[Chapter 43: Facing the Storm Head-On]
'To hell with it, you fat pig!' Charlie cursed inwardly, though he kept his tone calm as he asked, "What do you mean by helping?"
"Simple," the voice replied, "Hire someone to clear your name from Tupac's death."
That was indeed simple.
The trouble for Charlie was that the hip-hop groups were using him like a lightning rod. It was like a young star caught in a scandal, who deflects public blame by tarnishing someone else. And the Panthers were using him as the fuse to an explosion.
Fans of gangster rap, including the Bloods and the Crips -- powerful groups all. The Panthers were just as violent.
They would swarm in. Destroying Charlie's reputation would have been bad enough -- after all, he was just a behind-the-scenes producer -- but if he were a big star, it would've been far worse.
The key issue was, it could get deadly.
If the target had even a bit of backing, these guys would never succeed.
But Charlie had nothing, and he even attracted more greedy opportunists, like Harvey.
He had to weather the storm for a while, hoping the FBI would handle the Panthers soon and catch the real culprit who attacked Tupac.
If it came to it, hiding out with old man Quinto in Texas was a good plan.
But would everyone give him time?
Charlie dodged the question vaguely, neither refusing nor agreeing.
After hanging up, he was furious.
Just a little trouble, and look at all the vultures; those waiting to watch, kicking a man when he's down, looting -- every shady type came crawling out.
Did they think he was some clay figure they could shape as they pleased?
...
Late at night, Charlie, Colombo, and Etto discussed cautiously. They took turns staying up; Charlie covered the late shift.
In the dim study, shirtless, Charlie sat at the desk, half in light and half in shadow.
He rubbed a shiny bullet, his expression brooding. The chaos had caught him off guard.
He thought of the fierce faces condemning him on TV; Alicia's furious hatred; the Panthers from both coasts eyeing him like predators; and Harvey, wide-mouthed like a vulture, waiting beside the dying body.
Dark clouds filled his heart.
Charlie knew he didn't have much time. If he were Harvey, he'd have grabbed this golden opportunity tight.
He looked down at his body, then suddenly leaned back, plunging himself into darkness.
This body was close to the last life he lived, minus some nasty scars. Maybe he should add a few?
This overwhelming pressure with no way to fight back had only come around once or twice in both of Charlie's lives.
The fierce, ruthless spirit of a boy who clawed himself out of the mud stirred awake.
After who knows how long, he stood abruptly, turned on the desk lamp, pulled out books, documents, and paper, then got to work with a gleam in his eye.
In the quiet of the night, books were flipped and pens scratched at a lively pace.
...
At 2 a.m., Etto and Colombo sat on the couch. Colombo absentmindedly fiddled with a pistol, the mood heavy.
After a long moment, Etto spoke up: "Hey, Agent, can't you contact your superior for a plan?"
Colombo shrugged. "The best I can do is call seven or eight brothers to help Charles face the storm. They'll be here soon!"
Etto sighed deeply, worried. "You guys are tight. I'm grateful to you on Charlie's behalf. I hate feeling useless. I can barely handle a gun. And I don't even know where this trouble's coming from. Charlie's never been like this; he's under a lot of stress. Go get him to get some sleep."
Colombo shook his head, loading a golden bullet. "No need -- he won't be beaten! Charles isn't the same anymore. Seems like he's awakened the bloodline of his ancestors. I've heard stories about his great-grandfather -- a man worthy of respect!"
Etto hadn't heard about old man Quinto's story, and Colombo's intense reverence made him a little speechless.
The two waited quietly.
...
At dawn's first light, the stillness of the apartment shattered with a knock at the door.
Etto tensed, Colombo jumped up, swiftly appearing at the door with a cell phone in hand, chuckling, "Don't worry, it's the boys!"
The study door opened and Charlie appeared, energized and carrying a long gun. Hearing the news, he eagerly moved to open the door.
A group of burly tough guys came in laughing heartily.
"Hey, little Charles, heard you got some trouble?"
"Who dares mess with our Godfather!"
"Louis, Dawn, Camillo... Long time no see, my brothers!" Charlie happily embraced each of them.
The lively atmosphere shattered the heavy mood instantly.
"Guys, I really appreciate you!" Charlie looked around, solemnly declaring, "Pack up, eat well, it's time to fight!"
"No problem, my body's rusty but ready, hahahaha!" These angry toughs were fearless and fired up.
"No!" Charlie squinted, grinning fiercely, "I have a plan -- no shooting or killing. Watch the show; nothing will bring me down!"
Under crushing pressure, some people broke, some stood strong.
After a sleepless night, Charlie was energized, unleashing boundless strength.
...
At 8 a.m., the group set off in three black Chevrolet SUVs, rolling out like a film shoot.
Now, Charlie was right in the eye of the storm.
As they moved, the storm started breaking out.
...
Outside the LAPD, a group of slack-jawed Black men held signs shouting, "Punish the killer!"
TV news vans rolled up, a blonde reporter babbled nonstop into the camera, "We're seeing the Tupac shooting escalating; fans are demanding justice!"
The Los Angeles Times, New York Times, Washington Post -- big American papers each ran coverage on different pages.
"Famous rapper Tupac shot dead -- is it racial discrimination or just random violence?"
"Bestselling author and film producer Charlie Corleone caught in criminal chaos!"
Alicia's lengthy accusatory interviews flooded the cable and broadcast news, as well as print media.
The hateful escort, all sass and venom, said, "Yes, Charlie's a racist. He called me a nigger, my blood dirty."
Jada, stuck in jail, slammed her wheelchair hard, face twisted, "I just went to talk to him, and that bastard blew my leg off, even shoved the gun in my mouth trying to kill me."
The media scrambled to feast on the drama.
...
Coast-to-coast hip-hop groups fanned the flames.
"That's right -- Tupac was murdered by him; send that guy straight to hell."
"Good job! Let's organize a big memorial to keep him in the spotlight. And don't forget to drop a Tupac tribute album -- we'll make a killing."
...
The situation kept escalating. A group of angry thugs set fire to Charlie's home in the Sinai community. Luckily, Judy had left under Ophir and others' protection.
...
The blazing fire attracted more vultures.
Bestselling author John Grisham stepped out, slamming Fifty Shades of Grey once again.
Raymond, once a top star at Chris Book House, gave an interview to a small paper, "I knew Charlie Corleone -- he used dirty tricks to squeeze my book promotion resources."
...
Overnight, Charlie became the target of a public manhunt.
This also hurt the box office of the movie Fifty Shades of Grey.
In Miramax's office, Harvey leaned back, flipping through box office stats, "What a shame, we took some big hits too."
Bob laughed, "But if this can take down the Godfather, it's worth it."
"Exactly!" Harvey smirked. "That guy's faced several attacks. Spike Lee won't comment in interviews. Will Smith's answers are ambiguous. He won't last long!"
Jill Messick frowned and said with concern, "But I heard he's been moving around a lot these days. Seems like he doesn't plan on just sitting back and taking it."
*****
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