Influence Read online

  Influence

  Carl Weber

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Langston - 1

  Michael - 2

  Tony - 3

  Bradley - 4

  Langston - 5

  Michael - 6

  Langston - 7

  Desiree - 8

  Tony - 9

  Krush - 10

  Kwesi - 11

  James - 12

  Langston - 13

  Kwesi - 14

  Desiree - 15

  Lamont - 16

  Bradley - 17

  Langston - 18

  Krush - 19

  James - 20

  Desiree - 21

  James - 22

  Bradley - 23

  Kwesi - 24

  Desiree - 25

  Michael - 26

  Langston - 27

  Krush - 28

  Lamont - 29

  Perk - 30

  Desiree - 31

  Michael - 32

  Kwesi - 33

  Langston - 34

  Bradley - 35

  Perk - 36

  Kwesi - 37

  Jacqueline - 38

  Langston - 39

  Jacqueline - 40

  Perk - 41

  James - 42

  Bradley - 43

  Krush - 44

  Perk - 45

  James - 46

  Tony - 47

  Kwesi - 48

  Desiree - 49

  Langston - 50

  Lamont - 51

  Tony - 52

  Michael - 53

  James - 54

  Krush - 55

  Langston - 56

  Langston - 57

  Bradley - 58

  Lamont - 59

  Tony - 60

  Bradley - 61

  James - 62

  Michael - 63

  Perk - 64

  Langston - 65

  Urban Books, LLC

  300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109

  Farmingdale, NY 11735

  Influence Copyright © 2018 Carl Weber

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-9458-5507-8

  This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.

  Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Submit orders to:

  Customer Service

  400 Hahn Road

  Westminster, MD 21157-4627

  Phone: 1-800-733-3000

  Fax: 1-800-659-2436

  Langston

  1

  “Yo, we need gas.” The traffic was just starting to ease up as I pushed my Audi Q5 over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge onto the Staten Island Expressway. It had taken a while to round everybody up, but we were finally on our way back to Howard University after spending Easter weekend back home in New York with our families. My mother had surprised me with the new car as an early graduation present. Elaborate gifts were her way of trying to make it up to us for walking out six years ago. “Hey, y’all, seriously, the gas light just came on. Somebody needs to cough up some cash.”

  You want to make a bunch of college students shut the fuck up? Put free food in front of them or ask them to chip in on gas. Either way, you’re going to hear crickets. I held out my palm while trying to keep my eyes on the road, and let out a couple fake coughs, clearing my throat.

  “What’d you say?” my frat brother Krush asked from the seat behind me.

  “Oh, so now y’all deaf?” I flipped my sun visor down to block the rising sun from blinding me. “Y’all heard me. Don’t everybody go reaching in your pockets all at once.” Not one of them made a move to retrieve any money. “Y’all keep playing and the next stop is going to be the Port Authority and the Megabus. You got my word on that.”

  “Man, why you always got to be so damn dramatic and shit?” asked Tony, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat. “You acting more and more like your old man every day.”

  The car erupted in laughter. Everyone got a kick out of his joke except for me. Tony knew I didn’t like anyone joking or talking bad about my father. My pops was my hero. Shit, he was probably their hero too.

  “You got a problem with that?” I asked.

  There was a quiet pause before Tony said, “No, but you the one with the fancy ride and the rich old man. I’m barely getting by on financial aid and student loans. Give a brother a break, frat.” He threw up our fraternity sign, and I heard Krush and Kwesi laugh again from the back seat.

  “Tony, leave him alone, bro,” Krush said, coming to my defense—or at least I thought he was. “His pops probably didn’t have a chance to get to the safe after paying eighty grand in cash for this ride, so he only gave him five hundred to get through the week.”

  Once again, laughter filled the car, so much so that it was pissing me off.

  “First of all, my dad isn’t paying for this car,” I said, shutting the fellas up. “My mom bought it for me,” I mumbled under my breath, only making Krush’s point.

  “Aw, man!” Tony roared in my direction. “You should have just kept your mouth shut, you little spoiled bitch. Ain’t nobody giving your rich ass any gas money.”

  The peanut gallery cosigned from the back.

  I glared at Krush and Kwesi through the rearview mirror. “That’s a’ight.” I nodded knowingly as I put my eyes back on the road. “Next time y’all want a ride to McDonald’s late at night, I hope you got your walking shoes, ’cause I ain’t getting up. You got my word on that.” This time, I threw up our frat sign.

  “Damn, it’s like that?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, it’s like that.” I mumbled under my breath, “See if y’all be laughing then.”

  I felt something lightly rest on my shoulder. I looked to see Kwesi’s hand with a fifty-dollar bill in it.

  “For you, my brother,” Kwesi said in his African accent.

  “Thanks.” I took the bill out of Kwesi’s hand. “At least one of you was raised right,” I added sarcastically.

  “Dude, we’re all struggling college students,” Krush chimed in from the back. “What do you expect?”

  “Yeah, besides,” Tony said, turning to look at Kwesi, “if my granddaddy’s face was on the money in my country, I’d be generous too and whip out fifty bucks.” He nodded toward Kwesi. “Ol’ Coming to America mafucka.”

  This time even I joined in the laughter.

  “That was a good one,” I said to Tony. “But even if your granddaddy was Bill Gates, you wouldn’t chip in a dime, because you’re a . . .”

  We all turned to Tony and in unison said, “Cheap-ass bastard!”

  Tony gave us the finger, just like he always did. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it worth shit.

  “Eff all y’all,” Tony said.

  “Eff all y’all,” Krush mocked in a feminine voice, letting Tony know he was being a baby.

  It didn’t matter how many times we clowned Tony about being cheap; he always caught an attitude. I would have thought he’d be used to it by now, since for the last four years at school, that’s all we ever did was call him out for being so stingy. Tony, Krush, Kwesi, and I always had each other’s backs, but whenever it was time to come up off some money, that’s where Tony drew the line. I couldn’t remember that last time he chipped in on a pizza or paid for a round of beers, but you best believe he was always
full and had his thirst quenched before the night was over.

  Yeah, he was cheap all right, despite having two part-time jobs, but then again, I tried to remember where he’d come from. Tony was raised by a single mother in Brooklyn’s Marcy Projects. He had two brothers who were Bloods gang members, but he busted his ass and made it to Howard, where he was about to graduate with honors in accounting. Cheap or not, I had to admire him. He’d broken the cycle.

  Realizing I was going to have to make do with Kwesi’s contribution, I turned my focus back to the road. I hadn’t even driven for a tenth of a mile before there was a clicking sound, a hiss, and then the car filled with something other than our laughter and music.

  I sniffed the air. “Shit! Tell me that’s not what the fuck I think it is.”

  “Depends on what you think it is.”

  I glanced in my rearview mirror at Krush just in time to see him take a long hit from the blunt he was caressing between his fingers.

  “What the hell?” I shouted. “I know you’re not smoking that shit in my car!”

  “Yo, stop being such a pussy. Ain’t nobody gonna harm your precious leather.” Krush took another hit of the blunt.

  “I’m not worried about the leather. I’m worried about jail,” I said.

  “Whatever.” Krush snapped his head in my direction and gave me a serious look in the rearview mirror. Krush was what you might call a wannabe thug. He got good grades in school, but he dressed and acted like a gangbanger, despite coming from a middle-class Queens home. “It’s weed, bro, not heroin. Ain’t nobody gonna throw us in jail over a blunt.”

  “Yeah, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Lang,” Tony added, reaching his hand back for Krush to hand him the blunt. Once again, the peanut gallery in the back seat thought the wannabe comedian to my right was hysterical.

  “Y’all laughing and shit, but I’m serious. We’re four black guys riding around in an expensive vehicle, smoking weed. You don’t think anything is wrong with that picture?” I couldn’t have been the only smart one in a group of four college students. Impossible. “We’re a racist cop’s dream.”

  “Man, fuck the po-lice! Ain’t nobody scared of them racist bastards!” Krush shouted.

  “He does have a point, Lang,” Tony said in Krush’s defense. “Don’t nobody care about weed anymore. Just drive the damn car.”

  I thought about their argument that marijuana wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t like it was heroin or anything. It was a blunt. We all have a blunt now and then. Maybe I was being a little dramatic, as Tony would say. But hell, I was the son of a lawyer and judge and the sibling of two lawyers; being dramatic ran in my blood. On the flip side of things, I’d just been reflecting on how long and hard we’d worked on getting our degrees. Was this even worth the risk?

  “I don’t know. If you ask me, I think this is stupid,” I said, shaking my head. “We are in New York, not Colorado.”

  “And if you ask me,” Tony said, “you need to take a hit of this here.” He extended the blunt to me. “After three days with your pops, you need to decompress. That’s one intense brother.”

  “I know that’s right.” Krush took the liberty of removing the blunt from between Tony’s fingers. Through the rearview mirror, I watched him inhale and then extend the blunt to me.

  “I don’t need that shit. I got something better than drugs.” I lifted my phone to my ear. “Siri, call Symone.”

  “When in doubt, call the pussy.” Tony laughed as the car’s Bluetooth took over and the phone rang. “You one whipped brother, Lang.”

  A sudden whooping sound jolted my attention to the rearview mirror, and my heart dropped at the sight of flashing lights behind my car.

  “Oh, shit!” I said, my stomach tying up in knots.

  Michael

  2

  I hadn’t been there long, but already my dream job at Goldberg, Klein, and Hooper was exceeding my wildest fantasies. This morning, I’d been asked to join some of the firm’s top lawyers in the conference room. Sure, I’d dreamed of sitting with the big boys someday, but never expected that it would happen after only a few months on the job. Yet, there I was, along with six other junior associates, around the eight-foot-long conference room table with three partners and three senior associates of one of New York City’s most prestigious law firms. We were all facing the door as we waited for the opposing counsel to come in, like a pride of hyenas about to ambush a wounded water buffalo. The aura of power in the room was palpable, and it had my heart pounding with anticipation. My God, it was like having sex for the first time; the only way to describe it was total euphoria.

  There were only certain cases that required this type of attention from the firm, and anything to do with The Rockman Group was one of them. They were by far the firm’s largest client, and despite the fact that this wasn’t a very big or flashy case, our salt-and-pepper senior partner, Walter Klein, had insisted he personally take charge. Walter was the LeBron James of the profession. He was the main reason I’d pursued a job at the firm. I mean, what basketball player wouldn’t want to play with LeBron?

  “This should be pretty cut and dry,” Walter said confidently to Mark Spencer, a senior associate who was bucking for partner. “My guess is we can settle it for half a million.”

  I watched Mark’s uneasy body language. He paused before speaking, probably to make sure he chose his words carefully. “Well, with all due respect, boss, that might be a little low. The other side does have a pretty good case. And Rockman has authorized us to settle for one point five million, and get it over wi—”

  Mark’s reiteration of the client’s wishes, of which I’m sure our senior partner was aware, was unceremoniously cut off by Walter’s icy stare. The entire room became quiet and perhaps even a little cold. It was that type of power that made me want to work for Walter. I wanted the opportunity to be guided and mentored by someone as educated, experienced, admired, respected, and maybe a little bit feared by everyone who came into contact with him.

  Despite my stellar grades and the fact that I had passed the Bar on my first attempt, it had been a shot in the dark when I applied to G, K, & H. The firm only hired six new associates each year, and that group had never included more than one African American, if they hired any at all. But somehow, I became one of six hired out of three hundred interviewed, and I was grateful for that fact every single day I came to work and got to watch Walter Klein in action.

  “Offer them half a million and they’ll be skipping out of here like they won the damn lottery,” Walter insisted, pointing at the file in front of him. “I know the firm that’s representing the plaintiff. I know them well, and not from having gone against them in the courtroom.” He let out a derisive laugh. “They’re a bunch of ambulance chasers. Trust me, they’ll take this offer.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Dara Grant, a senior associate and the only female in the room.

  One of the other senior associates next to her let out a snort. “Haven’t you seen those ridiculous commercials they air on cable television?”

  “The one with the attorneys mean-mugging the cameras, strutting around and talking about how big and bad they are?” Mark asked.

  “Yes.” Walter nodded. “The only thing more ridiculous than those stupid commercials is that goofball Steve Robinson who runs the firm. I’ve had him sitting across from me three times, and all three times his dumb ass has left at least a half a million on the table. Why should this time be any different?”

  “You’re right. It’s best we stay optimistic,” Mark conceded, thumbing through the file in front of him. In perfect timing, the conference room phone rang. Mark was quick to hit the intercom button.

  “Is that our ten o’clock?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist replied.

  “Have them take a seat. Someone will be out for them in just a bit,” Walter chimed in.

  “Will do, sir,” the receptionist said then ended the call.

  Pete
r Weisman, one of the junior associates like myself, rose from his seat.

  “Where are you going?” Walter barked.

  “I was going to get our appointment, sir?” he replied nervously.

  “Sit down, Mr. Weisman,” Walter ordered.

  With a confused look on his face, Peter sat down, curiously eyeballing his colleagues.

  “First, you let them stew for a bit.” Walter explained his reasoning for not immediately bringing in the opposing party. “Let them wait for you, sit down, get bored with last month’s Sports Illustrated we have lying out there. Then when you’re ready, and only when you’re ready, you stick the fork in ’em.” We all sat back, delighting in Walter’s tactical insight.

  Everyone else at the table sat with tablets and pen in hand, ready to take notes when we finally let the opposing counsel in. But not me. I wanted to observe how Walter moved and how he handled this entire meeting from start to finish. He wasn’t a senior partner for nothing, and I was blessed with a front row seat to watch and understand why. He was who I aspired to be.

  Tony

  3

  “Roll the windows down! Roll down your fucking window, Tony!” Langston yelled at me frantically.

  I opened the window, glancing over my shoulder at the NYPD police cruiser with its lights flashing behind us. Can’t say I wasn’t nervous, but Langston’s ranting and raving was just too over the top.

  “Oh God. Oh God. I told you. We’re going to jail,” Langston continued.

  “Lang, man, calm down, bro,” Krush said quietly from the back seat.

  “How you gonna tell me to calm down, Reem? This is all your fault. You’re the one who brought that shit in my car.”

  “Let’s not attack each other. We are supposed to be brothers,” Kwesi added, but it had no effect on Lang’s continued hysterics.

  “Put that thing out, Tony! Put that fucking thing out!” he yelled at me.

  “Just chill, bro, seriously. All this yelling and shit ain’t helping,” I replied, putting out the blunt in the ashtray. I slammed the ashtray closed, trying not to sound as nervous as I really was. “We have to keep levelheaded and act like everything is everything. Now, pull the car over before we have a real problem.”