Wicked Ambition

‘Likewise.’

‘Come on through.’ He patted Shawnella’s ass. Robin saw how she pouted at having to share his attention, and shot a dark grimace Robin’s way before disappearing inside.

Barney had been right. This was more a palace than a mansion. Slink’s dominion went on for miles. ‘This is my hall of fame right here,’ he informed her as they passed through a gallery covered wall to wall in awards and accolades, not a spare strip to be seen. ‘I should take y’all on a grand tour but y’all be here for a week.’

Eventually they arrived at the living room—one of them. Barney Grant was seated uncomfortably on a leather couch and clutching a fat cigar he didn’t want to smoke.

‘Y’know my main man G.’ Slink gestured to a guy in a checked shirt and cardigan, who grinned and held his hand out: G-Money, he had been part of the City since the start.

‘Hey,’ he said warmly, ‘how’s it going?’

‘An’ this here’s my brother Principal.’

Robin got a cooler vibe off Principal 7. He was a toughened-up white kid with something to prove, lifting his chin in grudging acknowledgement and regarding her with suspicious, mistrustful eyes. ‘Wassup?’ he muttered sullenly.

‘Y’all want somethin’ t’drink?’ asked Slink.

Robin clocked the fully stocked bar, next to which a second girl, this one with slightly more on but still in a state of partial undress, awaited instruction. ‘A beer would be good.’

The girl popped open a bottle of Corona Light and brought it over.

‘What did you think of the tracks?’ asked Barney.

Slink took a seat, ankle on knee, and smiled, exposing a glinting silver tooth. ‘You got it down, girl, an’ I ain’t even lyin’. So word up, we should make music together.’

‘Last record we dropped sold a million in seven days,’ put in G-Money, real name Gordon Rimeaux. Unlike the rest of the crew G-Money was clean-living, educated, had swept his act up after a difficult childhood: Robin respected him. ‘That’s one week, man, and that’s some crazy shit right there. It’s like even after all these years there’s love on the streets for the City.’

‘What’s she bringin’ to the party?’ Principal folded scrawny arms across his oversized T-shirt. ‘I say we stick to the script and no messin’.’

Robin was confused. ‘What script?’

‘There ain’t no script,’ said G-Money, ‘only my man Principal’s not wise enough in the ways of the world to have figured that shit out yet.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘If the City hadn’t taken you in, where’d you be? Slink took a chance, now it’s you who returns the favour. ’S all in the chain, man, you pass that vibe on.’

‘You wanna tell me how to live my life, asshole?’ Principal stepped forward, ready for battle.

‘Chill,’ warned Slink, and Robin got the impression he was used to dispelling friction. ‘We got a philosophy, you feel what I’m sayin’? We ride with the new school, the cool school, the anything that’s true school, and that’s about my girl Robin right here. G, get on down to the studio, dog, we’re gonna lay out some beats.’

Principal backed off. There was a sinister gleam in his eye. As the youngest member of the group he fronted with the best of them, fuelled by anger at the life that had done him wrong. Robin didn’t know his history but she guessed it made her own look like Little House on the Prairie. He’d take a while to warm up, but she was determined to get on his right side.

Slink’s studio was in his basement and rigged with mixing consoles, drum kits, monitors and mics. It was bigger and better equipped than the booth in which she’d recorded her album back in the UK, and as Slink eased into a chair and began wiring up the track she understood this was his empire and the home he’d always had.

‘Don’t worry about my brother upstairs,’ said G-Money. ‘He’s got beef with most people so don’t take it personal.’

‘I haven’t. But thanks.’

‘You just be doin’ your thing.’

Robin smiled at him. ‘Always do.’

‘It’s since hookin’ up with the track team boys, he ain’t too happy about that. Can’t say I am either, but you gotta give it up for a good cause, you feel me?’

‘Jax Jackson’s idea, right?’

‘Dude’s a clown.’

She couldn’t resist asking. ‘What about Leon Sway?’

G-Money’s countenance changed. It was like a cloud passing over the sun.

‘None of us ever met the guy,’ he said flatly. ‘Guess he’d have a reason to get involved with the anti-weapon stand, though, huh?’

Robin frowned. She thought Leon’s involvement with the charity venture was the stupidest, most hypocritical thing she’d ever heard. What would he know about the streets?

‘How do you mean?’

But G-Money was taking a seat alongside Slink at the workstation.

‘You wanna get in the live room?’ Slink suggested. Barney fired her a thumbs-up. ‘Drop some sounds, see what’s up?’

Robin put Leon Sway from her mind. She was playing with the bigger boys now.

‘You bet I do.’

15

Kristin’s home resembled one of her video sets. It was Friday evening, and in the vast mansion grounds an ivory marquee had been erected in the style of a Disney castle, its billowing fabrics and soaring turrets home to the most perfect princess in the land. On her fourteenth birthday, Bunny White was that princess. Bunny was the star of the show—and the show, it went without saying, had been orchestrated to a military agenda by their mother.

‘Those damn caterers, late as usual!’ bitched Ramona, rampaging through the mansion doors and slapping Kristin’s hand away from a platter of salmon tartare.

‘What? I’m hungry.’

‘Guests are arriving any second,’ she complained. ‘We’ve just this minute put the arrangements out and already you’re troughing. I thought you were dieting.’

‘I don’t need to diet.’ Kristin’s waist was miniature in a clinging peach Marchesa gown. Her face stung at the criticism.

‘Neither do I, but I do it all the same.’ Ramona lived like a bird, pecking on nuts and seeds. ‘It’s part of the job. Image, Kristin, you should know that. Bunny does.’

‘Bunny doesn’t need to lose weight, either.’

‘She will. Fourteen is the cut-off point for those puppy-fat excuses. It’s hard work from here on in. Alexis!’ The catering manager, no doubt hoping she could slip past unnoticed while Ramona was distracted, stilled in her tracks like a fox in the headlights.

‘Yes, Ms White?’

‘Where are the beignets?’