Daniel Price - Slick

Whatever it was, it was moving too far, too fast. From now on I’d be putting all my strength into the handbrake. I’d be working against my very own momentum. Already I could feel the resistance.

________________

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Alonso yelled from his speeding Audi. He had just graced CNN’s Burden of Proof with his appearance (via satellite) and was feeling mighty smug after getting the last word on Greta Van Susteren.

I cradled the phone as I worked on my laptop. “I just need one of your staff members to talk to Miranda Cameron-Donnell. On the record, but anonymously.”

“Why?”

“So they can voice their suspicions that Harmony isn’t on the level.”

“Meaning I’m not on the level.”

“No. Their story is that they initially shared their concerns with you, but you dismissed them.”

“Why?!”

“Because you believe in her.”

“No, I mean why do this at all?”

I gathered all my personal electronic files into one folder, then set an encryption lock. Madison was a great kid, but a kid nonetheless. I didn’t want her snooping in my absence. On a whim, I also deleted the many e-mail messages between me and her mother. God knows why. It was all nerd talk and word games.

“We need to start planting a few seeds of doubt,” I told him. “We have to set the stage for Harmony’s confession.”

“That’s your reason for risking my credibility? You want to foreshadow ?”

“I just don’t want her confession to come completely out of the blue.”

“It could come out of the blue, red, or pink!” he snapped. “The media won’t care because it’ll make good copy, and the viewers won’t care because they’re idiots. What you’re proposing is great risk for no gain. And considering that it’s my risk, I won’t do it.”

I got up from the couch. “You’re not seeing the big picture.”

“Actually, I am. You’re the one who’s dabbling at the canvas like you’re Renoir. This is not a work of art, Scott. It’s a media campaign. Get a grip.”

Damn. Alonso sure had his Wheaties this morning. Was I being an artistic perfectionist? Or was I merely being thorough? I let the issue drop, but when I asked him to publicly dispel the rumor about Hunta filming the incident in Room 1215, he refused, on the grounds that it would be out of character.

And still the story grew.

________________

At noon, the Hunta contingent released their first official response to Harmony. Doug avoided the traditional press conference in the way that most of us would avoid a traditional caning. His faxed missive, though blandly worded, was clear in tone:

Mr. Sharpe, his wife, and his supporters at Mean World Records categorically refute the allegations of Harmony Prince. Her charges are completely without merit, and we intend to fight them to the end. We are confident that the truth will ultimately prevail, and that Mr. Sharpe will be vindicated.

The press delivered the message verbatim, but with a cynical sneer. The headlines on the news sites varied from the insidious (hunta denies sex crimes) to the insane (bitch fiend rapper swears vindication). I made a mental note to buy a new orange highlighter.

At one o’clock, another woman came forward to claim abuse. Fox News broke the story of Mary Austen, a twenty-five-year-old dancer cum-flight-attendant who’d dated Hunta back in 1998. In a four minute segment, she confirmed the public’s worst suspicions. He was into the rough stuff. He told her he liked his women to scream. He left her with numerous bruises and contusions. Eventually, it got to be too much for her, so she left. He harassed her so many times following the breakup that she considered getting a restraining order.

Mary was so full of shit, you could see the stink lines. She had the veracity of an infomercial, with her glossy lips, her neon fingernails, and her dark, desperate eyes that begged for acceptance. She was an empty plastic shell. I found her tragic, all right, but not in any interesting or admirable way. Most of the press agreed. Ultimately, she, like the rest of the knockoffs, would orbit Planet Harmony a couple of times before being cast back into the void.

At two o’clock the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences officially canceled Hunta’s performance at the upcoming Grammy Awards. “We’re not making any moral judgments,” said NARAS president Michael Greene. “We’re not saying he’s guilty. We just don’t want the Grammys to be overshadowed by this kind of controversy.”

Words to live by. What really happened was that a vocal family council pushed the Grammy advertisers to push CBS to push Greene to dump Hunta like a bad enchilada. The process began on Monday, right after the world learned of the “Bitch Fiend” sex tape. To his credit, Greene initially told CBS to tell the advertisers to tell the family council to go fuck themselves, but that was back in the beginning of the week, when Hunta was only the center of a First Amendment debate. That was the good kind of controversy, the kind that brought in young viewers. Once Harmony exploded on the scene, however, toodle-oo. Last night, Greene had warned the Judge of his new resolve in the hope that he could persuade him into persuading Hunta into canceling his own performance. But Hunta, on a strict diet of pot and righteous indignation, told the Judge to tell Greene to go blow a schnauzer.

And still the story grew. At three o’clock the Los Angeles Police Department officially began an investigation into the sexual assault of Harmony Prince. That was when Madison arrived at my home with a smile usually reserved for game-show winners. Her excitement was justified. At that moment she was the only person on Earth who had good news for Hunta.

“So Slick finally hollas,” said the rapper. “Thought maybe you forgot about me.”

I paced my bedroom floor. “That would be difficult.”

“Really? All my friends did it. All my brothers in the hip-hop community. They all acting like I don’t exist now. My agent ain’t even calling me.”

“I’m calling you.”

“Aw. That’s very sweet of you. Taking time away from Harmony to talk to me and shit.”

Sigh. “I’m not spending any time with Harmony.”

“Well then I guess it’s that deaf woman of yours who’s been keeping you busy.”

Christ. Lies traveled fast. “I see you talked to the Judge.”

“I heard it from Doug.” He laughed. “When he first told me, I thought he meant ‘def,’ as in ‘D-E-F’. I was like ‘Shit, man, only Russell Simmons still uses that word. Just say she’s fine.’”

I smiled uncomfortably. “She is pretty fine.’”

“What the fuck you doing to me, man?”

“I’m saving your ass. You just don’t know it yet.”

“The cops want to talk to me now.”

“It’s just for show. They know they can’t nail you without Harmony’s cooperation, and they know they’ll never get it.”

“Yeah? What about Mary Austen?”

“She’s nothing, “ I assured him. “She’s filler.”

“She’s lying! I didn’t do none of that shit to her! All I did was dump her ass for Simba. Then the bitch got all psycho on me. I’m the one who almost got the court order. I ain’t lying! Ask Doug!”

“Look, I believe you. And so do—”

“And what’s this shit about the Panasonic? I don’t even own a camera!”

“It’s crap. I know.”

“Yeah, but who’s planting that, man? How does that shit get started?”

“I’m sorry. What kind of camera was it?”

“Pana—” He caught my drift. “Oh, get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t know for sure. But it wouldn’t surprise me if one of their marketing people saw the opportunity and took it.”