Power & Beauty by David Ritz, Tip "t.i." Harris Page A

he didn’t seem happy; his dark eyes looked right at you. When I picked up my key, I saw that he’d left a ticket to the banquet for me. I went upstairs, unpacked, showered, put on a dark suit, and went down to the ballroom. The festivities were just getting under way. There was a cocktail party before the dinner where I didn’t know a soul. I just observed. The crowd was about half white and half black. It was an older group, with most of the men in their fifties or sixties. The women looked a little younger, but there was no one my age. I felt out of place. There was a political atmosphere to the party, and I figured that many of the guys worked for the city or the state. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glance at Wasserman, who was working the room. At six three or four, he towered above everyone. I began to make my way over to introduce myself to him, but just as I got close he reached out to shake the hand of the man standing in front of me and said, “Mr. Mayor, I’m honored you came!” I backed off and gave them space to talk.
    The banquet began promptly at eight. I was seated at a table with three couples and a black woman. The woman, probably in her late forties, sat next to me. She had midnight-black skin, a wide sensuous mouth, and a hip, short-cropped wig that gave her the air of a model. Her clothes were fashionable too. Her dress looked like it was made out of thin gray metal. She was tall and leggy and her eyes were on fire. It was almost like she could burn you with her eyes.
    She introduced herself as Evelyn Meadows. She wanted to know my connection to Wasserman.
    “He’s a friend of my uncle,” I said before asking about her connection.
    “Irv managed my late husband, Johnnie Meadows. You’ve heard of him?”
    “Sure.”
    Johnnie Meadows was an R&B singer who’d died the previous year of a heart attack onstage. He had a big following all over the country.
    “I didn’t know Mr. Wasserman managed singers.”
    “Oh, Mr. Wasserman does everything,” she said. “Mr. Wasserman is a genius.”
    Evelyn Meadows spent the rest of the dinner drinking. She downed two martinis before starting on the wine. Meanwhile, speakers were praising Irv Wasserman to the sky, talking about his generous contributions to every charity you can imagine. A priest spoke, then a rabbi, then a minister, and then, much to my surprise, Bonafide, the same rapper whom Slim had hired to entertain at my sixteenth birthday party. Since then Bonafide had blown up and gone on to national fame. Bonafide seemed completely out of place in this ballroom—what with his baseball cap cocked to the side and his oversized jeans hanging off him—but there he was, talking about how Wasserman’s record label, Complex Music, had taken him to the top and given a whole generation of young people a chance to be heard by the public.
    “This here man is a legend,” said Bonafide, “and is about the only cat I know who goes from old school to new school to all schools while graduating first in every class. Yes, sir, he has paid the dues to tell the news, and, baby, this is your night, Irv.”
    The mayor, who talked about his long association with Wasserman through good times and bad, presented the award, a sculpture in the form of helping hands. “Irv might look like a giant,” he said, “but he’s for the little man. He’s for the downtrodden. He cares.”
    Everyone stood to applaud except for Evelyn Meadows. She was on her third glass of wine. After I sat down, I felt a shoe rubbing up and down the back of my leg. I looked over and caught a wink from Miss Meadows. I didn’t want to respond. After all, I had just gotten to Chicago. I had Wasserman’s telephone number and would call him tomorrow. He had promised he would find a place for me in his organization, and I was eager to learn what that would be. I didn’t need any complications right now. Miss Meadows was a beautiful sexy full-grown woman, but good sense told me to leave