Page 159 of Songbird: Black Kite
“Why don’t you tell me what the issue is then, Cornelius?”
Rapping his knuckles against the glossy black conference table, he stared at me, a calculating look in his eye. I waited him out, but I knew he was considering his next words carefully.
That was one of his strengths, actually. His ability to be patient. I had always been a reactive person, flying off the handle when faced with something difficult.
Knowing what I did now, I could look back and see where that kind of behavior had been severely detrimental. Reacting before thinking had cost me more money and friendships than I cared to admit.
But no more.
Finally, when he felt that he’d let me wait long enough—and cemented his position as the guy in charge, I guessed—Cornelius spoke.
“The issue, Hawk, is that your little adventure into America’s Heartland was poorly timed at best.” Sitting up straighter, he leaned over the table, trying to intimidate me, but I refused to budge.
It was my turn to be unconcerned.
“You can’t just be drumming up this kind of exposure when we have nothing to sell. This is the kind of shit you need to save for an album release or announcing a tour. Really get people talking before we start taking their money again.” He grinned, his smile avaricious as he pictured all the profits he could be getting. “I’m done waiting. I want the final song for the album now, Hawk.”
This was it. This was the moment I’d been planning more than five years for. Finally, after all the months of waiting and plotting and stressing, it was time to make our move.
Pulling a page out of Cornelius’s playbook, I waited, letting him wonder what I was thinking for a fuckin’ change.
“Well?” he questioned, when the silence had gone on long enough to make him uncomfortable. “Give me that song!”
“You see, that’s gonna be a problem, Cornelius. Because we’re not giving you the album.”
Raising his eyebrows, he stared at us incredulously before barking out a sharp laugh.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, I know you heard me. But I’ll say it again, you know, for performative value.” Straightening myself in my chair, I placed both hands on the table as I stared at him. “We are not giving you the last album.”
“Nice try, Hawk, but we have a deal. A contract signed by all of you that locksBlack Kiteinto a four-album deal. You signed that contract willingly and now I want that fourth album.”
“Yeah...no,” Alex chimed in, his smile gleeful. “That ain’t gonna work for us, Corny.”
“You guys really are idiots,” Castor said, shaking his head. “You can fight this all you want, but if you don’t produce that fourth album, you’re all in breach of contract. I’ll sue you for every fucking penny you have.” Narrowing his eyes, Cornelius glared at me. “You won’t even be able to play at an open mic night when I’m finished with you.”
“About that contract,” Mick said, opening his fancy briefcase and removing a stack of papers. “It won’t be an issue.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re going to let them out of it,” Mick said with complete confidence.
“And why the hell would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, Hawk will tell everyone about how you blackmailed him into marrying your daughter with a false police report.”
Cornelius looked a little nervous now, his chest rising and falling as he took rapid breaths, trying desperately to not appear affected, even though I could see the sweat beading at his temples.
“No one will believe that,” he boasted, sitting back as he attempted to maintain his cool. “Hawk has been in trouble with the law before. People won’t even bat an eye if he finds himself in more hot water.” Turning his angry, hateful glare on me, he added, “No one actually gives a shit about Hawk Jameson.”
“Maybe,” Mick agreed, flipping through the papers until he found what he was looking for. “But they might give a shit about the amount of money you’ve embezzled out of this company.” Tossing the papers across the table, Mick shrugged. “Or your shareholders will, anyway.”
This time, the fear on Castor’s face was very clear, the color draining away as he looked at the documents Mick had presented him with.
“Where—where did you get this information?”
“You’re not the only one with contacts, Castor,” Mick offered vaguely, and I smiled. Turned out that Mick really did know people who knew people. The investors he’d found for our new label—some group out of Manhattan calledMisfit Holdings—were very helpful in offering the services of some of their morequestionablefriends, people who were more than capable of digging into all the places that Cornelius Castor wanted to keep hidden. Those same contacts had uncovered a whole host of financial sins, including falsified sales reports, international money transfers to numbered bank accounts in the Cayman Islands, and the fact that he was borrowing money from a whole new crop of investors to cover it all up, leavingCastor Recordsvery, very far in the red.
