Daniel Price - Slick

I waved my hand. “That’s three weeks from now. By then the whole country will be kissing your ass, apologizing for ever doubting you.”

Hunta patted my back, grinning. “You just became my hero.”

“Let’s see what the others say. But I’ll tell you this, guys: if we move forward with my idea, we can’t just keep it under our hats. We have to keep it under our scalps. That means nobody else hears about this. Not even your family. For every Michael Jackson, there’s a LaToya.”

Big Bank nodded. “We know how to keep a secret.”

“That’s all I need to hear.”

Hunta grinned thoughtfully. “You know, ‘Pac would’ve been into your shit.”

I laughed. “Me? Why?”

“When he was doing his time, he got into Machiavelli. I mean, really got into him. He must’ve read The Prince like a thousand times. He loved all that scheming and plotting business. He cut his last album under the name Makaveli.”

“Really,” I said. “You know, a lot of historians believe that Machiavelli faked his own death.”

“Yeah,” said Hunta, intrigued. “I know. That’s where ‘Pac got the idea.”

“Wow. I thought that was just an urban legend.”

Hunta got solemn. “Oh, he didn’t do it. He just talked about it. The only reason he was out of jail was ’cause Suge bailed him out while the lawyers appealed the rape verdict and all that. If they lost, he would’ve had to go back. ’Pac didn’t want that. No way. If that happened, he probably would’ve done it. Faked a murder. Got a new face and shit. Ain’t no way he was going back.”

He took another long drag off his joint. “But he didn’t do it. I know that for sure. I was there when he got hit. I seen him in the coma. And I seen him dead.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I. But he lived the last year of his life like he knew it was the last year of his life, you know what I’m sayin’? When it came to livin’ large, he was King Kong, man. It ain’t the amount of time, it’s what you do with it.”

“But they never caught his killers.”

“The police? No.”

Big Bank got wary. “Jer…”

“What? I don’t know shit about it. I’m just speculating, is all. Ain’t no way Suge would’ve let them killers keep walking around, all notorious and big.”

Simba rolled her eyes. “Baby, shut up and keep smoking.”

Hunta shrugged at me. Suddenly, I got hit with that “second day of school” feeling. Maybe it was all the conspiracy thinking, or the marijuana smoke I was reluctantly inhaling. Either way, I knew I still had a lot to learn, way too much for me to be acting this confident.

Doug opened the bedroom door. “Scott?”

________________

Just like yesterday, Maxina leaned back on the emperor-size bed. The Judge sat on the other side. Doug closed the door behind me and motioned to the chair. From Maxina’s face, it was obvious which way the troika split.

“Against my advice,” she began, “the Judge and Doug have agreed that your plan is the best course of action. I, however, am not a big fan of human sacrifice.”

“You just haven’t tried it, then.”

Maxina wasn’t amused. “Scott, I need to get back to my part of the project, so I’m simply going to say my piece and leave. I think that some cures are worse than the disease. Apparently, I’m in the minority, but it’s not my dime. If your scheme achieves everything you say it will, you’ll be our secret savior. And I’ll be right there with the best of them, whispering your praises. But if you destroy an innocent woman in the process, I will be your bane. Your karma. Your comeuppance. You understand me? Whoever this girl is, I’m not going to let you use her and throw her away like Kleenex. I want you to do everything in your power to protect her.”

“That was my plan from the beginning.” And may I remind you that I’m doing all this to avoid destroying Lisa Glassman? Give me some credit, woman.

I had to hand it to Maxina, though. She was one of the few people who could see past my granite expression, straight on through to my surface thoughts. In very clear images, I told her she had me all wrong. With equal silent precision, she told me to prove it.

“All right,” she said. “Looks like we all have a lot of work to do. Someone help me up, please.”

Once again, Doug assisted her, all the way to the door.

“The minute the news breaks about the ‘Bitch Fiend’ tape,” she informed me, “the race is on. You’ll need to have your show ready to launch by Wednesday at the very latest.”

“We’ll be ready by Tuesday.”

“Good man,” she replied with cautionary emphasis. She said her goodbyes and left.

Doug closed the door behind her and settled down in her sunken place. “Despite what she thinks, the Judge and I agree that your plan is brilliant.”

“If it works,” the Judge added.

“If it works,” Doug echoed. “What do you need from us?”

“The lowdown on every woman who attended that Christmas party. Strike the ones who’ve worked with you anytime since then. Strike the ones who are married or close to married. Strike the ones who are known or rumored to be super-promiscuous. And definitely strike the ones who are known or rumored to have had sex with Hunta. Hopefully, that leaves a few.”

“More than a few,” said Doug. “If they worked for us even once, we’ve got a whole file on them.”

“Perfect. I’d like to see those files as soon as possible.”

“Fine. We can fax you what we—”

“No faxes. Just keep the papers at your place and we’ll review them tomorrow. The earlier the better. I want enough time to pick three good candidates and run a background check on each of them.”

The two men traded satisfied grins, as if they were working with the legendary Jackal.

“Anything else, Scott?”

“Yes,” I added, wishing I had a cigarette to pad their false impression. “It’s time we talked about money.”

________________

Between all the plotting, scheming, and fee-wrangling, I had very little time to process the personal ramifications of my proposal. I knew whatever solution I came up with would be deceptive, even underhanded. That was just the nature of the business. But it had finally hit me that my frame-within-a-frame, my secondhand smoke screen, went way beyond the definition of “publicity stunt.” I was orchestrating massive fraud. Before Hunta, my worst-case scenario always stopped at a civil suit. Now it kept right on going, all the way to jail time. That was a lot of risk for $160,000 and a rapper I’d never even heard of before Thursday.

Ira felt compelled to offer his blind advice: “Walk away. It’s not worth it.”

We sat on the deck of the Ishtar , eating take-out Chinese food and watching the calm black waters of the Pacific. It looked so peaceful out there in the open sea. I wanted to hoist the anchor and ride off into the night, just to enjoy some real quiet for a change. Of course, I’d have to get rid of Ira.

“Seriously. It’s futile. Whenever a white kid goes on a killing spree, someone has to take the blame. Remember Columbine? The politicians went after Marilyn Manson, despite the fact that the killers didn’t even like his music. The only thing that saved him in the end was obsolescence. I mean, who cares about an androgynous Goth freak when you’ve got all these bad-ass gangstas running around, singing about their bitches and AKs? So unless something even scarier than rap comes along, I’d say your man is hosed.”

I didn’t tell Ira anything about Lisa Glassman or my cure for her. I wasn’t sure why I kept my mouth shut. After all, I trusted him fifty times more than the people already in on the joke. Out of all of them, I was worried the most about Hunta himself. I got the nervous sense that once the heat got high — or he did — he was liable to spill everything.