedtime?”

  “Sorry, Frank, but I need someone with your skill set.”

  “Oh? Which ones?”

  That’s what Queenie liked about Frank Hodges. He was a multi-dimensional talent and, ostensibly, a member of New York’s upper crust. With an MBA from Wharton, he had his own private investment firm, was on the board of the ballet and on the Salvation Army’s National Advisory Board. He had that special gift of instilling trust, even with the briefest of meetings.

  That was, however, an incomplete picture. In fact, Frank’s company, in conjunction with Olivia’s father’s Hong Kong law firm, laundered hundreds of millions of Chin’s money. He was also no stranger to death, courtesy of a four-year mercenary stint with Executive Outcomes in Angola and Sierra Leone.

  “Possibly many of them, possibly only one or two. I’m dealing with a couple of ex-lawyers. One of them chucked law to play jazz piano and the other stole my father’s money and started a foundation. I want to get it back and I need your help.”

  “Now that’s a challenge I can’t ignore. What do you want me to do?”

  Queenie admitted, “The plan’s evolving because I don’t have a clear picture yet. But everything’s likely to come down in two days, maybe three. Can I count on you?”

  “Of course.”

  Queenie and Frank spent the next half hour hammering out a plan. They agreed that Frank wouldn’t be flying solo and that some muscle with acting chops would be necessary. Frank would spend tomorrow finding the right people, as well as setting up a respectable front that would be hard for anyone to challenge. They could have discussed for another three hours but Queenie spotted Abby and Olivia climbing out of a cab in front of the Vector Building.

  “Gotta go. Will talk soon.” Queenie disconnected her call with Frank. The elevator arrived on the lobby floor at 10:47 p.m. As she stepped out, Queenie watched amusedly as the security guard patted down and frisked Abby and Olivia in the security room of Skyscape’s building at 10:47.

  “This is almost as bad as trying to get into the White House,” complained Olivia after she and Abby made it through the checkpoints.

  “It’s worse, because a lot more work gets done here than in DC,” replied Queenie as the trio headed to the elevator.

  Pianist and singer had thought of nothing but this tour since Queenie called. In the cab, they searched the internet to see which of their favorite artists had
recorded there. The list was pretty damned long, not to mention at least two platinum records were produced at Skyscape—including one from a brand new act. They were positively giddy.

  But, when they arrived at the front of the shabby building, they realized they better stop acting like schoolgirls being asked out on their first date and behave more like rational business professionals.

  Olivia tried to be as reserved as possible. “We really appreciate this, Queenie, but you don’t know that much about us. Like...”

  “Like why would I be interested in working with the two of you? Why should I take a chance? Like am I one of those types that’s going to run out of money and then force you to pony up for ‘expenses’?” finished Queenie.

  “Something like that,” admitted Olivia.

  “Didn’t take long but I did some due diligence. Gateway Pacific Hotel lounge. Abby was a featured performer there for two weeks to outstanding reviews. She went to Julliard School of Music. During that time, she sang backup on a few hundred sessions and placed in the top three in a dozen competitions. If she had a green card, she would have been working non-stop instead of having to go to school to stay here. You went to Harvard Law School but played every Thursday night at a Boston club from 10 p.m. to midnight where you were the resident pianist and got to play with not only Boston’s top jazzers but anybody visiting from out of town. The two of you got looks and talent and let’s be honest. If Diana Krall were a maggot, do you think she’d be where she is today? How am I doing so far? Or you want to hear more?”

  “No, no.” Olivia and Abby nodded awkwardly, embarrassed that they asked in the first place. “We’re good.”