“I’d surely enjoy working with this guy. We do have a lot in common”, Moses Samuel said.
“Half of London is dying to know who he is. Keeps extremely modest for a musician, I think. I admire that”, said Sasha.
“Ex-Man,” Moses Samuel gushed. “Ex-Man; the most mysterious and perhaps the most talented musician in England. I love the name - Superhero; superstar.”
“I’ve got to go to bed now Rabbi”, Sasha said with a reverent bow. Moses Samuel pleasantly waved both ladies goodbye.
“This job you asked those men to do at the bank, do you think it has a hope of success?” the young man asked.
“Why not?” Moses Samuel seemed surprised that anyone could think this way.
“Oh well; robbing a bank with a camera. It seems such a ridiculous notion as I see it “, the man truthfully opined.
“Exactly,” Moses Samuel agreed with him. “And it is because it looks so ridiculous that is why it will succeed. Difficult to rob a bank with a machine gun; a hundred times easier to rob a bank with a camera”.
Together they had a good laugh over their ridiculous plan. The young man shut his laptop computer and lugged it out of the room, with a reverent bow at the door.
Alone in the office, at last, Moses Samuel sat behind his huge ornate oak desk nodding and humming to the music. Ex-Man’s weekly hour-long broadcast had become a phenomenon - regularly bringing the boredom index in London crashing down every Sunday night. The pirate radio came on around eleven till midnight and then completely disappeared from the air till the next week. Within a short time, it had become one hour that discerning Londoner came to look forward to.
Much of Ex-Man’s music was not new. Much of it was really a remix of old tunes but done in ways that nobody had ever thought possible. Now, Moses Samuel thought, here was one musician worth putting money on to go places. Ex-Man’s first single - “Dynomite”, had just about a month ago, hit the chart and quickly climbed up as fast as a monkey with its tail on fire. But still, nobody knew who Ex-Man was and so deliciously, neither was he going about advertising his identity.
Dynomite had been quietly released by Def Adam - a new and unknown private label - no parties, no press. Def Adam as he found out was owned by an Isle of Man company of the same name but with nominee directors, and the distribution of the four records of the label so far was being done by Michael Jah, a Jamaican agent from a shop hemmed in between two vegetable shops right inside Brixton Market. There the trail had gone dead.
“I just sell records man, I don’t sell comics. Yeah man”, the seemingly perplexed records broker had reasoned with him.
Moses Samuel had subsequently been even more intrigued by and full of respect for this unknown artist. Certainly not like any of the no-talent wannabes parading selves as musicians on the strength of being able to ingest a lot of mind-bending chemicals and scream at the top of their voices as a consequence; the papers were always plastered with their stupid faces.
Who was Ex-man? Ironically, that mystery really had contributed in a major way to the success of the new record. Moses Samuel loved that bit of irony. As a matter of fact, it was the same sort of device which had moved his life and business forward.
He walked over to another table on which sat the one-foot high scale model of what was a shopping mall, though anyone else could have called it an art gallery. It was two-stories high, looked about a hundred yards wide, and was painted up like Andy Warhol had been at work on it. Who is Moses Samuel? Yes, they did have a lot in common, him and Ex-Man; they were both definitely destined to go places. Possibly together.
CHAPTER 2
Dynoooomite!!
The wide-mouthed black youth looked like J.J. Walker from the old-time TV series Good Times. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and doing a mime to Ex-Man’s remix of Tony Camillo’s Dynomite on MTV. Frank O’Dwyer woke up to find the time was ten o’clock. He was horrified. When you had a boss who didn’t like you very much, and you woke up at ten o” clock on Monday morning, you knew dead cert that your ass was already grass.
Frank had fallen asleep on the couch, as he realized. An open can of Guinness was spilled on the carpet. He had no recollection of when he had popped the can or switched on the TV; he also couldn’t tell for certain how he had got home last night. It had been really a hell of a gig and a demon or two were still trapped in his head, hacking away with sharp axes and picks. Frank picked up his mobile phone and called his office at East End Mirror.
“Ellen, I am going to be a bit late this morning, I am not feeling so well,” he told Ellen Wescott, the secretary.
“Frank, you had a meeting scheduled for nine-thirty with Spencer, and He’s hopping mad. Better come in as soon as you can, but I think you’re dead meat already”, Ellen told him.
Frank’s heart sank. It was the day of the monthly departmental meeting with his boss Spencer Cowley aka The Beast; who also owned the East End Mirror newspaper. As the journalist who handled the crime beat, Frank’s absence wouldn’t go unnoticed, at least not by Spencer who seemed quite lately to have a special place in his heart for him - a place where poisons were kept.
David Fernandez would be there of course. David was the bespectacled young Indian rookie journalist who presently covered the trivia departments and the cocktail circuit. David was okay really - quite friendly and efficient. He was also very unnaturally gifted with computers, and so prodigiously prolific that Frank suspected the little guy had programmed his computer to crank out fake stories.
David did remind him of a long time foe Phil Jenner, who used to work with The Independent but had somehow just disappeared; like fallen off the face of the earth. Phil Jenner had been quite a terror to Frank’s life because Spencer Cowley always compared Frank’s puny effort to the prodigious Phil Jenner. And so prolific had Phil Jenner been that it appeared he manufactured his own stories – like when he wanted to report a murder, he just went off and killed somebody. But somehow he disappeared, and life had since then become more bearable for Frank – until David Fernandez showed up. Later though, Frank had learned to his shame that David Fernandez just made more creative use of Google and Yahoo! Frank had afterward learned to live amicably with David since their tasks rarely encroached.
Somewhere along the line though, Spencer had determined that newspapers thrived more on gossip and trivia than on real news and thus had David become to be much more seriously reckoned with at the East End Mirror. And as David grew in importance so had Frank begun to feel his own relevance diminished. In his nightmares, the little Indian guy now played a significantly menacing role, and as a matter of fact, Frank suspected that David was being prepared to take over from him in the event of his demise, which now seemed quite near.
Never one to distress nevertheless, Frank took off his seven-inch wide plaque which said MC Wire, had a quick shower, coffee, a burnt buttered toast, and eventually set out for work. Trevor “The Mad Scientist” Cook, his tandem deejay act, did bring him home last night, he knew. Trevor had just bought a new BMW, and they’d together taken it for a spin to Brighton for a gig along with two mad West Indian chicks and two cases of wine. Pity he couldn’t now remember the girls” names.
The sun seemed unusually bright and hot this morning; shining with such intense malice. The entire world seemed to jog along sluggishly around him like gargantuan mobile Dali sculptures. Frank’s flat was mere minutes from Hackney Central, which
