by Daniel Price
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In its heyday, L’Escoffier was the swankiest of swank places to dine, a place where you could rub shoulders with the Hollywood elite over a rich crème brûlée. Eventually Merv Griffin’s people shut the restaurant down and left a chamber in its memory. The place could comfortably seat three hundred people, but there were only twelve of us here. We formed a tiny cluster in the center of the room. None of us looked very comfortable.
“See, to me this personifies Los Angeles,” Maxina joked to her squinting guests. “Too much sun and too much space.”
And yet the loop was looking awfully crowded as of late. Lord only knew how many folks were in on the gag now. The white people at the table were all strangers to me. Four of them were from the RIAA. Two were from Interscope. The final two were from Universal, Interscope’s corporate parent. They weren’t mere envoys. They were all high priests of the music industry.
The Judge sat with the Interscope reps. He threw me a cordial nod. I assumed it meant détente, but it was hard to tell. The sun gleamed so strongly off his bald head, I could barely see him.
For the first time this week, Maxina wasn’t dressed like she was going to Denny’s. Decked out in a stylish gray power suit, she walked around the table introducing everybody. I didn’t bother remembering their names. I hoped to God they’d extend me the same courtesy. This was stupid. It was unnecessary. It was dangerous. Nothing good ever came out of a committee, especially one filled with such nervous and powerful people.
At 10a.m. Maxina sat down and began the meeting.
“All right. Let’s talk about Harmony Prince.”
It wasn’t long before the shouting began.
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“They have every reason to be scared,” the Judge explained, as he cut into a veal medallion.
We dined at Trader Vic’s, an aggressively chic eatery next to the hotel. Our tête-à-tête lunch was his idea, but I gladly accepted. The Judge was the one paying my invoice. That made him my client more than Maxina, Harmony, even Hunta. But for me this wasn’t just about customer service. I needed a new friend on the inside, especially since I’d left the Beverly Hilton with a brand new enemy.
“You know how we got the Parental Advisory sticker in the first place, right?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Tipper Gore had a thing against Prince.”
“She got the ball rolling, but it was her husband who did the real damage. See back in ‘85, when they were having those rock-and-roll obscenity hearings, the music labels didn’t give a shit. Controversy only led to higher sales. What did hurt was the increasing number of kids who recorded songs off the radio instead of buying the albums in stores. So at the time there just happened to be a bill on the Senate floor that would tax all blank audiotapes and give the revenue back to the record industry. We’re talking a handout worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Who fostered that bill? Al Gore. Who sat on the panel at the obscenity hearings? Al Gore.”
“So the labels took the sticker.”
“Right. The RIAA gave in. Not for principle. For profit. And what really sucks, Scott, is that we’re in the same jam again.”
“How so?”
“Think about it.”
I did. “Napster.”
“Napster’s dying, but the problem’s still there. The labels despise the Internet. It terrifies them. What they want more than anything is for Congress to make life hard for all the song-swappers and webcasters. What Congress wants, as always, is to suck up to their soccer-mom constituents. And what do they want?”
“To protect their kids from the evils of rap.”
“As long as it keeps making the goddamn headlines,” said the Judge. “You saw those guys at the meeting. They’re pissing their pants. Once the heat turns up, the first thing they’ll do is turn on Mean World. They’ll cut us out like a tumor. I don’t know how familiar you are with the music business but without one of the Big Five behind me, I won’t get any albums into stores. I won’t get any pay-for-play with the radio stations. Without Interscope, Universal, Vivendi, I might as well board up the windows. Can you see now why I’m stressed?”
He threw his napkin down, then finished his second beer. The Judge had skimped down on the bling-bling today. That was fortunate. In that sunny room, he would have blinged us blind.
“You sure you don’t want a drink, Scott?”
“You know, maybe I will have one.”
The bar was only twenty feet away. The Judge and I both had a nice clear view of the hanging television, currently on CNN (your source for nonstop Hunta speculation). Once again, they showed that lightning fast clip from “Chocolate Ho-Ho,” in which a skin-baring Harmony pressed and shimmied against a shirtless Hunta. She was completely indistinguishable from the woman on Hunta’s other side. For clarity’s sake, the network had dimmed the picture, and then highlighted her head with a light bubble. It made her look angelic, tragic.
The Judge scoffed at the TV. “That song is crap. Half the album is crap. It’s not Jeremy’s fault. It’s mine. His material was all so heavy at first, full of street angst and family drama. So I made him balance it out with some fun tracks. ‘Sex it up,’ I said. ‘Once you carve a name for yourself, then you can do the soulful-artist thing. But in the meantime, you’ve got to think about the market.’”
He shook his empty beer glass at the waitress. “I’m just a businessman, Scott. I never claimed to be smart.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“Well, I was certainly worried about ‘Bitch Fiend,’” he admitted. “But only because I thought they wouldn’t play it on the radio. I spent a lot of money getting those sample rights. You know how goddamn expensive the Rolling Stones are?”
“He samples the Rolling Stones?”
The Judge eyed me like I just fell from space. “Yeah. ‘Shattered.’ You never heard the song?”
“I’ve heard ‘Shattered.’”
“But you’ve never actually heard ‘Bitch Fiend.’”
I smiled. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Damn, Scott. Do yourself a favor. Do me a favor. Buy the CD.”
Actually, now I planned to download the song off the Internet, but that wasn’t the thing to tell him.
“I kept my word,” he said somberly. “I let him do his second album his way.”
“So is it good?”
“It’s exceptional. Too bad it’s not what he’ll be remembered for. It’ll probably never even hit the shelves.”
I finished my chicken and sat back. Although I was enjoying the lunch and the company, I was still only half there. The other half was thinking about Maxina. I really pissed her off at the hotel. It felt shamefully good at the time, but now I was worried. And more than half-worried. I may have just made a fatal mistake.
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It was one of those meetings where I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall, instead of actually there. It was all bosh and bunkum, a bunch of skittish suits trying to enforce their own changes to the script so they felt like they had some control over this big-budget gamble. Most of their suggestions were laughably clueless. Can you get Harmony to mention that she doesn’t blame Universal? Can it be a popular song that inspires her to confess? Can’t we end this today?
I didn’t have to be there. Neither did Simba. We were both empty garnishing. I was the token white man to appease the other white men. Simba was merely a visual representation of Hunta’s faith in Maxina. This was news to Simba. She didn’t enjoy being clip art either.
But we both looked pretty and kept our mouths shut. I only joined the din on three occasions; once to assert Alonso’s loyalty and twice to challenge proposals that weren’t in Hunta’s best interests. I had at least a dozen opportunities to stand up for Harmony, but I dodged each and every one. I didn’t want to add fuel to the gossip, especially in front of the Judge. If he didn’t start the talk about me and Harmony, he certainly encouraged it.
I’ll give the man c
redit, though. He did just as well as Maxina in defending my scheme, assuring his patrons that all the necessary precautions had been taken. Bottom line: we controlled Harmony. This story would end exactly the way we wanted it to.
“Yes, but when?” asked an Interscope man. “The longer this goes on—”
“I know. I know,” Maxina replied with a heavy breath. “We’re not talking weeks. We’re not even talking a week. The plan is for her to confess on Monday.”
She checked my reaction, which I buried a mile deep within me.
Nothing would be gained by arguing with her. Not here. I smiled my way through the rest of the meeting. I listened. I waited. At 11:30, we finally dispersed. Simba practically left skid marks. Maxina stayed to console the RIAA people. For me that meant more waiting and smiling. By a quarter to twelve, it was only the two of us in the cavernous room.
“I’m really sorry, Scott. If it were up to me, I would have kept them in the dark. But the last thing we want is for them to overreact and make premature concessions.”
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“That all depends,” I said.
“On?”
“On whether or not you’re serious about Monday.”
With a pained groan, she sat back down in her seat. “I am.”
“That’s way too soon. I told you I needed a week.”
“And I told you we’d wait to see how the press reacted before making any decisions. Sit down. You’re giving me neck cramps.”
I took a chair. “They reacted. They ate her up with a spoon. What did you expect?”
“I expected her to be news. I didn’t expect her to be breaking news.”
“I can’t believe you’re even surprised.”
“Of course I’m surprised. In case you haven’t noticed, Harmony is a black woman. A lower-class black woman. From the way they’ve already canonized her, she might as well be rich, blond, and dead.”
“I told you this wasn’t about race.”
Maxina chortled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take you as an expert on the matter.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid she’ll get too strong for us to handle. I’m afraid that if she chooses not to confess—”
“She will.”
“If she doesn’t, a scratchy audio recording might not be enough to bring her down.”
“And if she confesses on Monday,” I countered, “it won’t be enough to bring her back up. The public won’t know her well enough to forgive her.”
Maxina finally understood my concern. “Can’t we speed up the process?”
“How? If we rush her out there, she’ll look like a media whore. Nobody likes a media whore.”
“They might not like her, but they’ll forgive her.”
“Are you willing to bet on that?” I asked. “Because if you’re wrong, they’ll ruin her life. She might even get prosecuted.”
“Don’t you think you’re being dramatic?”
“Hey, you were the one who demanded I look out for her! You were the one who said that our plan had to be foolproof. And you were the one who threatened to be my—how did you put it?—my bane, my karma, my comeuppance, if I used her and threw her away like Kleenex! And now that’s exactly what you’re asking me to do!”
My voice bounced off the walls, hitting her from all sides. She rested her fist against her lips.
“Look, when this is over, I’ll use every available resource to—”
“That’s bullshit.”
She paused. “Are you doubting my word?”
“No. I’m doubting your effectiveness. You may have powerful connections but your playbook needs to be euthanized.”
Suddenly, the sun didn’t feel so hot anymore. “Scott, I’m hoping to keep this civil.”
“This is civil. And I’m telling you, in a civil tone, that Harmony will not be confessing on Monday. Or Tuesday. And probably not even Wednesday.”
“Scott—”
“She’ll confess when I feel it’s safe for her to confess, and not a minute sooner. I’m the one she trusts. If you go behind my back, she’ll just bring it right to me. And if you try to undermine my authority with her, you’ll only drive her away from both of us. You’ll all but guarantee her defection. I know you’re smarter than that.”
“I thought you were smarter than this,” she said with frozen ire.
“Apparently not, because I’m willing to risk my career in order to get this job done right. If I could offer you more collateral, I would. You’re just going to have to trust me to do the right thing.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then you’re in for a rough week.”
With that, I stood up, turned around, and made the long trip to the door. My heart pounded. My stomach produced enough acid to melt a horse. But still, it was a moment of dark and primal victory, like beating up a biker gang. It felt great to be alive.
The Judge was waiting for me in the hallway, well out of earshot. He threw me a casual grin. He wasn’t as dumb as I thought. Clearly he understood the importance of being my friend.
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It was two o’clock, and we were still at Trader Vic’s. The Judge had finished his sixth and last beer an hour ago and was waiting for his blood alcohol level to fall below the DUI line. I was in a similar bind, except I was being held captive by two ten-ounce Zombies. I didn’t expect them to be so strong. They were still eating my brains.
“Marvin Gaye,” he uttered out of the blue. “Now there was a talented artist. I knew him.”
“Really.”
“Yup. Brilliant man. Troubled man. Died way before his time, just like Tupac. And just like Tupac, they milked his corpse for all it was worth. I was working at Columbia Records when they released his first posthumous album. This was the same year as the obscenity hearings, so the public was still very wary of the music industry. So what did my bosses do? They changed the name of one of his songs from ‘Sanctified Pussy’ to ‘Sanctified Lady.’ Chickenshit bastards.”
“I have to be honest with you, Judge. I like the second one better.”
“It’s just a title, for God’s sake. You could call it ‘Kumbaya’ and it wouldn’t change the fact that the song is all about the joys of fucking a religious woman. Changing the name was like calling a gun a flower. Just call it what it is. Let Marvin be Marvin. But no. They had to mess with his art. All because they were afraid of the few loud morons who judged a song by its title.”
He leaned back and rested his hands on his belly. I wanted to pat his head for luck.
“You married, Scott?”
I humbly brandished my unadorned left hand.
“So is there anyone special in your life?”
Had I been less sober or more forthcoming, I might have shown him my other hand. Instead, I went for the big lie. “I’m seeing someone.”
“What does she think about all this shit going on?”
“She doesn’t keep up with the news.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No. She doesn’t even watch TV.”
“That’s weird. What is she, religious?” He raised a glib brow. “Is she a sanctified lady?”
“No, no.” I laughed. “She’s deaf.”
Sorry, Jean. This had nothing to do with you. I was just fighting a nasty rumor and you were the nearest available weapon.
But if Harmony made a good distraction from Annabelle Shane, Jean made a great distraction from Harmony. The Judge was fascinated. He barraged me with questions, some of them stupid enough to make me feel better about my own deaf-related ignorance. For others, I had to improvise my answers. “Can she drive?” Yes [but not well]. “What if there’s an ambulance coming?” Well, um, there’s a special device in her car that flashes [was there?]. “Was she born deaf, or did she lose her hearing?” She lost her hearing at a very early age [from what I gather]. “How do you guys talk in bed?” None of your damn business. [Do
n’t know. Don’t plan to find out].
At a quarter to three we finally left the restaurant. The Judge had paid for both of us and left a supremely generous tip. I waited with him at the valet area, even though I’d parked the Saturn myself.
“You know, I spent twelve years building up that label,” he told me. “And the real irony is that up until last week, I got crap for avoiding controversy. It’s true. I steered clear of all the real troublemaker talent. The ones who couldn’t keep out of jail. The ones with strong gang affiliations. My artists are choirboys by comparison. You know how hard it is to market a roster of well-behaved rappers?”
“Very,” I wagered.
“It’s even harder to trust my livelihood to some smooth talking publicist and his doe-eyed victim.”
“Judge, what do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to remember your loyalties, especially if it comes down to a choice between her well-being and ours.”
His black Bentley arrived. He handed the valet a twenty and didn’t ask for change.
“Her well-being is directly tied to yours,” I said.
The Judge laughed. “Funny. That’s just what I told her.”
“I didn’t like the way you said it.”
“Too bad,” he replied, grim-faced. “Because your well-being is directly tied to hers.”
He got in his car and drove off. Pity our détente didn’t outlast his buzz. Pity he’d talk to Maxina before I had a chance to set things right. I must have been doing something wrong, because there were more and more people being added to the conspiracy, but I didn’t seem to be making any friends.
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At three o’clock, Andy Cronin’s piece hit the newswire hard. The updates had been coming in fast and light all day, making pebble-sized splashes. But Andy hurled a two-ton boulder with his article: rape accuser’s life a story of turmoil, abuse. In twelve hundred words, he covered every nasty beat of Harmony’s past, skillfully avoiding the cheap, theatrical embellishments that were all too common in journalism today. He left the emotion to his quoted sources: Harmony’s former documentarians, her former social workers, her current lawyer. They all gushed over her strength in the face of such monstrous adversity. Powerful stuff. I could just hear the collective “Jesus Christ” being uttered in every newsroom across the nation. Story-wise, ratings-wise, and otherwise, this woman was magnificent. She was a franchise unto herself.