Dead By Popular Demand (Devil Barnett Detective Book 2) Read online

  LONDON

  This was the stuff that dreams are made of…

  The five young men riding in the back of the long black limousine were on top of the world. In only a few months they had made the leap from living in one of the poorest housing estates in the East End of London to becoming pop stars and renting luxury in up-market Holland Park where their neighbours included bankers and internet millionaires.

  Nobody had expected this kind of success, least of all Rebel, Waxie Maxie, Shogun, Man O War, Goldfinger, Wicked and Filthy Rich, collectively known as the Dancehall Dogz. They couldn’t believe it wasn’t all still a dream. Their debut album had gone triple platinum within its first two months of release, generating millions of dollars.

  The flavour of their music was Jamaican with a touch of hip hop. Radio stations played their album nonstop all over the world. From America to England to Germany to Japan, people knew their faces and their music. They were living the dream life that magazines wrote about. All provided courtesy of their New York record company.

  As the limo crawled along London’s crowded neon-lit West End heading towards Marble Arch, the boys relaxed and dared to dream of the things that awaited them: big money, beautiful women, fast cars, the best gear gold credit cards, the works.

  “What you reckon this is all about?” asked Filthy.

  “Don’t know,” answered Duncan, the big bodyguard who was their constant companion these days. “Max rang up about an hour ago and said to get everyone over to the meeting, yeah.”

  “I bet it’s about the tour, I hope it is, I’m ready to break out of the UK, yo,” chimed Rebel who had traded in his natural cockney style of speech for that of the American hip hop culture.

  Twenty minutes later the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the Cumberland Hotel in Marble Arch. The five pop stars rushed from the car under Duncan’s guard into the hotel lobby where they quickly entered a waiting elevator that took them up to one of the hotel’s best suites where they were met by Shogun and Wicked. Wicked puffed on a big spliff and blew smoke across the room lazily as the other members helped themselves from the drinks tray loaded with whiskey and wine. On the cocktail table in front of the ivory-coloured sofa were two more trays. One was laid out with lines of cocaine the other piled high with Jamaican size spliffs.

  “Wha’ppen,” Shogun hailed the others.

  “Safe,” “cool,” “just chillin,” came the various replies.

  “What kinda fuckin meeting we havin at twelve midnight?” Man O War wanted to know.

  “That’s because there’s a six hour difference, remember it’s six o’clock in the evening New York time,” reminded Duncan.

  Rebel checked his Rolex, which was also a gift from the record company. “Then let’s do it,” he told the bodyguard grinning through a set of teeth adorned by gold markings.

  Duncan dialled the number and put the phone on speaker. On the third ring a husky female voice answered.

  “Grooveline Music, may I help you?”

  “Hiya Monica, girl, this is Duncan.”

  “Hey Duncan,” she cooed in a sexy voice hot enough to melt the receiver.

  “We got a conference call with Max,” he grinned into the phone.

  “Just a sec,” she answered as she switched the call.

  “What’s up my brothas across the pond,” the voice came on the line from New York. It belonged to J.T. Brown the American manager of the Dancehall Dogz. If there was any one person who could claim credit for their success, it was J.T.

  The group in London shouted their return greetings.

  He had discovered them in a small dance talent competition. He liked them so much that he arranged for their demo recordings the following week and, soon after, had left London with the demo tapes and was back in New York talking to record companies. Within a month of shopping the demo tapes, J.T. had landed a deal with Grooveline.

  “I hope everybody is sitting down or lying down or something because, if you ain’t, what I’m about to say is going to knock you off your feet,” J.T. announced.

  The Dancehall Dogz exchanged glances in greedy anticipation, like a wild pack of canines on the scent of a pork chop drop.

  “Y’all ready?” asked J.T.

  “Go on then,” shouted Waxie Maxie. All this tension was making him nervous.

  “Well, the new single just went to number 3 with a bullet over here.”

  “RAASCLAAT, a bullet! Yeah mon,” Shogun grinned and clicked his index and middle fingers together with a flick of the wrist.

  “Kiss me neck,” echoed Waxie Maxie with similar gleeful enthusiasm.

  “Wait, wait hold up, that ain’t all,” J.T. continued. “So far we’ve already got forty dates locked down for the U.S. tour.”

  “Forty dates, fuck me silly,” the words rolled out of Filthy Rich’s mouth as naturally as his own breath.

  “How we travellin?” Man O War wanted to know.

  “First class all the way, baby,” J.T. answered. “We also got spots on Soul Train, The Tonight Show, David Letterman… we bustin out.”

  “When do we start?” Rebel inquired.

  “Hold on…” J.T. said.

  Then a white man’s voice answered him. It belonged to Max Hammill, the president and owner of Grooveline Music.

  “We have you guys scheduled in to begin rehearsals next Monday. The first date is two weeks from then. You guys are the hottest thing since pussy was invented, I’ll tell you.”

  “This is Thursday, are we talking bout Monday coming?” Goldfinger asked. He was the quiet one of the group. He seldom spoke, well not verbally anyway. He did his talking on the wheels of steel. He was the group’s funky deejay.

  “That’s right, I’ll see you fellas four days from today,” Max answered.

  “How long we in America for?” Shogun inquired.

  “The way things are looking, fellas, I think we’re talking a permanent move, at least for a couple years. I’ve got some apartments in the city for you to look at. Nice places too - swimming pools, satellite dishes, maid service, the works,” Hammill said.

  “Damn, moving to America. Damn,” Shogun said, hardly able to believe his own words.

  “Maxin and relaxin in the Big Apple,” Rebel laughed.

  “Listen, you guys get going and I’ll see you in a few days. Gotta go, gotta go,” Max said.

  J.T.’s voice came back on the phone. “So, what it look like brothas?” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. Like a magician who had just pulled off a magnificent feat, asking the audience if they liked what they just thought they saw.

  Wicked broke the silence.

  “I think I gon be living in America, that’s what I think,” he beamed.

  Filthy Rich stepped to the centre of the room, holding one of the hotel’s complimentary bottles of champagne. Duncan handed everyone a glass and Filthy poured some bubbly in each. Offering up a toast, Filthy simply looked around at the other Dancehall Dogz and said, “Here’s to America.”

  The members all drank in silence as the excitement of their triumphant moment twinkled in their eyes like stars in the skies of a soft summer’s night.

  CHAPTER 1

  New York City.

  Shogun relaxed in the warm flowing water and thought about miracles. He had previously never believed in miracles but if someone asked him now he would have to say that he had gotten it all wrong. After all, wasn’t he living proof that miracles happened? Here he was under twenty five and livin extra large already. He was in demand. Like now as he sat in the jacuzzi with these two beautiful women freaking him off.

  “You l
ike this, Gun?” Chandra asked as she stroked his penis back and forth while licking his left nipple.

  Shogun simply nodded and smiled. Peaches kissed his face intermittently and thrust her long pink tongue into his ear.

  “Stand up,” Chandra said.

  He did as she asked without question.

  She reached out with a manicured hand and took a dollop of honey from a jar on a table near the edge of the jacuzzi. She wiped the honey on his organ and then began to suck it off.

  Peaches held a glass of champagne up to his lips and, as he drank deeply, bit his nipples, first one and then the other.

  Chandra eased him down into the water, straddled him and placed him inside her and began to gyrate vigorously. Of the two women she was the more aggressive. She didn’t really like Peaches but what could she do. Shogun liked threesomes and she knew that if she didn’t play it his way, he would get someone else who would. So she took what she could get. Peaches on the other hand was more laid back. She never pushed. Just did all the right things at the right times. To Shogun they complimented each other perfectly.

  Peaches positioned herself directly behind Shogun and reached around each of his shoulders and started to squeeze his nipples. To be honest he was tired. They had been going at it most of the day. As a result of the two women’s expert manipulation of his body parts Shogun had been ejaculating like it was going out of style. He felt sleep coming on just when the phone rang. Peaches handed him the mobile.

  “Yeah,” he spoke lazily into the phone.

  It was Man O War.

  “Don’t forget about later,” War reminded him.

  “What time ?” Shogun asked.

  “Four thirty,” War said.

  “What time is it now?” Shogun asked.

  “Almost four,” War told him.

  “Shit. I’ll be there, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t be late, Gun. This is a big move, yeah, we’re going to make a serious move that’s going to kick us right to the top of the music production food chain, yeah.

  “I feel you,” Shogun stated using his latest bit of rapspeak.

  “OK,” Man O War said and hung up.

  Shogun relaxed back into the jacuzzi.

  “Gotta go, got an appointment,” he said.

  “You coming back, right?” Chandra wanted to know.

  “Yeah, but it’s going to be late. I’ll check you later.”

  He was satisfied sexually. Now he wanted to get into a creative frame of mind.

  He and War had business to do. He thought about this as Peaches washed him down. As he stepped out of the jacuzzi Chandra dried him off with a thick green double fluffy bath towel. He thought about what kind of lyrics he would use for their new project. He was a first class rap lyricist. Everyone said his skills were a gift. He wasn’t sure how he did it himself. He just did it. A gift from God. Even as a young kid back in London with his uncle who was a calypsonian playing melodies on the guitar, Shogun would step up and make up lyrics. At ten he was as good as some popular calypsonians. Once he even got to meet the greatest calypsonian of them all, The Mighty Sparrow at the Notting Hill Carnival. They even did a tune together. Yeah, words were his gift. He had started writing rap and dancehall lyrics using the name Shakespeare, but decided that Shogun fitted him better. After all, back in the olden days of Japan no one was mightier than the Shogun.

  He walked into the other room and started to pick out an outfit for the day from his seemingly endless wardrobe of designer clothes. He always tried to match his gear according to the place he was going. Today he was going to Harlem. The home of the funkiest brothas in the world. They loved him in Harlem, even though he was from London. His acceptance in America’s number one famous black ghetto was something he was extremely proud of. A few months ago he was invited to a cipher in Harlem at the world famous Apollo Theatre. In the rap world an invitation to the uptown cipher was like being invited to a command performance in front of the Queen of England. At the cipher, all of the Harlem rappers would get together and freestyle. On the day he was asked, he was on the stage with the elite of the rap world. There was a boxing ring in the middle of the stage and rappers would jump in two at a time and try to knock each other out with lyrics, the crowd being the judges. The rappers started to freestyle, throwing lyrics this way and that, twisting, bending, breaking and turning words and phrases inside out.Shogun found himself in the middle of the ring doing his thing and holding his own. When he finished, even the other rappers gave him a standing ovation. Yeah, Harlem, New York was the place to be.

  For his gear that day, he choose a black and gold Fubu top with black corduroy pants, black and tan Nikes and a black Kangol cap. He checked himself in the mirror and knew he looked good. Damn good. As he heard an old man in a Harlem bar say once, he was “ready for Freddy.” He felt good, too, as he began to spout lyrics as naturally as rain falling from the sky on a cloudy day.

  “You remember what we talked about?” Chandra said, sticking her head inside his bedroom and interrupting his flow.

  Damn, he was tired of her now. He wished she would just hurry up, get her shit together and go, but the silly cow kept on talking.

  “I need something so I can come to you whenever you want me. Something dependable. Just a Chevy or Ford, nothing fancy.” Chandra looked around over her shoulder to make sure Peaches wasn’t lurking around the door, listening.

  “Like I told you, I’ll take care of it, yeah,” Shogun said.

  She ran her hand against his crotch and kissed him on the neck. But his mind was on other things. She sensed it and backed off. Shogun’s mind reverted back to lyrics. As he finished dressing he continued humming one of his latest creations.

  “Got to get the goodies while the goodies are hot

  Depend on me to hit your G-spot

  I’m a poet, a prophet a guru a sage

  Expandin your consciousness, takin you to the next stage.”

  his bedroom and interrupting his flow. Damn he was tired of her now Just a Chevy or a Ford, nothing fancy.”Chandra looked around over her shoulder to make sure Peaches wasn’t lurking around the door, listening.

  “Like I told you, I’ll take care of you,” Shogun said.

  She ran her hand against his crotch and kissed him on the neck. But his mind was on other things. She sensed it and backed off. Shogun’s mind reverted back to lyrics. As he finished dressing he continued humming one of his latest creations.

  “Got to get the goodies while the goodies are hot

  Depend on me to hit your G-spot

  I’m a poet, a prophet a guru a sage

  Expandin’ your consciousness, takin’ you to the next stage.”

  He decided not to take his new Jeep up into Harlem because if he decided to get high he didn’t want the police to stop and hassle him. As sure as not they would see him, a young black man driving a new jeep and automatically think he was a drug dealer. So he had Peaches call to get him a limo.

  Uptown it was still early, only 4:45pm, but the sun was already showing signs of starting to set in the clear January sky. Even though it was the middle of winter and cold as hell, every now and again rays of sunshine would bite through the frosty urban wilderness to share a little of its warmth with the residents of Harlem like the pope giving absolution to a group of jailhouse sinners.

  Part time minister Sister Sally Henley stood on a Harlem street corner with her sixty seven year old eyes cast up towards the sky. What worried Sister Sally was that it might rain before all of the food she had prepared had been served out. The weather man had forecast a clear day, but the rheumatism in Sister Sally’s hands had told her differently and they never lied. Her hands were aching between her finger joints.Rain was definitely on the way. She just hoped it would wait until the food had been served.

  Sister Sally was what you might call a professional do-gooder if there is such a thing. For the past five years, on the second Sunday of each month after service, she would drive the church van filled
with five or six different dishes she had prepared to some street corner location God had guided her to, where she would set up the church van to feed the hungry. It wasn’t an elaborate set-up by any means. Just a few tables, some steaming pots of food, paper plates, plastic cups, forks and spoons. But over the many years she had been doing this the people of Harlem had come to know her. Most people called her Sister Soul Food, which was the phrase coined by the Amsterdam News, the African American newspaper which had featured her several times. These articles helped raise Sister Sally donations from big corporations, which had enabled her to have several hundred turkeys slaughtered for Thanksgiving and put on a feast for the needy of Harlem.

  With Sister Sally it was always the same routine. Her slogan was “Take a plate and thank the Lord.” Her mission was a pure one. She just wanted to give a few hungry souls a little nourishment as an enticement to see the guiding light that would take them straight to Jesus.

  She squinted up into the clear sky again and then back to the food she had prepared. Sister Sally was an excellent cook. In fact she had worked as a cook in a private school for over twenty years to support and raise her three children. She took the job after her husband Henry was killed in a knife fight over a green-eyed creole woman named Esther Jackson from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, back in the late sixties.

  Sister Sally surveyed her handiwork on the tables before her. There were five pots altogether. One pot was filled with stew beef and vegetables, one with smoked neck bones, one with cabbage, one with rice and another huge pot was full of black eyed peas.

  There was a patter of excitement among the hungry as a long black limousine drove up in front of the building where Sister Sally had set up her tables. When a young man jumped out of the car somebody yelled:

  “Yo, it’s Shogun y’all.”

  Sister Sally was too busy dishing out food to pay much notice. Besides, in her sixty seven years on this earth she had seen enough limousines to last her a lifetime. She also knew that some of the fanciest cars were owned by some of the worst people God ever gave breath to, so she wasn’t the least bit impressed or interested in who the handsome young man was or wasn’t. Besides, she knew that limousine or no limousine, it wouldn’t matter much on the Day of Judgment. On that great day when whoever the young man was stood before the good Lord in heaven, he would be as naked as the day he was born. All the limousines, big houses, important jobs and everything else most people accumulated in this world and held near and dear wouldn’t amount to a hill of pinto beans.