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MOVING UP THE SCHEDULE. DON’T WANT ANY CHANGES OF HEART. I REALLY HOPE YOU ENJOY THOSE 72 VIRGINS. BET THEY’RE NOT AS GOOD AS THE ASS ON THAT BOAT.
    Naseem stared at the phone. He didn’t need to look up, but he did in time to see the explosion before he heard it. The boat raged out of the water, and all of the secondary explosives, put in strategic places he designed, went next. He heard the nails and other detritus whistling through the wind like the Grim Reaper’s advance guard. Then he heard the screams—adults sounding like children and wounded dogs. Those sounds carried, vibrating across the surface of the lake. He let the noise tear into his brain for a second. He was the cause of this. It did not sound like triumph. Oh, to never be a failed martyr.
    Naseem started his Jet Ski. He took out for the next cove. He knew what he needed to do. He just hoped he could avoid being seen doing it.

 
     
     

     

Six
     
     
    P al Joey rolled everything big—big joints, big butts, and, mostly, a big entourage. Childhood friends, neighborhood pals, cousins, and half-brothers now shared in his success. His three albums and dozens of flows on other records skyrocketed him to one of the five or ten most famous rappers on the planet, and even getting to a gig was akin to moving a battalion across a river.
    Hairdressers, make-up artists, logistics, sound, lighting—Pal Joey found a job for all his boys. And they all came along when he performed, even for a simple—and hella early—gig like the one today at one o’clock in the afternoon. Who up at one p.m.?
    Joey adopted Lil’ Wayne’s six figure rule: don’t go out or flow for less than six figures, and don’t pass six figures up. So he was getting paid $100,000 for just showing up and flowing three songs—only THREE songs. He couldn’t believe it. It was all to promote some movie called Sabotage which was using one of his tracks.
    He was told the show needed to start at one p.m. sharp. All his people nodded when the promoters said this, but it signified nothing. They didn’t say anything, but nobody told Pal Joey when the fuck to start, even if they were paying.
    Five limos pulled up to Hollywood Boulevard, just up the block from Grauman’s Chinese Theater. No doubt, many tourists, who would normally be boarding tour buses and putting their hands where Marilyn Monroe put hers, would be put out by all the commotion. But the thousands of people who came were a testimony to Joey’s star power. His fans traveled. They made it out to see him that day, and what a day it was—a bright, high-sky LA day, the kind where sunglasses are necessary just to get out of the car, a beautiful day, like something out of a movie.
    Joey wasn’t in one of the five limos. That was too ordinary for this event. He was being flown in alone in a Sikorsky S-76 helicopter. It was giant, much bigger than needed, and fast as anything. Its wingspan was so big it required a clearing on Hollywood Boulevard which would normally be reserved for a head of state.
    Joey got out of the helicopter, head down, and making the walk. He heard on TV about Elvis’ thousand-yard walk before concerts and how it got him in the right state of mind. That’s what he thought about as he walked down the boulevard through all of the fans. People who didn’t even know who he was were still awed by the entrance. Both sides were barricaded off, and Joey practically bounced down the road. Man, he rolled with some swag.
    The people who didn’t know about the helicopter were on the other end, making their way to the front of the stage. It would soon be time. Already on stage was one of Pal Joey’s up-and-coming acts, Manda, over-emoting her first single. She was trying to channel Whitney and Aretha but sounded more like the cousin who did their nails. Still, it was just the kind of act Pal Joey wanted to add to his Straight Up Cash label. The bitch could sing , thought Joey, and do other things as well . Maybe the