Slick

by Daniel Price

  Madison cocked her head. “Well...isn’t that sort of good?”

  “No. I need to know who we’re up against. I need to hear her name.”

  Thanks to The Smoking Gun, the world just learned that somebody was allegedly abused by Hunta at the Mean World Christmas party, and somebody was allegedly mad about it. That did me absolutely no good, considering that somebody could still be Lisa Glassman.

  “Goddamn it.” I leaned back and eyed Madison. “This is your fault.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because you work with the Internet and the Internet sucks.”

  “Oh, act your age.”

  I managed to simultaneously laugh and yawn, which triggered a successive laugh and yawn from Madison. For the fourth time today, I went upstairs to my bedroom, closed the door, and made a private call from my spy phone.

  “Did you talk to her?” I asked Alonso.

  “I talked to Ms. Steiner,” he replied. “I gave her all the information and confirmation she could have ever possibly hoped for. She was very pleased, to say the least.”

  “And you gave her permission to use Harmony’s name?”

  “I assured her that neither Harmony nor I would make a fuss if she revealed the victim by name. Will you be making a liar out of me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  He chuckled. “Oh well. One less person to buy my novel.”

  “When did you finish the call?”

  “About fifteen minutes ago.”

  I checked my alarm clock. “She’ll never make her deadline.”

  “She’ll make it.”

  She better. Ten minutes later, I went back downstairs. Along the way, I got the bird’s eye view of Madison’s work. She was adrift in a sea of highlighted articles.

  “Jesus,” I said. “They really don’t like him, do they?”

  With a tired sigh, she capped her marker. “No. No, they don’t.”

  The minute she’d arrived at my place, I put her to work. I’d printed the natterings of thirty different columnists, each one offering their own postmortem analysis of Hunta’s appearance on 48 Hours. Madison’s task was to go through them with a pair of colored highlighters. Every word that benefited Hunta—positive modifiers, supportive quotes, mentions of his wife and child, and so on—was to be marked in green. By contrast, every word used to cast Hunta in a less flattering light was to be marked in orange. By four o’clock, her work looked like a pumpkin patch.

  “God, Scott, you were right about the adjectives. Most of the articles refer to him as the ‘lascivious’ rapper, with his ‘libidinous’ style of rap music. They also use ‘lecherous,’ ‘licentious,’ ‘lewd,’ and ‘libertine.’ ‘Libertine’ is bad, right?”

  “In this case, it is.”

  “Shit, they call him everything short of a horn dog. And the only three songs of his they keep mentioning by name are ‘Chocolate Ho-Ho,’ ‘Keep Ya Head Down,’ and of course ‘Bitch Fiend.’ But I looked up the album on Amazon. He has at least six other tracks with perfectly respectable titles, including a sweet one called ‘Dear Papa.’ Funny how no one listed that.”

  I smiled. “Are we learning?”

  “We are freaking.”

  “I do notice a couple of green words in the mix.”

  “Oh yes,” she replied with perfect wit. “Apparently he’s quite buff.”

  I searched my junk drawer. “Okay. You’re doing a great job. So now I’ll throw in one more color.”

  With that, I tossed her a pink highlighter. She caught it. “What’s this one for?”

  “All the mentions of Annabelle Shane.”

  “I see. And what will I learn from this?”

  “That pink is worse than orange.”

  She yawned again. “All right.”

  With an old man’s moan, I hunkered down on the sofa. I barely had a chance to get comfortable before the red phone rang. Crap. I didn’t want to take it all the way back upstairs. Screw it. I’d just talk around Madison. I’d be fine as long as I didn’t call Harmony by name.

  “Scott Singer.”

  Harmony spoke in a panicked whisper. “Scott. It’s me. I think I’m in trouble.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Some reporter guy just called for me...”

  “Andy Cronin?”

  “Yeah. But I was out at the store when he called. One of my roommates took the message. Now they asking me all kinds of questions. What should I say?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I couldn’t tell them nothing.”

  “That’s fine. Just keep saying that. But listen, the more nervous you act around them, the more nervous they’ll get. So the next time they corner you with questions, deal with them confidently. Say, ‘Look, I love you guys but I’m not ready to talk about it.’”

  I could see Madison’s mind working to process the conversation. Who does he keep talking to? Is it business? Pleasure? Both?

  “But what happens when the story breaks? What do I say then?”

  “You say good-bye,” I told her. “I just talked to our mutual friend. He’s getting you out of there tomorrow. You’ll be set up somewhere nice.”

  She squeaked something inaudible.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you.”

  “I said I don’t want to lose my roommates. They the only family I got.”

  I casually eyed Madison as she worked. “They may freak out a little, but they’ll get over it. When this is all over, they’ll understand. Trust me. These are the kinds of things that only make a friendship stronger.”

  God, that was trite, not to mention bullshit. I knew that as soon as the tabloids started waving around the cheddar, all bets were off. I really should have prepared her for the possibility that one or more of her friends would sell her out for cash. I really should have taken the phone upstairs.

  “You mean that?” Harmony asked.

  “It’ll be fine. I swear it.”

  I felt terrible. I’d never been this deceitful with her before. Each fraudulent comment, each creative omission, was a crack in the ice. A few more of those, Mr. Singer, and you’re in for a really cold swim.

  But at least she felt better. “Damn, Scott. You always know what to say.”

  “Hey, it’s my job. I’m your lifeline.”

  She laughed. “I’m gonna keep this phone with me forever. So, like, twenty years from now, when I’m in a jam, I’m still gonna call you up and go ‘Scott! What do I do?’”

  It was a cute thought, but I knew Harmony wouldn’t be under my wing forever. In the media world, you tend to grow up fast. I figured in a week she’d be a black belt at this. By Presidents’ Day, she’d be permanently speaking in eight-second sound bites.

  Meanwhile, under my other wing, Madison continued to highlight all the mentions of Annabelle Shane. Once I closed the phone, she threw me a teasing grin.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on. Who was that?”

  I folded my hands over my chest and closed my eyes. “My mother.”

  “You told me your mother was dead. You said it like an hour ago.”

  “Okay, then it was your mother.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so.”

  “Well, she sounded like your mother.”

  “Fine,” Madison said. “Sorry I asked.”

  I suddenly remembered something Jean told me. “Hey, your dad’s a college professor, right? I mean your real dad.”

  Madison eyed me warily. “I know who you’re talking about. And yes. He is.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but how does he teach classes? I mean being deaf and all. Does he use special technology, an interpreter, or what?”

  She smiled coyly. Oh, look who wants information now?

  “You ever been to D.C.?” she asked.

  “I used to live there.”

  “Me too. There’s a school there called Gallaudet. It’s a famous deaf university. They pretty much do everything in
sign language.”

  “Ah. I get it now.”

  “My dad’s been teaching there for twenty-five years. Why do you want to know about that?”

  “No reason. Your mom mentioned it in one of her e-mails and it made me curious.”

  “I see,” she replied frostily. “So you guys aren’t just talking X-Men. You’re talking ex-spouses.”

  Clever girl. It was definitely genetic.

  ________________

  Last night, at the stroke of midnight, I had replied to Jean’s Z-shaped note with a Y-shaped apology for not getting back to her sooner. Unable to resist the thematic convergence, she quickly countered with an X-shaped tribute to her favorite team of comic-book mutants. Very cute, but the text-sculpting thing was getting old. So instead of burying my next message under a great big “W,” I discussed my favorite X-Men (Beast, Rogue, Storm) in words of five letters or less.

  Never one to be outdone, she described all the things she loved about her namesake heroine, Jean Grey, in words of four letters or less. That may seem like an easy task, but try to keep it up for more than a line or two. It’s very, very hard to pull off. And yet she had sent me a flat-out full-page mash note, just ripe with hep puns, fun gags, and sly bon mots. And she did it all in no time.

  The challenges only got harder from there. Anagrams. Palindromes. Cryptoquotes. Syllacrostics. As long as the game didn’t involve phonetics, she was indomitable. The English language was her bitch, and so was I. I did everything I could to keep up but she threw me around the virtual room, breaking every lamp and mirror. By the end of the lightning pun round, I was begging for mercy. Please. No more. Need rest...

  And yet Jean had barely broken a sweat.

  Wow, Scott! That was an AMAZING run! As you’ve noticed, I love these kinds of word games. Sadly, few ever want to play with me and the ones who do, sadly, suck at it.

  So thank you! It’s been ages since I’ve had a good mental challenge. It makes a nice break from all the emotional ones. :)

  In response, I admitted I was feeling somewhat mentally-challenged myself. But in her own gracious style, she waved me off.

  Oh, stop. I told you I had the natural advantage. And I learned from the master. Not only was my first husband twice my age and IQ, but he was also an English professor. He wiped the floor with me (literately, not literally). He found my tenacity to be “cute,” but all I wanted to do was wipe the smug off his mug.

  So I kept taking him on, losing and learning, losing and learning, until that ONE FATEFUL DAY...ha ha ha.

  He divorced me. Typical man.

  (Shit. I’m never going to hear from you again, am I?)

  Don’t worry, I wrote back. I’m not the typical man.

  I didn’t think so, but I had to be sure. You see in my book, a typical man is someone who’d rather surround himself with fawning, admiring young women (*cough cough* Madison) than take on someone his own age and cranial capacity.

  Her teasing insinuation torqued me; only because it made me wonder. Clearly I did enjoy Madison’s fawning admiration. And not just hers (*cough cough* Harmony). So what did that make me? Insecure? Lecherous? Lewd? Libertine? I remembered the way Miranda had teased me when she detected my May-September crush on the voluptuous Deb Isham.

  So what was it you liked about her? Besides her knockers. Is it that she’s young and naïve? That she could gaze upon you with a sense of awe and wonder?

  No. Sorry. In hindsight, it was her knockers. And you, Miranda, were simply projecting your husband’s flaws onto me. Et tu, Jean? Are you doing the same with your own professor ex? Are you merely handing me one of your old issues? Because if so:

  You should know that the two major relationships in my life were both with strong-willed, freethinking, devastatingly brilliant women. One was my age, the other was a good deal older. Not only did they educate and challenge me in every conceivable fashion, but they also made gobs more money than I did. Amazingly, none of this intimidated me.

  Neither do you. I’ll be more than happy to continue playing these little word games, losing and learning, losing and learning. I just hope that when that ONE FATEFUL DAY comes, you won’t pout too much, like a typical woman (see how sexist it sounds when I say it?).

  Toodles for now,

  Scott Singer

  PS — Since I know you’ll ask: I was dumped both times. Surely by now you can see why.

  Once I sent the message, I reread it and winced. Damn. That was persnickety, Singer. You might as well have typed TOUCHED A NERVE seventy times and then sent it off. I never would have said it if I hadn’t been so obscenely tired.

  And yet instead of going to bed, I waited for her response:

  Surely I can’t.

  That was it. No comeback jab. No witty puns. No clever little postscript. The note was suspiciously terse for a woman with her mastery of the written language. Three simple words. Stranger still, it took her eight minutes to write them.

  ________________

  By Wednesday night I was ready to scream. I had been cooped up in my apartment all day, percolating with a nervous energy that I didn’t know how to vent or defuse. I felt like one of those old-fashioned dads-to-be, pacing back and forth outside the maternity ward. Believe me, I would have rather been there in the delivery room, telling Gail Steiner to push! Push, damn it! But I didn’t want to open myself up to any paternity claims. I just had to wait for the miracle to happen.

  It happened at eight o’clock. At long last, my baby got to see the light of day. After five days of labor, Harmony Prince was finally born.

  Maxina was the one to call with the good news. “Scott, I just got word from my sources at the L.A. Times. They just burned the plate for tomorrow’s front page. Gail Steiner’s piece is all over it.”

  “Does she mention Harmony by name?”

  “Many times.”

  I deflated into my easy chair. “Oh, thank God...”

  “You did it, Scott.”

  I did it. The copyright to the Christmas-party rape claim was now officially ours. In a matter of hours, the Times would trumpet their coup all over the newswires, making Harmony the truest of overnight sensations.

  “Thank God,” I breathed again. “Thank God.”

  “I don’t know,” Maxina teased. “I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I hired you to get ruthless and mean with Lisa Glassman, and here you managed to stop her without touching a hair on her head.”

  I loved her all over again. “Sorry. Next time I’ll do better.”

  “This is next time,” she replied. “You got this plane off the ground. Now you have to land it.”

  I suppressed a hysterical laugh. “I will. I will.”

  “Not that I want to get into this tonight, but what’s your estimated flight time?”

  “One week,” I told her.

  “One whole week?”

  “Look, I’m not just giving you the cure for Lisa Glassman here. I’m giving you the cure for Annabelle Shane.”

  “In one week we’ll be needing the cure for Harmony Prince.”

  “She comes with her own cure. That’s the great thing about this. Trust me. I know this can work.”

  Maxina took a good long breath. “I’m too tired to argue. Let’s see how the press reacts tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I’ll let you call the starlet yourself.”

  “Oh, you bet I will.”

  “Tell her to rest up, Scott. She’s in for a quite a day.”

  Maxina wasn’t as joyous as I was. It was easy to see why. To think of the power being put in Harmony’s hands. To think of the power I wielded with Harmony in my hands. My God. I’d be writing both sides of America’s latest and greatest drama. Forget “he said/she said.” Now it was all about what I said. No wonder I couldn’t fake an air of professional detachment. I was about to score with an entire nation.

  I sat alone in my apartment, in absolute silence, gazing out at absolutely nothing. I didn�
��t move but I was very, very conscious of the phone in my lap. If I told Harmony she was about to wake up famous, would she even sleep? Would I? And if I assured her that from this point on, her fate was safe and snug in my loving hands, could she believe it? Could I?

  Screw it. I’d just hand her the facts and let her sort them out. No more creative omissions. No more giving her the kid’s version of things. She was in for the crash course now. The Bitch was about take her places even I never went.

  14

  SANCTIFIED LADY

  Her name came up with the sunrise. East to west, all across the nation, wherever there was sound or light, there was—

  “—Harmony Prince,” said the talk-radio people in Tampa.

  “—Harmony Prince,” said the morning TV anchors in St. Paul.

  “—Harmony Prince,” said the newspapers in Reno.

  “—Harmony Prince,” said the websites all over.

  “—according to a story from this morning’s L.A. Times—”

  “—Los Angeles Times, a woman by the name of Harmony Prince—”

  “—Harmony Prince—”

  “—nineteen-year-old Harmony Prince is filing a civil claim—”

  “—civil suit against rapper Jeremy Sharpe—”

  “—rapper Jeremy Sharpe—”

  “—aka Hunta—”

  “—the controversial rapper Hunta—”

  “’I never hurt a woman in my life. I never forced a woman into sex.’”

  “—Hunta, for purported sexual abuse—”

  “—sexual abuse from an alleged—”

  “—alleged rape incident stemming from a—”

  “—claimed he never forced a woman into sex.”