Daniel Price - Slick

“I have to be honest with you, Judge. I like the second one better.”

“It’s just a title, for God’s sake. You could call it ‘Kumbaya’ and it wouldn’t change the fact that the song is all about the joys of fucking a religious woman. Changing the name was like calling a gun a flower. Just call it what it is. Let Marvin be Marvin. But no. They had to mess with his art. All because they were afraid of the few loud morons who judged a song by its title.”

He leaned back and rested his hands on his belly. I wanted to pat his head for luck.

“You married, Scott?”

I humbly brandished my unadorned left hand.

“So is there anyone special in your life?”

Had I been less sober or more forthcoming, I might have shown him my other hand. Instead, I went for the big lie. “I’m seeing someone.”

“What does she think about all this shit going on?”

“She doesn’t keep up with the news.”

“She doesn’t?”

“No. She doesn’t even watch TV.”

“That’s weird. What is she, religious?” He raised a glib brow. “Is she a sanctified lady?”

“No, no.” I laughed. “She’s deaf.”

Sorry, Jean. This had nothing to do with you. I was just fighting a nasty rumor and you were the nearest available weapon.

But if Harmony made a good distraction from Annabelle Shane, Jean made a great distraction from Harmony. The Judge was fascinated. He barraged me with questions, some of them stupid enough to make me feel better about my own deaf-related ignorance. For others, I had to improvise my answers. “Can she drive?” Yes [but not well] . “What if there’s an ambulance coming?” Well, um, there’s a special device in her car that flashes [was there?] . “Was she born deaf, or did she lose her hearing?” She lost her hearing at a very early age [from what I gather] . “How do you guys talk in bed?” None of your damn business. [Don’t know. Don’t plan to find out] .

At a quarter to three we finally left the restaurant. The Judge had paid for both of us and left a supremely generous tip. I waited with him at the valet area, even though I’d parked the Saturn myself.

“You know, I spent twelve years building up that label,” he told me. “And the real irony is that up until last week, I got crap for avoiding controversy. It’s true. I steered clear of all the real troublemaker talent. The ones who couldn’t keep out of jail. The ones with strong gang affiliations. My artists are choirboys by comparison. You know how hard it is to market a roster of well-behaved rappers?”

“Very,” I wagered.

“It’s even harder to trust my livelihood to some smooth talking publicist and his doe-eyed victim.”

“Judge, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything. I just want you to remember your loyalties, especially if it comes down to a choice between her well-being and ours.”

His black Bentley arrived. He handed the valet a twenty and didn’t ask for change.

“Her well-being is directly tied to yours,” I said.

The Judge laughed. “Funny. That’s just what I told her.”

“I didn’t like the way you said it.”

“Too bad,” he replied, grim-faced. “Because your well-being is directly tied to hers.”

He got in his car and drove off. Pity our détente didn’t outlast his buzz. Pity he’d talk to Maxina before I had a chance to set things right. I must have been doing something wrong, because there were more and more people being added to the conspiracy, but I didn’t seem to be making any friends.

________________

At three o’clock, Andy Cronin’s piece hit the newswire hard. The updates had been coming in fast and light all day, making pebble-sized splashes. But Andy hurled a two-ton boulder with his article: rape accuser’s life a story of turmoil, abuse. In twelve hundred words, he covered every nasty beat of Harmony’s past, skillfully avoiding the cheap, theatrical embellishments that were all too common in journalism today. He left the emotion to his quoted sources: Harmony’s former documentarians, her former social workers, her current lawyer. They all gushed over her strength in the face of such monstrous adversity. Powerful stuff. I could just hear the collective “Jesus Christ” being uttered in every newsroom across the nation. Story-wise, ratings-wise, and otherwise, this woman was magnificent. She was a franchise unto herself.

Predictably, the media outlets strapped on Andy’s piece like a jetpack and took off with it. I was stuck in construction traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard when a succinct but slightly jumbled version of Harmony’s background hit me from the radio. I had to laugh, not at the announcer’s mistakes (it was her stepfather who impregnated her, not her father) but at the sheer insanity of it all. It shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t be this easy to manipulate the news.

________________

By the time I got home, it was twenty after three. Once again, Madison was crouched outside my door, waiting.

Upon seeing me, she defensively raised her palms. “I’m fine. Seriously.”

“I believe you.”

I unlocked my apartment door. She eyed me through a mask of concern. “How are you doing?”

“You’re a sweetheart to ask, but I’m fine, too.”

“You look a little stressed.”

“Just busy.”

She rose up. “Oh my God, Scott. I’ve been waiting all day to talk to you about Harmony Prince.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” I said. “It’s your turn.”

I held the door open. She hustled inside. Thank God for Madison. Her excitement was a perfect antidote to the Judge and Maxina. To the RIAA. Interscope. Universal. Simba. I could understand why they were all so scared. I could even understand why my assurances were always taken with twelve grains of salt. But the cloud of mistrust was starting to choke me. I had to take greater care in the future, or this giant new machine of mine would fall apart from the inside.

This book is dedicated to Him. And her.

So read the new top sheet of my copy of Godsend, Alonso Lever’s magniloquent sci-fi opus. I’d fed the title page to the shredder, along with my discarded mail. I’d been shredding my mail for many years now, especially my financial statements. In this day and age, when everyone was worried about online security and electronic fraud, few seemed to realize that their garbage bin was an information warehouse for wily scavengers.

As for the title page, that was a Madison-related concern. She wasn’t a crook, to my knowledge, but she did keep up with the news. I could just imagine her confusion upon finding in my possession an unpublished novel by the now-famous lawyer of our now-famous enemy. It wouldn’t be a major crisis, but why face it at all?

Madison stood up and took a stretch break from her highlighting duties. Her T-shirt rose with her arms, exposing at least four inches of flat white stomach. I felt like a criminal just for noticing.

She spied the manuscript on top of the TV and snatched it for examination.

“‘This book is dedicated to Him. And her.’ What the hell is this?”

I continued to navigate the web from my couch, scanning the knee jerk reactions to Andy Cronin’s piece. “I have a friend who fancies himself a novelist. He gave me a copy to critique.”

“Oh, a ‘friend,’ huh?”

I met her simper with a sneer. “If it was mine, I’d take credit for it.”

“So who’s ‘Him’? God?”

“Most likely.”

“And her?”

“No idea.”

She skimmed the first few pages. “I have an urge to highlight all the adjectives.”