Daniel Price - Slick

“I promise!”

She meant it, too. You couldn’t fake that kind of intensity. I eyed her one last time.

“Okay, then.”

“So I can work for you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, reading Brandweek . “Ask your mother when she gets here.”

________________

Madison’s first lesson under my tutelage: don’t trust anything anyone says, especially about the Japanese stock exchange. Once I clued her in on the gag, her expression chilled so fast, I could practically see her breath.

“I always come back,” she informed me matter-of-factly. “My mom knows that. I don’t know why she freaks out every time.”

“Because she worries about you. It’s not safe out there.”

“It is at the airport.”

“Why do you go to the airport?”

“Because it’s safe. Because it’s always open. Because I like it there.”

“But what do you do there?”

“I watch people. I’m a total people-watcher. Sometimes I talk to them. I always make up different stories. Like this one time, I convinced this old couple that I was flying to Seattle to donate a kidney to my brother. They bought me dinner.”

I grinned, even though I knew I shouldn’t encourage her. “It’s still a bad thing to do to your mother. Don’t do it anymore.”

She shot me a piqued glare. My godlike status had disappeared sometime during the debriefing.

“You know she’s married, right?”

“Yes, I know your mother’s married. What? You think I’m trying to score with her?”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

I flipped through my newspaper. “Relax. I’m not big on adultery.”

“Just be careful. She has a way of pulling guys in.”

“You two have issues. Leave me out of it.”

“I’m serious. You know how I ruin businesses? Well, she’s the same way with men. She did it to my dad. She’s doing it to my stepfather. I’m just trying to stop you from being next.”

With a sigh, I put down the paper. “Madison, I’ll be honest. You’re starting to give me second thoughts about this whole thing—”

She flipped up her palms. “Wait! Scott. I’m sorry. You’re right. You’re totally right. I was just being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. I just think you have a lot going on right now—”

“Look, I’m really tired. That’s the last time I’ll bother you with my personal crap ever again. I swear to God. I could have a tumor and you won’t hear about it.”

I fought a grin. “I don’t mind health issues. It’s just your home life I’m trying to avoid.”

“So am I,” she said weakly. “This’ll work out great.”

________________

At 10:30, Jean reached my door. Reflexively, I moved to the intercom, then caught myself.

“You can just buzz her in,” Madison told me with forced neutrality. “She keeps trying the knob until it opens.”

That made sense, but when it came to all things Jean-related, the girl had no credibility. I played it safe and fetched her myself.

Jean practically bounced in relief. Her text was already written out for me.

Thank you! Thank you! I was going crazy!

“It’s all right. She’s fine.”

I led Jean into the apartment. The reunion was not touching. Madison barely looked up from her magazine. Jean’s face turned stern and dark. It didn’t take an interpreter to read her orders. Get. In. The. Car.

Madison held up the magazine. “Can I borrow this?”

“Keep it.”

With demonstrated pomp, she shook my hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I told you. That’s up to your mother.”

Catching that, Jean looked at me. Excuse me?

Once Madison exited, I explained it all, stressing numerous times that it was entirely at Jean’s discretion. She was more amazed than anything else.

Scott, you just went from being abnormally decent to disturbingly saint-like. Why would you do this?

A fair question. The answer I gave her was that I could use someone to do Web research for me. This was true. Once the shit hit the fan with Hunta, Madison could save me hours by keeping a beat on the Internet news sites, summing up the general tack. She was more than qualified. The more sensitive reason, which I also explained, was that a new outlet for Madison just might be the call of the day. She wasn’t exactly a French-club kind of girl. This could do her some good.

But those were still surface thoughts. The deepest answer, which I didn’t share, was that it felt nice. I tried to avoid vanity at all costs, but it was just so damn nice to be looked at the way Madison and Jean looked at me. These were two people I had a perfect record with. If my life ever got put on trial, I’d now have two character witnesses to counteract all the Deb Ishams who’d line up to testify against me, all the Iras and Mirandas who wouldn’t commit beyond labeling me “a not too terrible guy.” And being a great believer in third-party endorsements, wouldn’t it be nice if Jean shoved her handheld right in Maxina’s face, screaming through all-caps: HEY LADY! YOU GOT HIM ALL WRONG!

As nice as they felt, these feelings worried me. Affirmation was a drug I kicked years ago. I didn’t want to get hooked again. On the other hand, I had the strong hunch I’d need external reinforcement in the very near future, when I’d be pushing an innocent young woman into the fiery mouth of the Great American Bitch.

To anyone who knew her, there were three indisputable truths about Kelly Corwin: the girl was dark, the girl was gorgeous, and sweet Jesus, the girl could sing .

Back in 1996, rap was at its peak of profitability, but these were also the golden days for reigning sexy pop divas. At seventeen, Kelly wanted nothing more than to become one of them. She knew she couldn’t do it from the genial suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. Nope. Hollywood was the place she ought to be. So she loaded up her car and moved to Southern Cali. Palms, that is. Crappy area. Not the safest.

But fate was ridiculously kind to her. After one audition, she got a job as the regular chanteuse at a Venice Beach coffeehouse. After two performances, she found representation with a high-powered talent manager. He believed in her so much, he paid out of his own pocket to put her in a high-end recording studio. After three weeks, she had a completed demo tape boasting a fine selection of rhythmic croons, all of which Kelly had composed herself.

Her karma stopped at the front door of the music labels. While being shopped around to every major outfit, she got the same baffling rejection over and over. She’s incredible. She’s original. She’s daring. We love her. But I’m afraid she’s just not for us. Best of luck in the future.

Kelly didn’t get it. She had the face, the body, the pipes, the whole package. And yet she kept hitting the same invisible wall. What the hell was the problem?

Finally, a brave promotions executive just came out and said it: it was the skin. Kelly was simply too black, even for black audiences. Look, a few years ago exotic was in, but now, as far as fuckable singers go, the buying public likes a little cream in their coffee. We didn’t make it that way, but there it is. Best of luck in the future.

Desperate times, desperate measures. If she couldn’t shake the “exotic” label, her last-ditch effort was to ride it all the way. Soon after her eighteenth birthday, Kelly — who had never been to Africa in her life — changed her name to Simba K. Shange, an awkward mix of Zulu and Swahili that aurally translated to “the lioness who walked like a lion.” On the aesthetic advice of her manager, she eventually dropped the “K,” but in Swahili, “ke” was a feminine suffix. So not only was she left with an inappropriately masculine moniker, but she was now officially “the lion who walked like a lion.” To a native Kenyan, the name would sound as nutty as Bucky McDeerhop. Her manager quickly reminded her how very little her future success rode on the approval of native Kenyans.