Chicago 1990

"Is that you? Tommy."

New York, Upper East Side, Motura's new personal mobile phone received an international call, and the other party asked without thinking.

"Sandy?" He sounded like Sandy Glen.

The other party did not answer.

"That kid is unclear, mania, paranoia... He has taken too many drugs that should not be taken." Motura said.

"In any case, you will no longer be the manager of Miss Kelly from next year. Due to my obligation, I must notify you in advance." said over the phone.

Motura smiled, "I remember it will expire in more than a year."

"We will pay the cancellation money at the price."

"She will regret it."

"Maybe." The phone was hung up.

Motura put the phone down, "Please come in."

The security director of Epic Records pushed in, "Mr. Motura, you have already configured more careful security measures for your family, and we got this."

He put a photo on the table. A black driver was waiting for a traffic light. It seemed that he was at an intersection not far from where he lived. This guy looked like a bad guy, with his arms on the lowered car window, his fingers on the cigarette, and his face. The tattoo was clearly photographed by the camera.

"When?" Motura asked.

"At noon, he passed the same intersection twice and caught our attention." The security chief replied.

"Give this photo to our people in the nearby police station and ask for a question."

Motula hinted: "It's better to find a reason to restrict his actions."

"Ok."

The security chief put down a newspaper when he left.

"The vicious turmoil in the hip-hop circle continues to spread. After 2PAC, APLUS was also assassinated? ’

Under the big title are two pictures with great visual impact. One is a Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit that is about to fall apart and is hoisted high, and the other is a police officer sending a stretcher to an ambulance. The black man is injured. There were blood stains on the clothes and stretchers.

‘APLUS claimed that it originally planned to take this car, but temporarily cancelled the trip due to accidents. Fortunately, he escaped and his driver and bodyguard was seriously injured. He published a number of conspiracy theories against Sony Columbia Records and CBS TV on the American Music website, saying that the car accident was deliberately caused, and his words were very fierce. ’

‘The spokesperson of the local prosecutor’s office stated that the police have entered into the detection process for the accident...’

Motula sighed after reading it, rubbing her eyebrows in thought, the phone rang again, "Mr. Stringer..."

"That kid directed and acted..."

"But he has revealed a flaw. We can link this incident to the death of 2PAC and promote it as the revenge of the blood gang...let him move the stone to his own foot."

"Wait," Howard Stringer interrupted him suddenly, "how do you know the driver in the accident is black?"

"I also have my own Hollywood news channel." Motula replied: "This matter absolutely has nothing to do with me."

Howard Stringer, who was in the headquarters of Sony Electronics North Mi, was silent for a while and hung up the phone.

"Mayor's office." The secretary reported outside: "Mr. Giuliani."

"Come in."

He cleared his throat and picked up the microphone, "Hey, Mr. Mayor."

"Pay attention to Howard, the Inner City Broadcasting Company. The actor is not so stupid to cause trouble for the Chicago Donkey Party friends. Would he want to instigate African Americans in New York...and repeat what happened in Los Angeles in 1992?" Giuliani asked.

"He doesn't have that much energy. In fact, according to our polls, he is now rejected by most people." Howard Stringer replied, "New York African singers have long wanted to be used by outsiders."

"Are you sure? I don't know much about the entertainment industry, but after living so old, few stars in my memory can make such a big move at the time when the election day is approaching." Giuliani questioned.

"I'm 100% sure, don't worry, Mr. Giuliani."

Howard Stringer laughed: "He has some African-American microphones under his banner, and he is very good at using emerging media, but that's it."

"Well, I believe you this time."

After finishing the conversation with Giuliani, Howard Stringer turned on the radio and tuned it to the inner city broadcasting company's frequency band.

‘Malcolm X, Dr. King, 2PAC...Now it’s APLUS’s turn. They want to kill every black man who tries to fight, every one! We can no longer tolerate it, we must do something! ’

The radio host was instigating wildly in a fanatical tone.

He drew the golf club from the corner of the office and listened while playing on the mini fairway on the floor.

"Haha, it's hard to imagine that they were still fighting for Oprah before." A white executive walked in without knocking, smiling and pointing to the sign on his wrist.

"Oh, I almost forgot."

He asked the secretary to take the golf equipment to the car first, "I will give you two shots today? Or three?"

"It was you who lost last time."

"It's just an accident..."

Too lazy to turn off the radio, and hurriedly left the office at the expense of each other.

"Will today's remarks be too offensive? If the Los Angeles police investigates just an ordinary car accident, we will be embarrassed."

Entering the advertising time, the black host of the Inner City Broadcasting Company pressed the intercom and asked the New York branch bosses who were listening through the glass outside the recording room.

"A major shareholder of this company has never been a broad-minded person."

The director of the New York branch replied: "He can just say what he likes to listen to. Anyway, you only need to scold the white man this time."

"What's this? Our atonement?" The host complained.

"Haha! Go ahead and do your work. It's better to do something at this time than someone who doesn't want to act."

The New York branch director smiled.

He was alluding to Gordon, the A+CN boss and evening news anchor still hesitating.

"I need to get further evidence to publish that kind of news."

In the A+CN evening news studio in Chicago, Gordon sat alone behind the anchor station, operating the laptop in front of him while answering Pierre Sutton’s call, "Pierre, APLUS’s mental state is really fine. Is it? I’m watching his post on the American Music website, between the lines..."

"For your own good, Gordon, do something!"

Pierre Sutton interrupted him, "It is not surprising that he was almost killed by a truck early in the morning.

"I often think about it recently, maybe no matter how hard I try, I will be hated by him, I have this consciousness."

Gordon said: "The black people's own 24-hour news station has been ruthlessly proved that it can't make money. This is the core problem. I have been doing it for a long time."

"Didn't you just get the capital injection from Chicago politics? That money has been burned for a long time. What APLUS needs most now is support and loyalty." Pierre Sutton persuaded: "He has the patience to endure long-term losses. "

"He even ordered it himself, no, he didn't bother to let Ms. Sloan pass a word."

Gordon asked: "I haven't got any instructions yet, how about you?"

"Don't deceive yourself, you are a senior media person, Gordon, you don't really need me to say this, I treat you as a friend... Oh! Forget it, you decide for yourself."

Pierre hung up with a sigh.

"The countdown is fifteen minutes." The director reminded.

Gordon lowered his head and flipped through tonight's news content, and said after a few minutes: "Bring the news release of the morning car accident and put it after the election news."

"Okay." The staff sent the prepared manuscript.

"The news picture uses the crashed Rolls Royce..."

Gordon sketched the press release, replacing some positive words with a little more relaxed.

In Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Hayden said to the FBI agent who came to check the scene at the door: "Sorry, Mr. APLUS thinks Los Angeles is not safe and has left here."

"Who does this house belong to?" the agent asked.

"It belongs to me." Hayden replied. In order to avoid taxation, it would be very complicated to actually pour the real estate under Amy's name, so in name this house still belongs to him, which happens to save a lot of trouble.

"May I go in and have a look?" the agent asked.

"Uh, wait, my lawyer hasn't arrived yet, let's check the crime scene first."

Hayden saw Donovan's car approaching in the distance, and quickly dealt with the agent a few words, and then personally opened the iron door.

"The paparazzi are rushing over. Maybe someone has analyzed the specific address in the background street topography of the photo. Maybe someone inside the police station was bought by the media."

Donovan hurriedly got out of the car and said, "Where is APLUS?"

"Not long ago..."

Hayden reported in a low voice anxiously, "He is very dissatisfied with us, William Morris. I can see that he has been tossing and talking about driver’s hats, Moturas, Italians, mafia, and truckers’ union all day long. The more I contacted, I suspected that this was not a mere accident, and many posts were posted on the Internet."

"I've seen it."

Donovan asked: "Do you think he will replace us next year?"

"It's very likely! You know his character, Donovan, we'll be over if we don't do anything! We will definitely lose him! He even trusted Sloan even more, and might have beaten Ovitz and Perkinsley during the day. phone."

Hayden cried again: "How's your investigation? The driver who caused the accident..."

"If that guy is a professional killer who can take on such a major task~www.wuxiaspot.com~ I have to say that he hides himself too deeply and well, but it doesn't matter now... APLUS just wants favorable public opinion. , Right? Hayden."

Donovan asked.

"What do you mean?" Hayden didn't understand. "What are you going to do?"

Donovan shook his head, his expression a little lonely.

"The driver's name and home address have been leaked!"

The paparazzi who had just drove their motorcycles outside the villa received a call from the newspaper and the station, "Leave the scene alone! There is nothing there. Just take a few brake marks and rush over and go!" Order by remote control.

In a black community in Los Angeles, the police officers heard the roar of the paparazzi motorcycles as soon as they received the search warrant issued by the prosecutor's office. Soon afterwards, the TV broadcast trucks and helicopters all arrived.

"These **** reporters!"

The sheriff hurriedly asked someone to pull a cordon at the door of the driver who caused the accident. He glanced at the neighbors who were crowded around watching the excitement. He showed the black woman with five or six children behind his buttocks. The wife of the driver showed the warrant and led the team inside. Turn over the cabinets.

"Look at this!"

After only a few minutes of work, a young police officer yelled in excitement. He picked up three heavy plastic bags from the toilet tank.

"give me."

The sheriff is about to come over and take apart, which is full of bundles of old banknotes worth twenty dollars.

He weighed the weight casually, "About sixty thousand dollars." He gave a judgment based on years of experience.

The police officers cheered enthusiastically.

"Oh my God!"

The driver's wife covered her mouth, "I don't know, I don't know..." Sobbed in disbelief and helplessly.

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