Moonlight over Paris

By K.A. Minton

"1994 New York City: Long before American Idol hit
the airwaves, the way to a recording contract was the
Open Mic Circuit at the nite clubs in Manhattan.
From Caf Wah to Chaz and Wilsons to Nells, the
Circuit is jammed with talented singers until one
young woman begins to separate herself from the
rest.
Meet Monique Paris Stevens. She creates buzz with
her melodic fl ow and builds a large following where
ever she shows up to sing. Moonlight Over Paris is
Moniques story, a Brooklynite by way of Chicago who
aspires to become a professional singer and recording
artist. By day she pays the bills working for a fi nancial
services company and is thriving there as well.
Her boss, Bill Russell is grooming her for a big
managerial position with the main offi ce, she would
be the fi rst African American and woman to do so,
which would be ground-breaking, to say the least. Bill
wants her to get the position he never could. Monique
will hear none of it because she is focused on singing.
Bill demeans her efforts telling her, those singers are
a dime a dozen, you can tell by how many come out
for the Open Mic contests.
Meanwhile the relationship with her girlfriend
Donna Owens is anything but cordial. Donna, a
clothing designer with her own boutique, isnt happy
with just ruining her own business but has in mind to
ruin any chance of Monique reaching her goal. When
Monique discovers the level of hate Donna has for
her the outcome is tragic.
Maurice Stevens, Moniques father, biggest supporter
and best friend dies unexpectedly, sending her world
into a tailspin. The multiple tragedies are more than
she can take. But in many tragedies come blessings,
thusly Moonlight Over Paris is founded."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 31, 2009
• ISBN: 9781450003261

Book preview

Moonlight Over Paris

K.A. Minton

Copyright © 2009 by K.A. Minton.

ISBN:                  Hardcover                         978-1-4363-7307-4

                            Softcover                           978-1-4363-7306-7

                            Ebook                                978-1-4500-0326-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

50614

CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Excerpt From ‘By Their Fruits’

7

Excerpt from ‘TNT’

1

About the Author

This Book is dedicated to the memory of my parents Morris and Rachel.

I would also like to add a friend lost but not forgotten,

Craig Moaney Williams

1

It’s Open Mic Night at Café Wah, all would be singers, karaoke wanna bees and musicians are out to display their talent. Patrons are lining the walls, drinks in hand, because all the tables are already filled in the smoky venue. The lights are low and the stage is bright, Open Mic brings out a lot of industry people looking for the next big thing. Record executives come out looking to sign new artists and recording artists come looking for back-up singers and musicians to take on tour with them. Enter transplanted Chicagoan, Monique Stevens, twenty-five, with caramel brown skin. The only blemish being a beauty mole directly under her button nose over her full lips. She is five feet seven inches with light brown eyes, with her long black hair cut to her back. She is very statuesque with a polished and professional look. Monique may not be signed yet but she carries herself like she’s already a star. The men can’t keep their eyes off her comparing her to the cover models in men’s magazines but she has the attitude of a diva. The guys say she has the attributes coming and going, but to the contrary none of these men in the club can actually verify that they have caressed her beautiful visage for themselves. Her stage name is Paris and she is waiting off stage clutching a pendant around her neck that her father gave her as a child, saying a short prayer.

Lord keep me focused on the prize.

Her stomach is churning, those butterflies that come with a hint of excitement that you get when you know you are about to do something special. The crowd is patient filling up on drink and wing orders with the waitresses and laughing amongst themselves, smoking cigarettes. Café Wah’s crowd is pretty tame they just love music and want to be entertained. Paris’ girlfriends have a table close to the stage. Her best friend and stylist Rosalyn Porsche, thirty but doesn’t look a day over twenty is a little taller than Paris and broad shouldered. She uses those shoulders to take the weight for the ladies of the crew. She is the caretaker and confidant for each of them, a job she doesn’t want but holds true to her friends as a loyalist. ‘Roz’, as she lets her friends call her, is waiting with a video camera on the side of the stage to document the performance. The host Mike Davis calls Paris to the stage with little fanfare around the room. Her girlfriends stand and clap, all but one, Donna Owens. Donna, thirty, dark skin with beautiful features, almond shaped eyes, has a sweet little over bite that makes her sexy. She has a slim build but very toned with the arms of a fitness champ. She dresses runway sharp, couture as it were, all of the time and tonight in particular she shows off one of her original designs as she raises her drink and yells, Do the damn thing girl.

Paris belts out the song, the crowd is getting behind her, clapping with every long run.

Donna stands up in front of the stage as her compliments turn to curses as she tries to draw the attention to herself dancing in front of the stage. You think you’re so damn bad, don’t you? I’m the bad one. The stage lighting burns Donna’s eyes at the front of the stage and she curses aloud. She’s a little distracted putting her arm over her eyes and staggering.

Roz looks from behind the camera, What the hell is she doing?

Paris looks off ignoring the rant staying professional finishing the song, as Donna becomes more belligerent and taking her venom out on the people at other tables, What are you looking at bitch? Donna’s younger sister by three years, Nette, is embarrassed by her sister’s actions. Nette’s looks are stunning and she knows it. She doesn’t hide behind designs like her sister. Her appearance is more sexy than chic and she has a body and she flaunts it. Her dress is tight and her cleavage gets ample opportunity to breathe and get noticed. Nette is Donna’s equal in size but not her strength, but she tries anyway to pull her sister down in her seat. Donna, sit down.

Donna shoots back, shut up Nette.

The host, Mike Davis comes back on stage taking the mic from Paris, That’s Paris y’all, yo, she brought it. Felt like I was in church.

The crowd agrees with applause. Mike points to the bouncers to get Donna out of the club as he keeps the crowd going on a positive vibe and away from her disruption. Two bouncers take Donna by the arms and escort her up the stairs and out of the club. She leaves without resisting and Nette grabs Donna’s purse and coat and runs up the stairs after her. Paris returns to the table. Roz is rewinding the tape, sipping on her drink.

What was that shit about Roz?

Roz with a frown on her face, I don’t know what’s wrong with that bitch, hatin’ like that. Why did she even come out if she was going to do that?

Paris, red faced, I guess because I invited her.

Roz shaking her head, You can’t keep doing this. The girl is crazy and she’s no friend of yours.

Paris sips her drink and says, She’s Nette’s sister and we should try to be friends with her. She works all the time, I never really got to know her and she needs outlets too.

Roz takes a breath between bites of a buffalo wing. She doesn’t need an outlet what she needs is a psychiatrist.

They both laugh but Roz doesn’t think it is funny.

Don’t get me wrong Paris, I’ve known the girl for a long time we’re cool, but she has some issues.

We all do Roz.

No, not like her, I don’t think the girl has had a date in like three years.

Roz looks at the strapping bouncer by the bar, I don’t think I can go three months without a good man.

Oh stop. Paris takes a napkin and wipes buffalo sauce from Roz’ mouth. Roz looks at Paris’ hand, Hold up?

Paris’ face shows that she’s got busted, What? Why are you looking like that?

Roz grabs hold of Paris’ wrist, Who did these nails? Paris sheepishly says, Nobody.

Well this nobody did a bad job, don’t do that no more

Take it easy Roz. Snatching her hand away, You know I didn’t have time to come back to Brooklyn.

Girl got me doing double negatives here. You know I could have fit you in today

Paris hides her hands under the table. I didn’t have the time. Enough about that, how did I do tonight?

Roz grabs the video camera and sets the playback on the small screen.

Let’s take a look. They put their cheeks together and look at the show.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Out in front of Café Wah Nette is trying to calm Donna down. New York City streets squeal from bad brakes on almost every cab passing by on the busy Sixth Avenue, even at one o’clock in the morning. Horns blare for right of ways, and one flops along in a percussion tone as it drives on a blown tire, afraid to stop for the possibility of getting robbed, the driver obviously praying to Allah to make it to the all night tire repair, just another story in the concrete jungle.

Two massive bouncers are standing watch at the door of the club, they look like two silver back gorillas on display at the zoo, and the ropes are their boundary.

Nette cries, Donna let’s go home.

Donna takes a swing at one of the bouncers, You better keep your hands off of me. I know people.

The bouncers laugh, Lady nobody is trying to touch you, just go home like your friend is telling you. Nette comes over to grab her away from the silver back, she’s my sister, and she had a little too much to drink. Our friend is singing inside.

Who’s your friend?, one asks.

Paris.

Oh we know her. So why’s your girl bugging while Paris’ on stage?

She’s had too much to drink.

Nette helps Donna with her coat. As she struggles to get her arm in the sleeve, She ain’t shit Nette, the girl ain’t shit.

Nette takes Donna by the arm, and tries to pacify her as they walk up the street to their car.

I know Donna, I know.

Cabs double park in front of the club trying to get fares. The lead driver follows Nette and Donna up the block tooting his horn. The ladies don’t notice him at first but at this time of night drivers are hawking fares. When Donna notices the disturbance coming from the street she steps off the curb and yells at the cab driver.

What the fuck do you want?

The East Indian driver smiles and leans out the window.

I take you, come on. Come on.

Get the hell out of here. Donna screams, Since when you stop for black people?

The insistent driver continues his hustle, Come, I take you.

Donna looks on the ground for something to throw at the cab.

Get the fuck out of here. Probably take me somewhere and rape my ass. She screams again. Nette takes her by the arm again, and they go on down the block to the car.

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

The sun shines bright but the air is cool and windy today in the city of Chicago. The sky line accented by the Sears Tower can’t compete with New York by most accounts but the second city has a lot going on.

Mr. Maurice Stevens, fifty-two, in fairly good shape considering he had battled cancer a few years back. He has been in remission for three and a half years and staying on a regimen of natural holistic treatments since becoming cancer free. He still sees his internist for his semi-annual checkups just to be on the safe side. He is presently in an examination room sitting in a cloth gown waiting for the doctor to come in. Dr. Sumarjhi knocks on the door and comes into the room.

Hello again Mr. Stevens I’m glad you could come in.

Hey Doctor how are you doing?

I’m fine sir but my thing is taking care of you.

I appreciate that Doc, I’ve been feeling great and I’ve been sticking to my regimen.

Dr. Sumarjhi looks over Maurice’s chart, That’s what I like to hear Mr. Stevens. Now while I’m not a proponent of natural or holistic remedies, I wouldn’t stop a patient from trying anything that they feel is helpful. Unless I thought it was hurtful.

Maurice is sitting up on the table nervously picking at the paper that they roll out for each patient that comes into the room. But everything is going well and I’ve been staying prayerful as well. If the drugs can’t do it God can.

That sounds good to me Mr. Stevens.

The doctor does a routine check of Maurice’s eye’s ear’s and throat, and then checks his breathing.

Well as far as I’m concerned everything is looking good. I just want to do the usual blood test and that will do it for us. And we’ll see you in six months.

Okay Doctor thanks for everything.

You’re welcome Mr. Stevens, Sandy will be in momentarily to get the blood just relax.

Okay Doc, hey you have a good day.

You have a good day too Mr. Stevens, again no worries.

2

Monique-Paris’ one bedroom apartment is nicely accented with African art. The walls are butternut beige, they give the earth tone art a bolder hue and she has lots of plants of different sizes all around the apartment. Paris’ entertainment center in the living room is state of the art, with a microphone on a stand next to it. Outside of that the rest of the apartment is tasteful, but you can tell if the apartment was robbed the first thing missing would be that equipment.

Monique is sitting on the couch, legs folded in a yoga position, a portrait of Paris and her father peeks at her from over the couch a framed browning photo of her father when he was young wearing an alpaca knit and pork pie hat on the entertainment center. Her most recent performance is playing on the flat screen. She has two small boxes on the end table, with scotch tape, scissors, and a magic marker. The video dub machine ‘clicks’ indicating the copy is complete. Paris removes it from the machine, labels it and packs it in the second box. Boring work but it has to be done. She carefully writes the information on the boxes and affixes her return labels. One is addressed to her father Maurice in Chicago and the other to Sony Records. The phone rings, Paris likes to catch it on two rings as a habit, she stretches from her twisted position for the cordless on the coffee table in three rings.

Hello?

Maurice Stevens’ hard bass toned voice responds, Hello Monique, how you doing?

Hi Daddy, I’m great. I was just going to call you after I finished packing my videos. You must be tired from waiting up for me?

Its okay honey, just wanted to check on you before I called it a night.

I’m mailing my latest to you tomorrow. So you can see the progress for yourself.

Maurice smiles with admiration for his daughter.

Okay honey, thanks.

Paris sits up, and puts away her parcels as she talks to her father. The copy of her show continues playing on the TV but she barely glances at it.

The show was at a club called Café Wah. I think things went pretty well.

Maurice takes a drink of water behind a vitamin and says, Any record executives there?

Not tonight Dad.

Then don’t waste your time dear. You’ve been trained at the best schools in the country. You went out there to get noticed.

Paris rocks back and forth on the couch, her father’s tone makes her uneasy. She’s reminded of the days of early discipline, when it was Daddy’s way or no way . . .

I know Daddy. There will be some execs at Nell’s tomorrow night. Besides, it’s always good to get live practice.

Maurice laughs but Monique knows he’s not really amused. Monique’s view is he is never one to laugh and have a good time or just have fun. He is always so serious.

You’re right baby girl I guess I’m a little anxious. I just want you to have your dream.

It’s going to happen soon enough daddy.

Maurice laughs a hearty laugh again. This is so not like him’ Monique thinks.

You’ve worked hard for this honey. Very abruptly he changes his tone, Alright it’s late, I’m going to bed.

Okay Daddy, I’ll call you tomorrow, love you.

The next morning Paris stops at the postboxes in the lobby of her building and leaves the two out-going packages for the mailman. She looks great in her designer suit, her shoes matching her bag and tight curls as she heads down the street to hail a cab to work. Her walk is assertive