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"I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness." - Al Pacino
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February 22, '01
RACONTEUR
Doug Morris, current Chief Excutive Officer of Universal Music Group, pondered the view of Manhattan's skyline from the floor-to-ceiling window of his corner office. Given any day, he was solely concerned with the advancement of the company and today was not any different.
Turning to his mahogany desk, he approached his seat to study the business model on his desk. It was of a new-ish streaming service he'd come up with for UMG, PressPlay, which (for $9.95/month) allowed for 250 streams and 20 temporary downloads while offering limited CD-burning capabilities at higher price points than the ready-to-buy CDs in-store.
Translation: it was a terrible, terrible model.
It was so terrible that it was, in fact, failing and Morris was catching much flack for the monstrosity. PressPlay was supposed to be Universal's response to Napster as a legal streaming site that would overthrow the pirating nuisance, but for some reason Morris couldn't grasp, it wasn't working.
His mind wandered to how someone else, under most of Napster's noise, had done a pretty good job of holding a loyal and happy clientele without alerting the authorities of his existence: Michael Godforsaken Jackson.
His business was piracy too, well, any streaming service not compensating the rightful owners to the music were pirating, but he'd still kept low enough under the law's radar to operate & generated enough money by restricting the usage to people strictly in the Tri-State area: New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut. Morris knew Michael could've expanded if he wanted to, but then he'd get caught and stop making money. The best businessmen know their limits.
Kid's too smart, Doug said to himself, fiddling with his pen.
Before striking a deal with him, Doug had thought of striking VibesLoad down. Michael Lynton from Sony had proposed it to him first during their encounter at the Ritz some time before. Initially, Doug had agreed. Plus, he thought Vibesload was a stupid name for a company, but then again, he had no room to speak after PressPlay had been renamed PressStop in a copy of The Wire due to it's failure. Admittedly, not his proudest moment.
Still, Doug was almost ready to strike the company down when a thought occurred to him. He'd spent all this time, blew through quite the budget, suffered countless verbal beatdowns and pressure from the board for the failure of PressPlay when someone else had it all figured out and it was profitable? He would be stupid to destroy something so perfect.
It was even more perfect when a certain Sean Taylor approached him with an exec from Apple about a deal with Michael. A meeting ensued. He didn't get to acquire the streaming company so it hadn't really gone quite as he wanted, but he'd learned something: he could have it.
Michael was like him, in a shrewd business mogul kind of way. He was hungry for more and had the balls to face tough decisions head-on. He'd sell his company down the river if it made him more money for years to come. Plus, he was right not to sell VibesLoad at that meeting; it was a gross undervaluation of the company and Doug didn't feel like sharing it with Sony or Apple, but he really did need a way to acquire the company. Stat.
Remembering the kid was scheduled for a Forbes interview today after becoming the 8th Wonder of the Business World overnight, Doug thought to give him a call. The phone rang twice before a curt "yo" sounded from the other side.
"Aye, Michael, it's Doug," Doug boomed informatively.
He asked about the interview, the interviewer and whatnot. Pleasantries, really. He was ready to hang up when Michael stopped him.
"Hol' on, Doug, I got a ... hypothetical question for you."
Doug paused before saying, "Go on, then."
"Say you got an old face from the past, who knows some things about you. He goes 'pay x amount of money or get fucked up'. How would you handle that?," Michael sighed.
Oh? The CEO was intrigued, to say the least. He sat up a bit straighter, his leather chair wincing.
"Hypothetically?," he asked, intimating that he knew it was not.
"Yeah, yeah, hypothetically speaking."
"Well, Michael, you and I both came out the dirt to get where we are," Doug started. "You got there faster so you didn't have time to plan anything out. Hypothetically speaking, if I had to deal with old news, I'd spread a nasty rumor or let out a really bad truth about 'em, indirectly of course."
"Yeah," he heard Michael concede impatiently.
However, Morris wasn't done. "If push came to shove, though, it's always a good idea to get rid of trouble ... for good. But that's hypothetically speaking." Of course. Hanging up, he stared at the phone a minute, thinking, before he smiled.
The kid had made his first mistake: trusting someone in the music industry.
And so it began. A true Doug Morris trademark scheme hatched in his balding head. His research was short and sweet seeing as he never cut ties with his "connections" to various criminal kingpins of the gritty New York streets. Oprah's sources had already turned a few stones themselves, as they were preparing their own interview with the wunderkind. He was quite delighted with what he found.
He'd heard of the man named Elijah, who had truly pulled the biggest disappearing act many had seen, fleeing straight to Cuba after somehow evading the restrictions of the No-Fly list. Doug always thought he was bit of a street myth, but he really existed.
He'd used many young boys for years to do his bidding and turn a profit, Michael being one of them. Morris found Elijah had used Michael to scam and defraud not only a number of civilians, but government funds as well. The only reason Elijah had managed to run such a tight ship and keep under the radar for as long as he did was by cleverly emancipating the boys using dead people's signatures for parents.
It was all very interesting, fascinating even and the history made it too easy for Morris. He had it all carefully planned out in 3 hours time. A flight ticket to be sent to Elijah. A visa and passport in the name of James Green, a practicing deacon whose services were required by the Abyssinian Baptist Church. Keys to an apartment with $20,000 sitting in a freezer. All that was left was a letter and a yellow envelope.
Folding the letter, he enclosed it into the envelope along with the other documents and the keys, inscribing the Cuban P.O. box he'd triple checked onto the exterior. The letter was a long shot, not specific and written on a need-to-know basis; Elijah could very well suspect it came from a Fed, rip it up and go about his day, but something told Doug this would work.
He thought of saving himself the trip to the post office and sending his secretary, but she was sick today and he trusted no one but her. Grabbing his coat, he headed out to do his own bidding. Although footage of him entering the post office could be used against him in a court of law should he be caught enabling a wanted felon into the U.S., he didn't sweat it. After all, he didn't just have friends in seedy backalleys; he had friends in high places, too.
April 25, '01 (think: chapter 21)
Leaving his meeting with Michael and Enzo, Doug headed back to rainy Manhattan on his way to a meeting with his latest investment. He stepped out of the dark showers and into the renowned and particularly exclusive, 10-table Italian restaurant, Rao's.
A culinary Fort Knox, seating was said to be available only to those who knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who-- you get the point.
Though it was empty tonight, A-list celebs, Presidents and gangsters alike were likely to chop it up in the dimly-lit joint and enjoy a seafood salad or super-sized meatballs, served family-style while they discussed their personal affairs. No one came for the glamour or for snobby brownie points; they came for the hush-hush ambiance, the privacy. Oh, the secrets these walls held ...
Doug shook hands with the owner (an old friend) and caught up with some small talk before taking his usual seat at the front, by the window to the right, awaiting the arrival of his company. He checked his watch, reading 11:54 p.m. One more minute.
"Are they here?," he asked the owner, Frank, with an unreadable expression.
"Certo, in the kitchen playing dominoes or poker. Should I call them out?"
The music exec shook his head and tut-tutted in response. "I don't need 'em yet."
He removed a cigar from his suit coat's breast pocket and tapped it on the table lightly. Looking up, he saw a dark figure tap on the glass window. Right on time.
He nodded to the owner, who let the man in, seating him with Doug and asked him about a drink.
"No, we're good, Frank," Morris answered for both of them. The stranger raised an eyebrow. "We have business to attend to tonight."
"Actually," the man cut in, "I believe I'll have a Chivas on the rocks."
The Sicilian restaurateur cut his eyes to Doug, wordlessly seeking his ok in the awkward silence.
"Well, Chivas on the rocks it is," Doug chuckled, raising his hands up.
Without missing a beat, Frank parted the table with a warm smile, informing them he'd be right back and to let him know if they needed anything, anything! Kitchen closed and all, he would take care of it.
Chuckling, Doug reached for another cigar in his breastpocket and offered it to the man before him, who accepted.
Doug pointed his chin to the cigar. "That's a Regius--"
"Double Corona," the guy interrupted, rolling it around before smelling it. "An experience just to get one. All buyers fly straight to Regius' HQ and create their own blend. Leave with a 1,000 of 'em. Very artisinal."
"It's quite the business model," Doug noted, pleased to hear of the odd gentleman's interest in cigars.
"Who'd you bring with you? Your son? No, don't tell me, I know-- your mistress."
"The mistress, actually. The missus gave me too much of an earful about the 53 Gs," Morris amusedly answered.
He signaled to the owner for a cutter. "I guess you learned quite a bit about cigars over there in Cuba, eh?"
"Sure did. Was gonna jump into the business until your little letter reached me."
"Well, you'll forgive the secrecy," Doug returned, cutting the cap off his cigar.
He watched as Elijah did so as well, with ease, toasting the foot of the cigar with a polished chrome Zippo lighter (every cigar aficionado's staple) as he rotated it above the flame.
Elijah, not necessarily here for chit chat and breadsticks, queried: "So, why are we here?"
He lit his cigar, gently puffing a few times without inhaling, the cigar still hanging above, but not touching the flame. "At Rao's, no less. Never thought I'd get a seat in this place. You must be pretty well connected, ownin' a seat here and comin' in when you like."
Morris stopped blowing on the foot of his cigar, as it had burned evenly, the whole end of it glowing red like the restaurant's exterior.
"I know the owner. Frank Pellegrino," Doug started. "Been knowin him and his family for a long time. I shook Sinatra's hands thanks to him and I worked in showbiz at the time, so that's sayin a lot."
"Is that so?," Elijah jeered, ashing his cigar.
The men took a minute to themselves, puffing away and sizing each other up in their respective minds. Between the two there was no trust, but there was respect. No loyalty, but certainly an alliance. Not friends, but partners. It was not lost on one that it would only be a matter of time before the other would cross him, but this was just one of those things where the only way out, was through.
"Lemme give it to you straight, Mr. ..."
"Still Elijah to you and everyone else."
"That's fine," Doug affirmed. "The kid's sitting on gold."
Elijah listened carefully as Doug gave a feverishly detailed account of how truly wealthy Michael was, unknowingly so, and exacted his need for Vibesload, which he knew to be the true advancement of the music industry if tweaked properly. Doug marveled at how the algorithm alone was ages ahead of its time while displaying a strong expertise in artificial intelligence and data collection, both central to the rise and emergence of multiple Fortune 500 companies.
"So I'm sitting here asking myself, why should I have to sit here and watch such a smart guy be so stupid?," Doug spit out in disdain. "He could run Wall Street, healthcare, tech, and marketing, all with a drink in one hand, and the other on his junk. What a putz."
Elijah hummed in agreement. "He could run you, I mean, if he had to choose the music industry. Thinkin' small when he need to be thinkin' big. Thought I taught him better than that."
"I'd cut him some slack if I didn't care about how much money I-- , we could make with a real plan and my guidance cuz it's admirable, I guess. The kid's chasin' his dream, but it's not enough."
"Well then, the way I see it, the only way to change his course would be to crush his dream-- but something tells me you already know that. The real question here is not what to do, but what I gots to do with it."
Doug snapped his finger in a quick motion and pointed to Elijah: "Bingo."
Eli chuckled and shook his head knowingly. Placing his cigar onto his ashtray, he reached for his drink instead, swirling it so that in the dead silence, only the ice cubes hitting the glass rhythmically could be heard.
Tink. Tink. Tink.
"I already got in good with the girl's family like you paid me to do," he noted after taking a sip of his smooth, cold, whiskey. "Can't see how I can help beyond that."
"Oh, you could."
"Can't. He wouldn't trust me with a pencil."
"Well, he doesn't need your trust for this cuz we're playin' an old game called extortion here."
"Extort him?," Eli snickered. "What, you want me to rattle him for his lunch money? Shake him down?"
"Shakedown, blackmail, whatever it is you need to do. All the dirt you got on him, he could be bleeding hundreds of thousands of dollars a month."
"Oh? And he's just gonna let me hustle him 'til what? Until he goes broke?"
Shrugging, Doug rejoined, "That or until he drops the label. Let him know, to let it go or else."
Roaring with laughter now, Elijah gaped in astonishment at the older man before him.
"Have you even met the boy? I mean, really sat in a room and spoke with him?," he beseeched. "Because if you have, then you know it would only take the first month before he took matters into his own hands and put my ass six feet under."
Doug stared quietly, the irony of Elijah's words not lost on him at all. Because, you know, he did meet Michael and would take a huge role in Elijah's six feet journey below the surface.
Unsuspecting of the truth that lied before him, Elijah continued: "Listen Charlie Brown. You can call the boy stupid all you want, but I been knowin' him a long time and he ain't never been a pushover. He's not gonna let me punk him out his own shit. You gotta come harder than some fucking blackmail."
He shook his head, put his glass down and began to stand up as he readied to leave, believing the night had been a huge waste of time when two beefy hands clamped onto his shoulder and forced him back into his seat.
"The fu--," he uttered harshly, looking over his shoulder to find two stronger men on either side of him. He turned to Morris with a cocked head and amusement in his eyes. "Oh-ho-ho, so you tryna strongarm me, mista big shot?"
"Please Elijah, let's not jump to such radical conclusions. We're partners, you and I. Finish your drink, we'll figure something out, Andrei and Matei here will make sure of it."
"Getcho' rabid I-Ties offa me."
"No, actually, they're Romanian," Doug corrected, signaling for the big, scary men to let go. "My best men."
"Fuck around and you're gonna lose your best to mine," Eli warned menacingly, dusting his shoulders off.
"I won't if I let 'em drag you to the kitchen tonight. Matei has about 50 ways of getting rid of a human body in less than 6 hours," Doug menaced coldly in hushed tones, leaning in closer to the man across the table. "Now, since you know Michael so well, how about you think about a solution to this little ... complication?"
Tauntingly, Elijah challenged, "Can't you think of something yourself?"
"I could, but I'm also like you: don't really wanna get in the mud."
Elijah studied him, knowing Doug was referring to his propensity for exploitation. He took another sip of his now watery whiskey and explored his options: add onto his rap sheet for this old ass thug and some big money or get chopped into pieces and thrown into a meat grinder by two Romanians on steroids. Once again, the only way out of this building conspiracy was through it.
"Look, I don't have a plan for you, but--," he offered with defeat, "here's what I do know. The only way Michael would give up his record label is if it proved to be unsuccessful. It's gotta hurt him more than it's helping him by turning into a real money pit. If the label went bankrupt, he'd file a Chapter 11 and scrap up something better. Maybe a new label, but more likely another website and to fund it, he'd sell Vibesload.
"As long as it's his idea to drop the label, he'll do it in a heartbeat and he'll come straight to you, too. You give him a fair offer and it's yours."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Thought you didn't have a plan."
"I don't. You still need to work the details, like what setbacks would he spill money into and making sure it doesn't look like straight-up sabotage. Obviously you'll need to distance yourself; if you pop up every time something goes wrong, he'll figure it out."
There was a momentary silence as Doug worked the logistics in his mind. It would be a much longer process than a classic gun-to-head scenario but much less risky and still more covert than the blackmail stratagem.
However, Elijah was right; he needed someone who could get close to Michael and his endeavors, but who wasn't loyal to him. Someone on the inside. Someone who would know what metaphoric pipe to hit for the label to bleed out millions of dollars.
"What happened to that partner of his? How's the dynamic there?," he wondered suddenly.
"Sean?," Elijah staggered. "What, you want him to be our little Judas?"
Chuckling quietly, Doug muttered, "Watch it. And yes, I mean he's close to Michael isn't he? The kid'll never see it coming that way."
"Nah, he's not gonna switch on him."
"C'mon. Every man has his price."
"Men like me and you, yes, but these chumps are best friends forever. You really wanna take your chances and get caught off-rip?"
"Good point. You'll do it," Doug concluded shortly.
Elijah blinked, staring fixedly at the Machiavellian character before him who had pulled at strings all night long, actually for months now, under the guise and behavior of someone he was not. This calculated patience, the quiet scheme, the unfaltering devotion to this conspiracy; Elijah cursed himself for not having seen it coming.
"Wow," Elijah blew out quietly from his little seat on the dead corner of East 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue. "I know what you are."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"I shoulda sussed it out from the letter, right from the jump," he scoffed . "You're a con artist. A real Ponzi type. How long you been planning this? And when do you count on double-crossin' me?"
"I could tell you I'm not going to, but you wouldn't believe me anyway. Tell you what though. I'll make you a proposition: a cleared rap sheet and 10 mill' in a Swiss account. Tax-free."
"I'm never gonna see that money and you know that. I'll be dead as soon as you don't need me anymore."
"No, actually I'd turn you in, cuz it's easier. Could be tonight, if you walk out that door without my deal."
"Ok, well, if you're not gonna kill me then I guess I'll take my chances," Eli retorted as he stood up. The two men posted behind him reached for him again before Doug motioned for them to let him go.
"I know all five district attorneys of this city. I know 32 out of all 94 in this country. How many phone calls do you think I'd need to make before I get you on the No Fly List? How many favors you think I need to call in before I have a SWAT team waiting for you at the airport?
"Look, I don't wanna do this. You think I wanna do this? I don't. We can be partners, Elijah. That kid's where he's at cuz of you. You helped him tap into his hidden talent and I wanna help you get your rightful compensation for that. Please, just ... hear me out."
Elijah was at the door, back turned to the table he stood from when he stopped. Doug had baited the hook now; capitalizing on Elijah's delusional entitlement to Michael's fortune, knowing it would reach him. Doug watched as he sauntered slowly back to the table, willing to hear him out.
"Deal?," Doug suggested, outstretching a hand for a shake.
Elijah extended his but halted. "I want a million in cash right now."
"No."
"Sorry, I should've led that demand with the simple fact that it takes nothing for me to take your crooked deal and then let Michael in on what you got goin' on. Something tells me this kinda info is pretty valuable," Elijah shrugged threateningly, generating a smile out of Doug, who shook his head.
"You know what? I retract my previous statement. Let's say I give you the money. Where would you stash it? A million dollars in cash can't just lay around in that crappy apartment I set you up in."
"Simple. I, James Green, practicing deacon, would happily accept your donation to the Abyssinian Baptist Church. Feel free to send a check and join us on Sunday. And of course, all donations are tax-deductible," the charlatan announced happily, shaking the executive-by-day and con-artist-by-night's hand.
"It would be my pleasure," Doug smiled, catching his drift before calling out to the owner to bring him the 1792.
The men drank to their long night, fruitful negotiations, and their new alliance. Elijah was particularly pleased with himself for outsmarting the bigwig who had tried to force his hand. Doug was equally pleased, knowing Elijah would halt the label's success before he met his inevitable fate, thanks to Michael's deal just hours ago, thus saving him $10 million. He'd killed two birds with one stone tonight.
"We've got a lot of work to do, huh Ponzi?," Elijah joked, mellowed by the top-shelf whiskey.
Doug laughed, exhaling, "Ahh, forgetaboutit!"
"Oy vey. How am I gonna pull this off?," Elijah wondered out loud, more to himself.
"Chin up, partner," Doug assured him duplicitously. "We're playing the long game now."
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A/n: ^^ Me to everyone who was tryna tussle cuz I don't update but now I did so what was said??? OH OK !
So this chapter was messin me up for a while, since I started the book actually b/c I knew I had to pick the right moment to publish it and up until now, it felt too early. Given the future events, this was the perfect time to do so.
Then I had to work the ambiance cuz I rlly wanted it to feel like a secret conversation at Rao's 😭 I've read soooo many articles and stories and archives , like I've always been obsessed w/ the exclusivity of Rao's & the ppl who frequent it so I couldn't mess this up!!
Did y'all see this coming tho?? 👀 I know a lot of ppl were bankin on Elijah or Sean being the sole / main antagonist 🤭
Also, imma drop a visual chapter, it's just pictures and vibes like Yana's bday car, her ring etc... just stuff I forgot to add in previous chapters. Should be cute! 😝
SEE U SOON FELLOW SOLDIERS OF LOVE AND GUARDIANS OF THE GOLDPANTS 🫡 ❤️☮️💃🕴🏻🌸🌺🌼🌹