Daniel Price - Slick

The whole transaction, three seconds at best, was neither hot or cold. It was merely sweet. It was one of the sweetest moments of my adult life. How it looked to others, how it played in the theater, was not my concern.

Still blushing, Harmony undid her seat belt and opened the door.

“I’m gonna miss this car,” she joked.

“I’m going to miss the smell of smoke in here,” I teased back. “Someday.”

With a mischievous sneer, she pulled a cigarette from her shirt pocket and stashed it behind my right ear. She stepped outside.

“He’s on the eleventh floor,” I reminded her. “Alonso Lever.”

She closed the door and peeked in through the window. “I know.”

As she turned around, I called after her. “Hey!”

With a roll of her neck, Harmony indulged me with a final glance.

“You holla?”

She smirked. “I holla.”

With that, she walked away for good. I tossed the cigarette, raised the window, and then called Alonso from my new cellular.

“She’s on her way up.”

“Excellent,” he declared. “I can’t wait. And have no fear. My staff and I will treat her like royalty.”

“Just be up front with her, okay? She’s going to hear enough bullshit. She won’t need more.”

“I’ll be her oasis of honesty.”

“Okay. Good. But at the same time, don’t refer to her final move as a confession. It’ll only freak her out. Just call it a retraction. Or better yet, it’s ‘clearing Hunta’s name.’ I know I’m splitting hairs—”

“I’m a lawyer, my friend. I’ve split finer hairs than that.”

“I’m sure. Now tonight or tomorrow, you should be getting a call from Gail Steiner from the Times . And probably Andy Cronin from the Associated—”

“We went over this already. It’s all under control.”

I pressed my temple. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being anal.”

“Scott, you’ve done a man’s job. You designed and built this machine in record time. But a body can only work so hard. Go home. Take a hot bath. You deserve it.”

Holy shit. He was right. After four days of running around like a maniac, I had finally finished off my massive task list. I had dotted every “I,” crossed every “T,” planted every seed. Now I had absolutely nothing to do but stare at the ground and wait for sprouts.

“Just be good to her, Alonso.”

“Go home.”

I should. It was already 3:30. By the time I’d get back to Brentwood, Madison will have been waiting outside my door for almost an hour. I didn’t have much of a choice, but all the same, she wouldn’t take the abandonment well. Congratulations, Slick. You just fucked your intern.

I sped home, spending most of the drive thinking about Harmony. She had kissed me in the way a woman would kiss the plastic surgeon who was about to make her beautiful. And the surgeon? Well, if he loved his job as much as I loved mine, maybe he was just as grateful. Maybe he was simply kissing the woman who was about to become his greatest work. His landmark achievement.

His death ray?

Screw that. I had finally earned some real downtime. I wasn’t going to waste it on self-analysis. Besides, I was already late for my next drama. I didn’t mind dealing with it. Truth be told, I could use the distraction.

The first time I’d returned home from Alonso’s office, on Monday night, it was 1:10 in the morning. I was hysterically tired. On the ride back, I had read aloud excerpts from Godsend , the futuristic love story with a spiritual bent. Doug and I were lost in a fit of red-faced guffaws, like a pair of stoned teenagers. Doug was laughing at the prose, which, like the author, brimmed with vainglorious eloquence. I, on the other hand, was simply laughing at Doug’s laugh: a high-pitched, whistle throated wheeze that could have come straight from the mouth of a cartoon dog. It was a silly trip, and I was thankful when it ended.

A normal person would have gone straight to the toothbrush, then to bed. But I have this thing about e-mail. It’s a sick compulsion with me, as inexplicable as it is incurable. I knew that if I didn’t scratch the itch, my laptop would moan at me all night. So on it went.

I had only one new item. The message was short, cute, and increasingly bizarre. Like the author.

Dear Scott,

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the term “pod person,” so I’ll explain. A pod person is a humanoid replica produced by an alien plantform (or pod, if you will), designed to replace the man or woman on which it was copied. Although physically indistinguishable from the original body-snatched human, these pod people are recognizable by their sudden cheerful attitude, tireless energy, and extremely goal-oriented behavior.

Now, as much as I appreciate the fine work you did on “Madison” (the smiling, the helpfulness, the use of complete multiword sentences), I can’t help but ponder your sinister plans for the world. Okay, you’re a publicist. What exactly does that mean? What are you about? What’s your job? What’s HER job?

Naturally I tried asking the pod girl myself, but she claims to be under a restrictive verbal confidentiality agreement (typical alien response). So if you could paint me a picture in broad strokes, without spilling any client secrets, I’d be much appreciative. I was going to send my husband over there to shake some answers out of you, but I was afraid he’d come back all clean-cut and smiling.

Oddly,

Jean

PS — I might send him anyway. You do replace husbands, right?

Silly woman. And silly Madison. I had yet to give her a shred of confidential information. What I gave her, apparently, was an excuse to be vague and secretive with her mother. I would definitely send Jean a broad-strokes overview as soon as I had the time and the brain power.

In the meantime, I figured one flippant note deserved another:

>you’re a publicist. What exactly does that mean?

>What are you about?

I’m the best there is at what I do, but what I do isn’t very nice.

Evenly,

Scott

(yes, we replace husbands)

That should make her eyes pop, and not because it was strange and cryptic but because she’d know exactly what I was talking about. This was Marvel Girl, a flamboyant X-Men reader if there ever was one. I, however, was more of a closet case. Now, with one classic Wolverine quote, I’d just outed myself.

Before I could close out of my e-mail application, my inbox chimed with a new message. Not only was Jean an odd creature, she was an odd creature of the night.

Thank you for your order. Your item will be arriving shortly.

I assumed that meant she was about to gift me with comic books. She probably wouldn’t stop until she paid off her debt of gratitude. Very unnecessary. If that was the scheme, I’d have to nip it in the bud. Tomorrow. Sleep in bed now. Nip in bud tomorrow.

________________

The second time I’d returned from Alonso’s office, on Tuesday afternoon, I found Madison crouched outside my door, waiting for me. And waiting. And waiting. I had a lot of time to anticipate her reaction. I wagered an even split between super-hot fury and ice-cold silence.

Amazingly, she was tepid. “Hey.”

“I’m so sorry,” I gushed, “I had a meeting on the other side of town—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s never going to happen again.”

“Scott, it’s okay. I figured you were running late.”

Right. I wished I could relax, but I could see the scale of the tempest she was holding back. Although her hair was down today, she was once again dressed to the nines. Stylish black blouse. Professional gray skirt. High-heeled shoes. She must have raided her mother’s closet. She also must have gotten a good deal of ribbing from her classmates. How upsetting it must have been to see all that thought and effort waste away in an empty hallway. Yet even now she fought to proclaim her maturity. I figured the best thing I could do, for both of us, was reinforce the façade.