Daniel Price - Slick

“Not at all.”

“Who knows? Maybe she was genuinely pissed. I hear Hunta’s a real sweet-talker with the ladies. Maybe he tricked her into thinking this was the start of a beautiful romance, got her to give up her abstinence, and then chucked her aside once he got his jollies. That would certainly piss me off, especially if I had her history of abuse and abandonment. I mean, God, how could she not have issues with men?”

I stared ahead listlessly. “Makes sense.”

“Or maybe it’s something even more sinister,” she said with a mischievous glance.

She threw two bags of salad mix into her cart, then moved us along.

“See, there’s so much reasonable doubt in this thing, but nobody wants to touch it. Everyone’s just printing what they’re told, because the story’s interesting enough the way it is. It’s bullshit. My editors wouldn’t listen to me even after I showed them an anonymous e-mail I got, telling me flat out that Harmony Prince was lying. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Whatever.”

She examined her yogurt options. “So I said fuck it. I started digging on my own. On Sunday night I went to this horrid little place called the Flower Club. You ever been there?”

“No,” I said, coyly. “What is it? An arboretum?”

Miranda laughed. “You’re such an ass. You know damn well that Harmony used to work there as a hostess dancer. Only she went by the name Danesha. Can’t say I blame her. I was so embarrassed to be there, I felt like giving a fake name myself.”

I greatly enjoyed the thought of Miranda gagging her way through that sleaze pit.

“But I asked around,” she continued. “Apparently, Harmony’s last day was that previous Sunday. She didn’t quit. She just stopped coming to work. Nobody knew why until her face started popping up everywhere. It came as quite a shock to the gals at the club. From the way Harmony talked, she had a pretty good time at that Christmas party.”

She liberated a few banana yogurts, then shot me a sly sideways glance. “But a few of the girls had some interesting things to say about Harmony’s last customer.”

“Such as?”

“That he was really tall. White. Good-looking in a nondescript sort of way. He definitely seemed out of place there. He sat at the bar talking to some guy, but then as soon as Harmony came out of the bathroom, he flew right toward her as if he’d been waiting for her all along.”

Oh shit. I could already see the punch line.

“They ended up playing pool a little bit. Then he gave her five hundred dollars and promised another thousand just to let him drive her home. But once he left, Harmony kind of freaked out. See, unlike her more experienced associates, she wasn’t one for the, shall we say, extracurricular activities of her profession. So while she was changing, she told some of the other girls about it. ‘What do I do? He says he works for Mean World, but he’s white. It doesn’t make sense. What if he’s a serial killer?’ And her friends said, ‘Girl, relax. If he’s got that much money to blow, he’s just an eccentric. He probably just wants someone to cry to.’”

Shit. The car…

“So, with much trepidation, she went down to meet him at his car. And the girls, ever so curious, watched from the bathroom window. Given the amount of money this guy was throwing around, they expected to see a limo waiting. Or at least a Bentley. But instead they watched her cross the street and step into — are you ready for this? — a black Saturn sedan.”

“With a dented trunk,” I said.

“With a dented trunk,” she repeated, laughing. “I mean, wow! Can you imagine my surprise that I just happen to know this guy? Can you imagine my crazy luck that I just happened to be there when his trunk got dented?”

In top form, I could have laughed away her implications. But all I could muster up at the moment was defensive surprise.

“You can’t be serious. That can’t be all you have.”

“Well, no. Of course not. But it was enough to get me on your tail, just to see what you’ve been up to. And wonder of wonders, last night I tailed you to the home of Denise Corwin, who just happens to be the cousin of Kelly Corwin, who just happens to be Simba Shange, who just happened to say some very interesting things on Larry King Live .”

Miranda casually pressed up against me, sinking her fingers down the front pockets of my slacks. Our boundaries were forever muddled by our onetime fling, but there was nothing sexy about this.

“See, I watched that show, just like everyone else. I saw Harmony’s eyes well up, and just like everyone else, I thought, Holy shit. She’s going to confess. She’s going to admit to lying.”

“But she didn’t.”

“She didn’t, but I couldn’t help but think how very, very clever it would be if she did. What a great distraction from Annabelle Shane. What a terrific way to turn all this angry momentum around. I know it sounds far-fetched, Hunta and Harmony secretly working together in an elaborate media hoax, but I couldn’t help but think how very, very Scott it would be.”

The red spots in front of my eyes got bigger. My head began to throb. “But she didn’t confess.”

Smiling, Miranda whispered up to me. She practically breathed her words. “I think she will. I think that was the plan all along. I think I’m about to be proven right, and then I think you’re in a lot of trouble.”

I pulled away from her. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Then correct me. Enlighten me. If I’m wrong, what you were doing at the Flower Club?”

“That wasn’t me.”

“What were you doing with Simba Shange last night?”

“Never met her in my life.”

“What were you were doing at Mean World this morning?”

“There are over sixty other companies in that building.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I rested my hands on the end of her cart. I only had a few more ounces of bullshit left in me. I had to use them well.

“Look, I know how the game is played. If you want to keep following me and leaving juvenile sticky notes on my windshield, knock yourself out. I don’t care.” I pointed a harsh finger at her. “But don’t you ever hit me through my assistant again. That was despicable. For God’s sake, the girl’s thirteen. Your little slanderous message made her cry. Is this part of your new act? Is this what you’ve been reduced to? Making little girls cry?”

Miranda shook her head at me in wonder. “Scott, look at you. Listen to yourself. You’re a mess.”

“You’re one to talk. What haven’t you changed about yourself these past two weeks?”

“I’ll be the first one to admit I have problems,” she said evenly, “but at least I’m trying to do something about them.”

“By what? Harassing me? Harassing my assistant?”

“By being a real journalist for once.”

“Bullshit. If you were a real journalist, you’d cover real news. Why don’t you try debunking this fictional energy crisis? Why don’t you cover the millions of small investors who are being fucked over by the hundreds of large investors? Or here’s a crazy thought: why don’t you write a story about how real journalism was choked to death by bottom line economics and replaced by a histrionic tabloid celebrity attack machine? You won’t even have to do any research.”

Miranda crossed her arms, studying me with clinical detachment. “Right now I’m more interested in the story of the publicist who’s starting to drown in his own lies.”