Daniel Price - Slick

It’s obvious which category he put Ayanna in. After that interview was published, she defended herself in a letter to Vibe. Her closing: “Tupac knows exactly what he did to me. I admit I did not make the wisest decisions, but I did not deserve to be gang-raped.”

Fade out. Credits. Seven and a half years later, there I was, deeply rooted in her side of the tale. With just a tiny sliver of the truth, simplified and amplified for my reading enjoyment, I had no trouble believing her. It would have taken a mountain of direct conflicting evidence to tip my scales in Tupac’s favor. Was it biased on my part? Sure. Was it fair? Nope. But it was a natural reaction. Like everyone else, I’d been conditioned to assume the worst of people, particularly those who had the nerve to obtain more money, power, and sex than me.

Hunta was screwed.

Even though I bought Doug’s version of the story, or at least rented it, there was no mountain or molehill I could build to get all the journalists, obstructionists, and water cooler cynics to side with Hunta. I realized this at 2 p.m., four hours before my scheduled meeting. My brilliant but elusive idea managed to flee the country and change its name.

I was screwed. In lieu of wowing Maxina and the others with a magic-bullet solution, I would have to settle for presenting multiple catastrophe plans, the PR equivalent of assuming crash position. Anyone can hire a bastard. They’d specifically ordered a devious bastard. This would not help my career.

The sound of the apartment buzzer pulled me back into the present. I pressed the intercom button by the door. “Yeah?”

No answer. All I could hear was the crackle and hum of the speaker, the tinny sounds of traffic.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Whatever. Right as I sat back down at the coffee table… BZZZT.

“Jesus.” Once again, I rose and pressed the talk button. “Who is it?”

Once again, no answer.

“Look, if you’re hoping to get buzzed in, you’ll have to give me a little more to go on, okay?”

After a few more seconds of nothing, I went back to the laptop. I got so desperate I started to consider the ramifications of using the truth. So Hunta’s a philanderer. An adulterer. So what? So are half the politicians who have spoken out against rap. Maybe I should propose a “glass houses” attack against every senator who burns Hunta in effigy.

No. Who was I kidding? Clinton’s affair, at least with Monica, was beyond consensual. And still they roasted him in the public rotisserie. Even chief griller Henry Hyde was able to admit to his own past infidelities and keep on basting.

BZZZT.

“Goddamn it!” I didn’t have time for this. I hustled straight past the intercom, out of my apartment, and all the way down the hall. A petite woman watched me through the glass of the front door. From a distance, I thought it was Miranda, until I saw her short hair and hoop earrings.

Jean Spelling. The web designer/deaf driver whose SUV rode up my poor Saturn’s tailpipe. She looked much different in broad daylight. A little older, a lot cuter, and much WASPier. Maybe it was her sky-blue eyes. Her button nose. Or her respectful but ass-end-of-fashion Target blouse that seemed to scream “church.”

I joined her on the front steps. She was alone, noticeably twitchy. With a sheepish grimace, she handed me her Handspring Visor. Its small color screen was filled with text.

Hi Scott. I’m sorry to invade your life (again). I was wondering if my daughter stopped by here anytime in the last 24 hours.

I glanced back up at her. Without her kid around to sarcastically translate, was I supposed to talk or write back to her? I flipped a mental coin, which landed on “write.”

Wrong. She held my wrist, shook her head, then took back her handheld. She was a Jedi master with the stylus. I couldn’t believe how well she could use that thing. Anyone who’s ever tried a pen-based PDA knows how easy it is to GRTZXL up whatever it is you want to write. Not Jean. She wrote as quickly and accurately as I typed.

It’s ok. I can read lips. Just not on a dark street at 3AM.:)

Her real face didn’t quite match the smiley. She was at the end of her wits.

“I haven’t seen her,” I said, in a slow and loud drawl usually reserved for idiots. “I don’t…Why do you think she would come here?”

Jean let out a hesitant sigh before answering.

Not to embarrass you but I think my kid has a little bit of a crush on you. She thought you were really cool, especially when she found out you were a publicist. She’s into all that media stuff.

“No. Sorry. I don’t know how she would find me. I don’t even know how you found me. My address isn’t on my card.”

I must have looked away while saying it. She touched my cheek and pointed me back in her direction, shrugging. Repeat, please.

“How did you find me?”

Ah. Your business card.

“It doesn’t have my address on it.”

I plugged your phone # into a reverse directory. I learned that trick from Madison. That girl could use the Internet to find her socks.

“That is pretty clever.”

With a cute but uneven smile, she scribbled more onto her handheld.

She’s too clever for her own good. (BTW, you don’t have to talk extra loud or slow around me. As long as you look at me straight on, I can keep up.)

I was mortified. This seemed like such basic stuff. “Uh, has she been missing a long time, or…?”

Since last night. She does this a lot. Usually she runs off to the airport. Don’t ask. That’s where I picked her up from on Thursday, right before I [wince] ran into you.

Before I could answer, Jean cleared the screen and wrote some more.

Have you gotten an estimate yet?

“No. I haven’t had time.”

I’m so sorry. I swear I’ll pay for everything.

“I know. It’s all right.”

She ran her hand through her dark hair. Once again I noticed her beautifully simple wedding ring, which I’d originally thought was silver. In the light of day, it looked more like white gold.

Look, if you see Madison, can you please e-mail me as soon as possible? You still have my card?

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

With a shrug, she gave me another one. Original X Web Design. I’d almost forgotten this was Marvel Girl. She probably spent as much money on comic books as I did.

“Look, good luck with Madison. I hope it all works out.”

She gave me a spirited grin, but the facade quickly collapsed. In the middle of writing her response, her hand got shaky, and she was forced to stop. She bit her lower lip and turned away.

Before I could say anything, she held her other palm up to me. In layman’s sign language, it meant “talk to the hand,” but there was a soft grace to her movement that said so much more. No token gestures, Scott. I didn’t come here fishing for sympathy, and to be honest, it would only make me feel worse. Just bear with me.

Maybe I read too much into it. It was a simple motion. But I remembered being amazed by how much information she and Madison managed to trade with so few gestures. It was fascinating. I was such a nut for research that I wanted to go straight to the Web and give myself a crash course in sign language. Unfortunately I was under the gun with Hunta.

There were over three dozen fine-looking women at that party who would have fucked Jeremy for the price of a smile.

There it was again. My rogue idea, the one I’d been chasing all over the city. With a mere flip of her hand, Jean managed to stop it in its tracks. Don’t ask me how my mind works. I was just glad to see it working again. I’d finally caught up with my muse. And she had a hell of a song for me.

Jean took a deep breath, rolled her eyes at herself, then let out a tired sigh.