Daniel Price - Slick

I, on the other hand, was surprised by the excess of people. Our secret operation began with a core group of seven. Now there were over twice as many strangers in the room, all young black professionals in dynamic, East Coast business wear. Clearly this was Maxina’s posse, not Hunta’s.

Most of the furniture had been cleared to make way for an ad hoc production studio, currently in session. As Big Bank led us deeper into the suite, I could see some round, familiar faces padding the crowd of flacks: the Judge, Doug, and Maxina herself. They stood scattered among the cameras and lights, all aimed at the lovely young family on the sofa.

At long last, Hunta was speaking out about the Bitch Fiends.

“I know I got a responsibility,” he declared, looking respectably dapper in his white silk shirt. “I mean as an artist. And I take it very seriously, you know what I’m saying? I never hurt a woman in my life. I never forced a woman into sex. And I never, ever told anyone they should do that stuff. Never said it. Never wrote it. Never rapped it.”

That was good. Very good. Next to him, Simba held Latisha in her bare arms, nodding along. That wasn’t so good. Her supportive expression was hopelessly overdone, which meant she was pissed about something. If I were in charge of this production, I would have stopped filming immediately to address the issue. I also would have handed Latisha her crawling papers. Her presence in the shot was nakedly political. It reeked of desperation.

Harmony and I sat on a desk, well off to the side of the cameras. The Judge was the first to notice us. He looked at me like I just brought a match into a gas-filled room.

“What are they doing?” Harmony whispered up to me.

“They’re shooting his exclusive interview.”

“For who?”

“For whoever wants it the most.”

Across from them, outside camera range, a mousy young woman read from her clipboard: “Simba, how did you interpret the song when you first heard it?”

Simba crossed her legs studiously. “I didn’t hear it. I read the words before they were ever recorded. I think that’s the key difference. If you read the lyrics, you’ll see my husband’s only telling a story. Not only that, he condemns the main character in the very last verse. I mean it’s right there.”

Harmony leaned in to me again. “Who’s the woman asking questions?”

“She’s just a press agent. She won’t be in the final cut. Whoever gets the tape will eventually loop in their own person.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Some members of the crew began to look our way. Admittedly, Harmony and I made quite the elephant in the corner. Surely by now they had all been briefed on the tall white man and his devious white plan. And that pretty young thing with him? My word. She’s awfully small for an A-bomb.

Doug saw us and held up a courteous finger. One more minute.

“Try it again,” Maxina told Simba. “You came off a little too combative. And uncross your legs.”

Simba rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs. “Can I get the question again?”

The associate scanned her clipboard. “How did you interpret the song when you first heard it?”

Simba repeated her answer almost verbatim. I could see the hints of frustration on Maxina’s face. Her underlings were simply bored.

Harmony shifted uncomfortably. “They keep looking at us.”

“They know who we are.”

“How? We ain’t done nothing yet.”

“Yes,” I said, “but they know what we’re about to do.”

I assumed she’d never held any real weight before, that she’d never made ripples just by entering a room. I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying her first small taste of power or not. Her fresh young face, which was normally quite expressive, went fully opaque as she processed the implications.

But to my pleasure, she soon breathed a teasing whisper into my ear. “You know you the only white man here.”

“I know. Why do you think I gave you my wallet?”

She let out a loud laugh, then covered her mouth. Now everyone looked at us.

“Sorry,” I said. “My fault.”

Hunta shielded his eyes from the light. “Yo, is that Slick?”

Maxina crossed in front of the cameras. “All right. Let’s take a little breather.”

Simba shot to her feet. “Thank God. These goddamn lights are frying the baby.”

Her husband sniffed. “She ain’t the one complaining. You are.”

“Then why don’t you do this fucking thing alone, okay?”

Now Latisha cried. Simba carried her through the crowd, furiously brushing away any hand that tried to calm her.

“Expect me to sit and nod my head like some black Barbara Bush. This is bullshit. Why don’t I just bake some goddamn cookies while I’m at it? Hi, Scott.”

I waved to her as she passed. Simba and Harmony traded glances.

For a moment I feared the fiery Ms. Shange would say something I’d have to fix. Fortunately, she kept going, all the way out the door.

Sighing, Maxina cleaned her glasses on her untucked blouse and then worked her way toward us.

“Well, if it isn’t L.A.’s answer to Sidney Falco. And this must be the lovely young Harmony Prince.”

I stood up. “Harmony, this is Maxina Howard. She’s in charge of the whole effort.”

Harmony turned to me in surprise. “I thought you were.”

Maxina raised an eyebrow. Oh, come on. It’s not like I had time to whip up an org chart.

“No,” I corrected, “I’m just in charge of the part that involves you.”

“You’re in good hands,” Maxina added graciously. “Scott here has one of the craftiest minds in the business.”

She leaned forward and gave Harmony some lighthearted sidespeak. “And although he’d never admit it, the man’s got a heart in there, too.”

Harmony grinned. “I believe it.”

“Good. In that case, I’ll leave you two to work while I see what I can do about Simba.” She donned her glasses. “What do you think, Scott? Leave the baby out next time?”

“You read my mind.”

She winked at Harmony. “He’s never been one for the front-door approach.”

Maxina could be pretty damn sly herself. I knew she wouldn’t try to undermine my influence with Harmony, but she was such a Zen master of subtext that she could talk about the weather and still slip a message through. And with Harmony, the message was clear: I’ve got a handle on this man, even if you don’t. Listen to him, but put your trust in me.

Once Maxina left, I shot Doug an impatient look. He nodded, then addressed the troops.

“Okay. Listen, everyone. While we break from filming, we’re going to take some pictures of Jeremy and…well, I guess I should formally introduce her. Folks, this is Harmony Prince.”

Some of the publicists greeted her as if she just stepped into an AA meeting. Others actually applauded, as if she were about to go up in the space shuttle. As for Harmony, she might as well have left the planet already. This was too bizarre.

“You’ll get used to it,” I told her.

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s just shoot these photos so we can get you out of here.”

The workers were already setting up the cameras and backgrounds. Some of them stopped to introduce themselves. Doug took a moment to shower Harmony in words of comfort and goodwill. The Judge kept his distance, but only because he was enmeshed in a tense phone call. He snapped and hissed into his cellular all the way out of the suite.

Throughout all of this, Hunta simply stewed from his spot on the interview couch. Who could blame him for his pissy mood? He was being forced to stay sober just so he could defend himself for the way his song was misread. His wife was giving him shit. And now he had to sit and watch while everyone in the room kissed up to the woman who was about to falsely accuse him of sex crimes, just to stop another woman from doing the same. He was only twenty-three years old, goddamn it. He had superbly managed to follow his mentor’s success without repeating any of his mistakes. Yet now he was in for an avalanche of persecution, the likes of which Tupac had never seen.