Slick

by Daniel Price

  “—incident at a record-label Christmas party.”

  “—was a dancer at the Christmas party of—”

  “—forced the woman into sex.”

  “—forced her—”

  “—raped her—”

  “—raped the woman, for God’s sake—”

  “—raped the dancer—”

  “—the nineteen-year-old dancer—”

  “—the nineteen-year-old woman—”

  “—the nineteen-year-old victim named—”

  “—victim by the name of—”

  “—name of—”

  “—Harmony Prince.”

  “—Harmony Prince.”

  “—the victim, Harmony Prince.”

  “Holy shit!” yelled Harmony from her bathroom. “Scott! What do I do?”

  I ran downstairs. “Okay. Step one: move away from the window.”

  “There’s gotta be a hundred people outside!”

  “Move away from the window,” I echoed, while turning on the TV. Lo and behold, there it was. Her apartment complex. On almost every channel, a roving newshound reported live from outside her building. I could see at least six satellite news vans in the background. Four police cars. Two ambulances. A fire truck. It was like Melrose High all over again. And Harmony didn’t even have to shoot anyone.

  “Holy shit, Scott...”

  “Take a deep breath, hon. Alonso’s coming. He’ll be there as fast as he can.”

  We could have gotten her out of there yesterday, of course. Easily. Quietly. But where was the fun in that? The media needed pictures. Quality pictures. All they had so far were two JPEG images of Harmony and Hunta (courtesy of the L.A. Times (courtesy of Alonso (courtesy of me))). Later, I’d scan that wonderful Polaroid and anonymously send it off to UPI. Later, though. It was only 7:30 in the morning. I had to keep her sane until Alonso got there. I had to hold her together. I had no clothes on.

  “Did you pack your essentials?”

  “What? Yeah. Yeah. I did it last night like you told me.” Someone kept pounding at her door. “My roommates! What do I tell my roommates?”

  “Tell them to use the other bathroom.”

  “They wanna know what the hell’s going on!”

  “Tell them to leave you alone.”

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  “You should probably say ‘please.’”

  “PLEASE!”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Harmony, please don’t cry. Everything that’s happening right now is good. This is good.”

  “It don’t feel good.”

  “It will. It’ll feel great.”

  “Scott, I’m so scared...”

  “I know you’re scared. Alonso’s coming.”

  “I wish you were coming.”

  “I’m already here. You already have me.”

  Her roommates kept pounding. “I DON’T KNOW, OKAY? PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE!”

  My other cellular rang. “Harmony, just breathe.”

  “They’ll never forgive me.”

  “They’ll forgive you.”

  “Is that your other phone?”

  “I’m not answering it.”

  “What if it’s Hunta?”

  “It’s not.”

  On TV, the chaos boiled over. The newshounds swarmed around a new figure. He looked crisp and fresh in his three-piece suit.

  “He’s there!” I yelled. “Alonso’s there.”

  “Thank God!”

  “You’re all dressed?”

  “I’m all dressed. And I got my essentials.”

  “Then you’re all set.”

  “What do I tell my roommates?”

  “Tell them you love them,” I said. “Then tell them good-bye.”

  Alonso made his way into the building. Harmony stepped out from the bathroom. The reporters got in pounce position. The phone kept ringing. This was better than sex.

  ________________

  At 7:40 a.m. on Thursday, February 8, Harmony Prince made her live television debut. Alonso led her down the walkway like Allan Quartermain, fighting off the savages with one arm while securing the damsel with the other. He was wonderfully telegenic. The cameras added a healthy fifteen pounds and all but erased his goofy, showboating nature. You could almost believe he wasn’t enjoying the attention. He even got in a few quality bites. Stop it! Act like adults for God’s sake! This is not news!

  But the real star of the show, of course, was Harmony. She was beautifully helpless as she clung to her lawyer. No Oscar-winning actress, no precious child, nobody could broadcast their state of being like Harmony did. Her face was a vortex. You couldn’t help but share her righteous horror as the reporters pawed at her, pelting her with unbelievably rude questions. How much are you asking for? Have you ever been raped before? Why didn’t you go to the police? Did Hunta videotape your sexual assault? What would you say to him right now? Would you shoot him if you could?

  I couldn’t have prayed for a more powerful premiere. She couldn’t have made a stronger impression if I’d tried. Just think of all the morning viewers, staring slightly agape while the cereal dripped from their raised spoons. Think of her poor roommates, who watched their sweet little sister step out into the media storm only to be digitized, miniaturized, fictionalized. She walked out the door and came back five seconds later through the TV screen, a character no more real to them than Frasier or Buffy.

  How strange it must have seemed. How odd it must have been for Lisa Glassman to wake up and find her leverage missing, to learn that she was the secret butt of a nationwide joke. It could have been worse, sweetheart. I could have dropped the mountain on top of you instead of in front of you. I would have found a way. I always find a way. I’m very, very good at what I do.

  ________________

  The police followed along, if only to prevent the world from losing Harmony the way it lost Princess Di. But here in America, we chase our cars from above. The local news choppers trailed Alonso’s black Audi with military precision. This wasn’t just a provincial affair. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, the sister affiliates in all other markets, everybody picked up on the feed. Only ABC abstained, refusing to interrupt the live opening ceremony of Disney’s new California Adventure theme park. There were over twenty news crews down in Anaheim that morning, and with the exception of the Disney/ABC synergy squad, they were all preempted by Harmony. Her first step into the limelight and already she had the world’s biggest mouse on the bottom of her shoe.

  It was a short trip north from Harmony’s apartment to the Fairmont Miramar on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Greta Garbo used to stay there when she wanted to be alone. John F. Kennedy stayed there when he didn’t want to be alone. And Marilyn Monroe fled there when the media pressure was getting too intense. Now it was Harmony’s turn. Her tower suite was a bright and airy wonderland complete with bathroom jacuzzi and balcony overlooking the Pacific. Ordinarily it would cost $645 a night, but Alonso finagled a free tab in exchange for hosting at least one press conference from the hotel’s new garden room. That, too, would happen by the end of the day.

  Minutes after settling in to her residence, Harmony dropped onto the king-size bed and called me. I could hear her popping open the aspirin bottle. Emotionally, she was a twirling, flying coin. I wasn’t sure if she was going to land on numbness or hysteria.

  “That was the craziest shit I ever saw,” she told me. “They was standing everywhere. In the mud. In the flowers. On each other. I mean the way they pushed all over each other to get to me...”

  I beamed from ear to ear. “Yep. They live for this kind of stuff.”

  “And the wires. I never seen so many wires in my life. Everyone had at least six wires coming out of them.” She let out a precarious laugh. “I was like ‘Shit, where do they all go?’ For a second I thought maybe all the people was all hooked up to each other. Like they was all just part of one big machine.”

  “You’re not entirely wrong.”

  “Yeah, but who decided I’d
be the big story? Who decided that I’d be what people wanted to see?”

  I turned off the TV. I could feel Harmony inching her way to tears. She needed my full focus.

  “It’s all a business decision,” I explained. “The income’s based on ad rates, the ad rates are based on audience numbers and so far this Melrose thing has drawn in huge numbers. People who don’t normally watch the news are now watching the news.”

  “So what am I, the next Annabelle Shane?”

  “Yes, but to them you make a much better lead character.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because unlike her, you’re still walking and talking. Unlike her, you don’t have a killing spree on your record. And unlike her, your beef is with the original Bitch Fiend himself. He’s the one they’re after. He’s the reason you’re hot property right now.”

  “Shit. If that’s how they treat me, I don’t even want to think about how they gonna treat Hunta.”

  “They’ve been setting him up as the bad guy all week. With or without you—”

  “It’s with me,” she argued. “If I’m the better story, then he’s in a lot more trouble with me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re forgetting the twist. This is a rescue operation. You’re saving him. You know it. I know it. He knows it.”

  “My roommates don’t know it.”

  “Honey, you’re going out of your way to upset yourself.”

  “They know I’m lying,” she said. “They saw me right after the Christmas party. I was fine. I was—”

  “Harmony—”

  “I kept saying it was the easiest money I ever made...”

  There she went. Whether she was covering her mouth or the receiver, I didn’t know. But I could read the tears in her silence.

  “Harmony? Harmony, listen to me. Are you there?”

  She sniffed. “I’m here.”

  “You just went through one of the most intense experiences a human being can go through. Your mind is moving a million miles an hour right now, and it’s taking you to dark places. Just slow it all down, okay? Step back into the light.”

  “What are people gonna think about me?”

  “Only good things,” I assured her. “This is my story now. And I’m not going to stop until the world sees you the way I do.”

  “As a victim,” she groused.

  “That’s not the way I see you and you know it.”

  After a few more sighs and sniffs, Harmony settled down. I desperately wanted to put her at ease and get started on my task list. All I’d managed to do so far was throw on a robe and make myself a Venti-size cup of coffee.

  “You got any family, Scott?”

  “Not anymore. Both my parents are dead.”

  “Did they know what you do? I mean, for work?”

  I smiled wanly. “They knew I was a publicist, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But how did they feel about you doing, you know, this kind of stuff?”

  I’d never done this kind of stuff before, but that wasn’t the thing to tell her.

  “They knew I loved my job. They knew I was good at it. They were just happy with that, I guess.” I switched beats. “Although they had a good friend. A rabbi. He gave me a hard time. I remember once he pulled me aside and said, ‘Scott, what you do is not a good living. It may be a job. It may be a well-paying job. But you’re playing tricks on people, and that’s not a good living.’”

  “Damn. What’d you say to him?”

  “I simply looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Silly rabbi! Tricks are for kids!’”

  Harmony screamed with laughter. “You didn’t really say that!”

  “No. But I would have.”

  “If?”

  “If any of that actually happened.”

  She screamed again. “You set me up?”

  “And you walked right in,” I crowed. “I’m still the tricksta. Still the slicksta.”

  “You’re terrible!”

  “Anything to get a smile out of you.”

  “You’re too much.”

  I checked the clock. “Listen, sweetheart, you’re done for the day. I want you to rest and enjoy your new digs, okay? Take a nice long bath. Order a huge meal. Spoil yourself. You’re a celebrity now. Besides, you need to recharge your phone. I don’t want to lose you to a low battery.”

  She took a deep breath, then let out a stretching moan. “Maybe I’ll take a nap. If I can.”

  “Good. Recharge your own battery.”

  “Thank you, Scott.”

  “For what?”

  “For making me feel better, like always.”

  I looked out the window, beaming. “Harmony, I’d move heaven and earth for you. You know that.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “You the only one I trust.”

  That lit me up in dangerous ways. As my feelings and senses were heightened, so were my urges. I wanted to devour a huge rack of lamb, even though it was only breakfast-time. I wanted to sprint down the street, even though I was barefoot. Now I wanted to hug Harmony, hard. I wanted to envelop her, to wrap myself around her so tight that I wouldn’t be able to tell her heartbeat from mine. Although the feeling was hot, my reasons were shamefully cold. This was a woman who, just by leaving the apartment, had managed to upstage the twenty-million dollar opening to a hundred-million-dollar theme park. This was a woman who, in just forty minutes, had scored at least thirty million dollars’ worth of comparative ad exposure. Oh, Harmony. I liked you from the moment I met you, but now—God help me—you turn me on.

  ________________

  Once the nation’s newest celebrity disappeared inside the Miramar, the networks reluctantly returned to scheduled programming. The cable news channels, however, continued to squeeze every last drop out of Gail Steiner’s peach. They paraded an endless list of experts, authors, lawyers, pollsters, professors, prognosticators, the whole Goya beanery.

  And yet as cerebral as these people were meant to seem, their conclusions were jam-packed with masturbatory drama. This new development has HUGE implications! For Hunta. For the entertainment industry. For the victims of Melrose, their families, their families’ lawyers. For all of us! God, yes! This affects all of us!

  Surprisingly, very few of the strokes were devoted to Harmony herself. To the media, she was still just a stamp-sized pinup, a thumbnail tease. You could practically hear the news editors howling as they launched their flying monkeys out the window. Go, my pretties! Find me everything you can on this girl! Go! Go!

  Fortunately, one of the minions had been given a head start. Hell, I’d slipped Andy Cronin the key to Harmony’s whole life story. By now, of course, he knew exactly where it fit in. By now, he was typing as fast as he could.

  ________________

  Scott. It’s Maxina. We need to convene. Come to my hotel at 10am. Eighth floor. L’Escoffier Room.

  I had just finished showering when she left the message. I knew there’d be some kind of emergency status meeting, but this seemed eerily formal. Why the change of venue? Why the fancy meeting room? Who else was coming?

  At a quarter to ten, I arrived at the Beverly Hilton. Maxina had been staying there for the past week, courtesy of the Recording Industry Association of America. She wasn’t taking a dime from Mean World’s coffers. They couldn’t afford her. But Maxina wasn’t in this for the money. Like the RIAA, she remained focused on the larger battle. Why else would she leave her beautiful home in Atlanta? Her husband and sons. Her orthopedic chairs. To save one measly rapper? No way. In her mind, in her heart, she was fighting to save music.

  Simba, on the other hand, had no love for the business. Many were starting to wonder if she had any love left for her husband. But when Maxina summoned her to the Hilton, she arrived just as promptly as I did. She was standing in the elevator bank when I caught her dark and lovely scorn.

  “Is it me,” she asked facetiously, “or have you gotten even taller?”

  She was dressed in a loose black blouse and tight
gray jeans. Her long hair was clipped back. She hid herself under a hat and dark glasses, but nobody seemed to recognize her. A hefty bodyguard flanked her left side, just in case someone did.

  “Simba. Hey. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “Oh, and why not?”

  “You want the real answer or the polite one?”

  An elevator opened. The bodyguard escorted us in, then pushed back a plump tourist who tried to embark with us.

  Simba removed her glasses. “Let me guess. You heard I was being a real pain in the ass.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s all right,” she replied as the doors slid closed. “I heard you were fucking Harmony.”

  Shit. I knew there’d be a downside to chewing out the Judge, aside from his lifelong enmity. Shit, shit, shit. That was not a constructive rumor. And worse, it was the kind that denials only strengthened. I’d have to say something clever to counter the buzz. Whatever it was, I’d save it for the meeting.

  “I was being a pain in the ass,” Simba admitted, three floors up. “I was sick of that hotel. Sick of Maxina telling me what to do. And I was definitely sick of Jeremy acting like he was the only one being put out.”

  “But then?”

  She bounced a glare through the mirrored doors. “Let’s just say I got a wake-up call this morning.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “How do you think he’s holding up?”

  “It’s just medicine,” I assured her. “It may taste like crap but it’s going to make everything better again.”

  “So you say.”

  “Just stand by your husband. You can’t go wrong.”

  The elevator stopped at the top floor. After sniffing for reporters, Simba’s bodyguard led us down the hall to our meeting place. A pair of hotel security guards blocked the entrance. They checked our IDs against their lists, then opened the double doors to a massive, sun-drenched room.

  “For the record,” Simba added, “I don’t think you’re fucking Harmony.”

  “Good to hear.”

  She put her shades back on. “I’d like to think you have better taste than that.”

  We stepped into the light.