Daniel Price - Slick

I laughed. “That’s just part of the game. Everyone knows it.”

“I figured. But I still get the sense that…I don’t know. The timing seems too perfect. The victim seems too perfect.”

From the TV, a Claymated chili pepper whistled at us, desperate for our attention. I muted the volume.

“So you feel this whole thing is a professionally engineered event.”

“That’s just the sense I get,” she said. “But maybe I’m just being cynical.”

I rested against the arm of the couch, grinning like a proud…whatever I was to Madison. Boss. Mentor. Friend. None of those terms felt right. At the moment I had the strange but overwhelming desire for a more indelible connection. Cousin. Uncle. Father. I didn’t care, as long as we were linked by blood. I wanted to share my DNA with her. I wanted to plunder her lineage, to steal her away like a Viking and make her one of my own. Knowing her, she’d come along willingly. Happily. If only it were possible.

As odd as it was, the impulse didn’t seem to have much do with Madison herself, just like this morning’s quasi-sexual twinge had little to do with Harmony. I was still hypercharged from the day’s events, feeling potent and virile. Why wouldn’t I? I had just brought the Bitch to a screaming climax. I’d left her moaning for more. Now there must be other worlds to conquer, other precious treasures to seize.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“I think you’re right. I think this is a supremely organized effort by a bunch of people we’re not seeing.”

“But why? What would they get out of it?”

“I don’t know There are a lot of powerful conservatives out there who see rap as nothing more than black culture infecting white teenagers. Obviously, they’ll do whatever they can to limit its influence, but the only way to break through the First Amendment wall is with continued public outrage.”

“God.”

“I’m just speculating,” I disclaimed. “I truly don’t know.”

“But don’t people find the timing suspicious? I mean this woman is accusing Hunta of rape one week after the whole Melrose thing.”

“Actually, that’s not true. She filed for a restraining order over a month ago. That’s what’s killing us here.”

“Can’t that stuff be faked? You know, backdated or something?”

I smiled at her. “Not without the help of the Mean World lawyers.”

“Well, maybe the label’s in on it too.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To sell more albums.”

“This isn’t a marketing stunt. Trust me.”

“Well then what the hell is it?”

My red phone rang. I patted Madison’s back and then started up the steps, throwing her a shrug and a lie along the way.

“When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.”

________________

Some people had a natural charm that exuded from them effortlessly, like a rainbow. Harmony was one of those people. Alonso was not. His charisma was synthetic and boldly conspicuous, like a neon sign. But he had a winking self-awareness about it that made him endearingly campy. And I had to give him points for consistency. He kept his sign lit twenty four hours a day. Always bright. Always colorful.

Well, not always. Just as my force field occasionally sputtered, so did Alonso’s glow. When he called me at a quarter to six, the lights were cold and dark.

“Scott, do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?”

I closed the bedroom door. “What’s the matter? I thought it went fine.”

“I’m not talking about the press conference. I’m talking about Maxina.”

Ah, shit. This couldn’t be good. “Where are you?”

“In the stairwell, working my way up to Harmony’s room.”

“Something wrong with the elevators?”

“I’m venting excess energy.”

“What did Maxina say to you?”

“She said — she decreed that I was to bring Harmony onto Larry King Live tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Her orders.”

“No. No way. Absolutely not.”

He clopped harder. “See? I knew you would say that. Who’s running this show, you or her? I mean, how do you people expect me to function under conflicting directives?”

My gut told me it wasn’t a directive at all. More like a test. Maxina and I had a big split this morning, and now she wanted to see which way Alonso would jump. She was in for a disappointment.

“It’s too soon,” I said. “Harmony just got done telling the media to leave her alone. If she shows up on Larry King tomorrow, she’ll have no credibility.”

“As it stands, I agree with you. But I’ll ask again—”

“I am. I’m in charge of Harmony’s PR and I’m saying no. It’s not happening.”

We both paused for a long, deep breath. I spent the time looking out the western window. The drooping sun painted the sky in dazzling purple ribbons. Filmmakers call this the magic hour, for good reason. Los Angeles had its faults, but it gave great twilight.

As the lampposts flickered on, so did Alonso. I could hear the bright hue come back to his voice.

“Ah, bureaucracy,” he said, continuing his climb. “This is why I never liked working at the big firms.”

“Same here.”

“Still, I can understand why they’re all so panicked. Between you, me, and our lovely Miss Prince, we could do quite some damage.”

“But we won’t.”

“I wasn’t suggesting we should,” he stressed. “Quite the opposite. I think we—‘we’ meaning you — should throw Maxina some kind of bone. We don’t want her making secret moves against us.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that she already was, but Alonso had a good point.

“Have your girl call Larry King’s people,” I said. “Tell them you’ll do Monday’s show. Assure them it’s still an exclusive, but they can’t announce it until noon that day.”

“Eastern?”

“Pacific. We’re only giving them six hours to plug her. Make them understand that if they jump the gun, even by a minute, you’re canceling the appearance and freezing out the whole network.”

He chuckled amicably. I cocked my head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just not accustomed to having this much leverage.”

I smiled out the window. “Same here.”

“Will you be calling Maxina?”

I watched the street as a black SUV approached my building. I recognized the dented grille.

“No,” I said. “She’ll be calling me.”

By the time I got off the phone, Alonso had reached the top floor. Jean had reached my front curb. The sun was gone. The moon was hiding. There was nothing left but artificial light.

________________

On my way downstairs, I got another bird’s-eye view of Madison’s work. Once again, her news clippings were littered with orange words: pinprick stabs at Hunta that were tiny enough to preserve the illusion of objectivity. The supportive green words, by contrast, were as rare as four-leaf clovers. But there was encouragement to be found in the pink. The mentions of Annabelle Shane were a mere fraction of what they were yesterday. There would be even less tomorrow. By next week the Melrose demon would be all but vanquished. I wasn’t just a publicist anymore. I was an exorcist. And my elaborate ritual was working.

Madison looked up from her notepad. “Oh. I was just leaving you a message.”

“I’m here.”

“So’s my mom.”

“I saw.”

“Do you need me to stay late tomorrow? I can.”

“I don’t think there’s a need.”

She lowered her voice, as if her mother were somehow listening. “Or I could come early. I mean, my afternoon classes are a joke.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “As I much as I appreciate your willingness to sacrifice both school and family…”