a situation. You know how to reach me if there’s trouble. How do I reach you?”
“I’ll give you our unlisted number.” Rondell reached for a notepad and pen on the coffee table and wrote it down for her.
Tyrone shook his shaved head. “These folks out here are terrified of me. I’m their worst nightmare. Your worst nightmare, too, right, girl?”
Des shoved her heavy horn-rims up her nose. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Sure you do. You’re one of those nice, polite girls. Did your homework every night. Stayed away from bad boys like me. Where’d you go to college?”
“West Point.”
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “You saw action?”
“I saw action.”
“The real kind, too. Not a game like I play, hunh?”
“It was no game,” Des said, hearing footsteps approach them on the hardwood floor.
Rondell’s face lit up. “Resident Trooper Mitry, this is Jamella’s sister Kinitra.”
“Hey,” Kinitra said shyly. She was seventeen, maybe eighteen, and real cute in a baby-faced, dimply sort of way. Big, doe eyes. A soft young mouth. Actually, her face looked soft all over, as if it were constructed out of marshmallows. Kinitra wore her orange-streaked hair in a short, punky updo. She was petite, no more than five-feet-four, but she had a lovely, curvy figure. The brightly patterned top and shorts she had on were of the same patchwork design as her older sister’s shift.
“You ain’t heard singing until you’ve heard this little girl,” Clarence informed Des.
Rondell continued to glow in the girl’s presence. It was plain to Des that little brother was ga-ga over little sister. Des wondered if it was mutual.
“She’s not just a sister with a set of pipes,” Tyrone pointed out. “She hears a song one time and she can sit down at the piano and play the whole thing by ear. Been that way since she was, what, ten?”
“Younger. Five, six years old.” Jamella smiled at her. “My baby girl’s a prodigy.”
“Stop it,” Kinitra demurred as she sat down next to her. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Don’t be bashful,” Tyrone said to her. “Be proud. Trooper Mitry, this little girl is going to be the next Rihanna. Except with class and decency. No photos of her naked titties on the web. And no thug’s ever beating the crap out of her. We’re taking our time and doing it proper. She’s only eighteen. A fresh young sister from Houston. But she is going to be huge. Tell her, little brother.”
Rondell nodded his head enthusiastically. “She has an incredibly diverse repertoire—hip-hop, jazz, blues, folk. What’s critical now is how we fuse all of those flavors together. We intend to craft her sound before we present her to a label so as to retain full creative control.”
“And her career will be a family enterprise all the way,” Tyrone explained. “I have the resources to launch her. She’s why I installed a recording studio in the west wing. Cee knows everything there is to know about sound mixing. Rondell will manage the business end. And Jamella is choreographing her whole image—her dance moves, what she wears.”
“I’m designing a clothing line for her,” Jamella said. “Similar to what we have on now. I made these. They’re inspired by our mother’s Bahamian ancestry. Mama passed two years ago. It’ll be our way of honoring her.”
“I like the look,” Des said admiringly.
Jamella arched an eyebrow at her. “Do you really?”
“Absolutely. I’d wear it. It’s not as if I always go around in a uniform.”
“I’d like to see you in a bikini,” Clarence said.
“Oh, shut up, Cee,” Jamella snapped.
“Put on her demo for the trooper to hear,” Tyrone told him. “That old Joan Baez song. The one Bob Dylan wrote.”
“Do you have to?” Kinitra protested.
“Get used to it, girl,” Tyrone said to her. “People all around the world are going to be listening to you soon.”
Clarence reached for a remote control device on the
“I’ll give you our unlisted number.” Rondell reached for a notepad and pen on the coffee table and wrote it down for her.
Tyrone shook his shaved head. “These folks out here are terrified of me. I’m their worst nightmare. Your worst nightmare, too, right, girl?”
Des shoved her heavy horn-rims up her nose. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Sure you do. You’re one of those nice, polite girls. Did your homework every night. Stayed away from bad boys like me. Where’d you go to college?”
“West Point.”
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “You saw action?”
“I saw action.”
“The real kind, too. Not a game like I play, hunh?”
“It was no game,” Des said, hearing footsteps approach them on the hardwood floor.
Rondell’s face lit up. “Resident Trooper Mitry, this is Jamella’s sister Kinitra.”
“Hey,” Kinitra said shyly. She was seventeen, maybe eighteen, and real cute in a baby-faced, dimply sort of way. Big, doe eyes. A soft young mouth. Actually, her face looked soft all over, as if it were constructed out of marshmallows. Kinitra wore her orange-streaked hair in a short, punky updo. She was petite, no more than five-feet-four, but she had a lovely, curvy figure. The brightly patterned top and shorts she had on were of the same patchwork design as her older sister’s shift.
“You ain’t heard singing until you’ve heard this little girl,” Clarence informed Des.
Rondell continued to glow in the girl’s presence. It was plain to Des that little brother was ga-ga over little sister. Des wondered if it was mutual.
“She’s not just a sister with a set of pipes,” Tyrone pointed out. “She hears a song one time and she can sit down at the piano and play the whole thing by ear. Been that way since she was, what, ten?”
“Younger. Five, six years old.” Jamella smiled at her. “My baby girl’s a prodigy.”
“Stop it,” Kinitra demurred as she sat down next to her. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“Don’t be bashful,” Tyrone said to her. “Be proud. Trooper Mitry, this little girl is going to be the next Rihanna. Except with class and decency. No photos of her naked titties on the web. And no thug’s ever beating the crap out of her. We’re taking our time and doing it proper. She’s only eighteen. A fresh young sister from Houston. But she is going to be huge. Tell her, little brother.”
Rondell nodded his head enthusiastically. “She has an incredibly diverse repertoire—hip-hop, jazz, blues, folk. What’s critical now is how we fuse all of those flavors together. We intend to craft her sound before we present her to a label so as to retain full creative control.”
“And her career will be a family enterprise all the way,” Tyrone explained. “I have the resources to launch her. She’s why I installed a recording studio in the west wing. Cee knows everything there is to know about sound mixing. Rondell will manage the business end. And Jamella is choreographing her whole image—her dance moves, what she wears.”
“I’m designing a clothing line for her,” Jamella said. “Similar to what we have on now. I made these. They’re inspired by our mother’s Bahamian ancestry. Mama passed two years ago. It’ll be our way of honoring her.”
“I like the look,” Des said admiringly.
Jamella arched an eyebrow at her. “Do you really?”
“Absolutely. I’d wear it. It’s not as if I always go around in a uniform.”
“I’d like to see you in a bikini,” Clarence said.
“Oh, shut up, Cee,” Jamella snapped.
“Put on her demo for the trooper to hear,” Tyrone told him. “That old Joan Baez song. The one Bob Dylan wrote.”
“Do you have to?” Kinitra protested.
“Get used to it, girl,” Tyrone said to her. “People all around the world are going to be listening to you soon.”
Clarence reached for a remote control device on the
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