Elimination Night (28 page)

Not likely. It had been weeks now since Joey’s relapse, but he still hadn’t returned to his former self. He was clean, at least: Mitch had established this beyond any reasonable doubt—with Mu and Sue acting as round-the-clock enforcers.

But Joey’s funk hadn’t lifted. Which meant he was still—I swear—the most boring judge on the panel. “Yeah, that was
nice,
man,” went his tediously predictable nightly criticisms. “You did great.” If
Project Icon
hadn’t been in mortal danger, Ed Rossitto would almost certainly have fired him by now. Ironically, it was the show’s weakness that had convinced Ed against such a radical move.
Project Icon
couldn’t afford to make itself look vulnerable, not now. A midseason panel rethink would do exactly that. To the likes of Chaz Chipford at
ShowBiz,
it
would be like seeing blood in the water. Instead, the show had to pretend it was still invincible. Hence Wayne’s repeated claim that season thirteen had generated “more votes than any previous season in the HISTORY of our show”—without any acknowledgment that this was possible only because Rabbit had started to count the results of spam surveys and pop-up ads on third-party websites. In reality, the number of
telephone votes
was down by eighty percent…

I checked the time on my cell phone as I walked out into the parking lot: almost nine o’clock. The place was empty. Just Two Svens’ Bugatti convertible, some crew vehicles, and my bicycle—its frame and front wheel chained to the fence. It was so cold, I had to pull my cardigan sweater tight around me and readjust the belt. Then a rush of air behind me. Turning, I saw Len’s dark green Jaguar, which had come to a halt noiselessly about five feet away. The window was down, framing Len’s Merm between the chrome pillars. Beside him was his wife, the scowling woman from accounts. I remembered her from my first day.

“Good work with that dress,” said Len. “At last,
you’re learning.
Now let’s hope those tits translate into to some fucking ratings tomorrow. From what I hear, Sir Harold is due back first thing. We need all the help we can get, Billy the Kiddo.”

“Here’s hoping,” I said, feeling dirtied by the compliment.

“Well, good night. Sleep well in Siberia.”

Len’s grin disappeared behind privacy glass as the Jaguar pulled away. After a few yards, however, the car stopped again. The window reopened. Len had forgotten something.

“Oh, and Bill,” he called out. “I don’t know if you’re going for some kind of ironic dweeb look or something, but I think those glasses are the worst thing I’ve seen you wear to date. And frankly they’re up against some pretty impressive competition.”

“They’re my
emergency
backup pair,” I protested.

“They’re an emergency in their own right, Bill,” said Len. “For God’s sake, buy some new ones.”

“Is that all?”

“I guess we can discuss those pants another day. That’s a ketchup stain, right?”

I looked down. He was wrong: It was in fact
two
ketchup stains, but one had annexed the other to form a larger, more influential federation of residue. When I raised my head to explain this, however, Len was no longer there. The Jaguar was already at the studio gate, tail lights on, turn signal flashing.

“Asshole,” I muttered, returned to the task of putting on my helmet. No sooner had I got it on than I became aware of something else behind me. A voice, getting closer.

Couldn’t everyone just leave me alone?

“Bill? Is that you, Bill?”

I turned wearily. The owner of the voice had now almost reached me. “Hey—it
is
Bill, right?”

“
David?
” I gasped, my face changing color instantly. It was Bibi’s chauffeur. The hot one. He was dressed in skinny jeans and a puffy, dark-colored sleeveless vest, with a pair of headphones—or maybe they were earmuffs—around his neck. He reminded me of a life-size action figure. Only somehow more perfect.

“How did you know my name?” he replied, confused. Then he remembered. Snapping his fingers: “The ride to Bibi’s, right? In the Rolls. Well, you certainly have a lot of powerful folk chasing after you, Bill. We’re waiting for you on the roof.”

“
We?
… what are you talking ab—”

“Follow me.”

“But my bicycle.”

“You can bring it with you if you want. But I don’t recommend it. Heh, not where
we’re
going.”

I took David’s advice and locked it up again, only this time without removing the wheel. Then I allowed him to lead the way, wondering what Bibi could possibly want from me this evening. We traversed the parking lot, left the studio grounds through a side gate, crossed Gower
Street, then entered the lower floor of a high-rise parking structure opposite. Two elevators gaped open in front of us. We took the first, with David tapping a button marked “H,” whatever that stood for.

A giddy sensation as we rose.

“Are we going to Bibi’s again?” I asked.

David smiled. “Bibi isn’t my
only
client, y’know,” he said. “I’m in the general transportation business. Celebrities. Politicians. High net worth individuals.”

“So this isn’t about Bibi?”

“You’ll see.”

The doors opened to reveal the top-floor level of the parking structure, the moon hanging there in front of us, huge and solemn. But I wasn’t looking at the moon. I was looking at the large white H-shape in front of me—on top of which was resting a sleek white helicopter, its windshield shaped like the visor of motorcycle helmet. The rotors were spinning. “Here, you might want to wear these,” shouted David over the noise, taking off his ear muffs and handing them to me. “If you wanna talk, plug ’em into the outlet next to you, there’s a mic built into the cord. You’ll figure it out.” Then he pulled open the rear door and helped me inside.

This was insanity.

I’d never been in a helicopter. Then again, this machine didn’t resemble any helicopter I’d ever seen before—not on the TV, not the movies, not
anywhere.
The cabin, for example, was even more unsparingly appointed than Bibi’s Rolls-Royce—a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Seating was provided by six retrocontoured armchairs in white leather. Under foot: floors made from some exotic timber. And between the chairs was a glowing console, outlined in blue LEDs, which served as both an armrest and a glass-topped champagne cooler. An open bottle was locked in place, next to a single tethered flute.

I was now alone, harness in place, looking out of the vast, bulbous window. David, meanwhile, had climbed in through the co-pilot’s door and was also seated, checking instruments, making hand signals. He
still hadn’t told me where we were going, what we were doing, who had organized all this. And by the time I’d plugged in my headset to ask him once more, we were already in the air.

It felt as though we were barely moving.

“Have some champagne,” said David, his voice in my ear. “He bought it especially for you.”

“
He?
Who’s he? Where are we
going?
This is crazy, David, you have to tell me now.”

“Relax. You’ll find out soon enough. Drink the champagne.”

I did as he said. It was a midnineties Dom Pérignon, according to the label. Still, I couldn’t exactly savor the taste when I didn’t know what this was all about. Of all the people I knew,
who
had the means to send for me in a helicopter—
this
helicopter? Certainly not Len. David seemed to have ruled out Bibi, pretty much. Two Svens? Unlikely, given that he could see me whenever he wanted to at work. Joey? No, he
hated
helicopters—they made him nervous. And it couldn’t be Sir Harold Killoch, because he was still in Germany. Besides, what possible reason could the Big Corp CEO have for this kind of ego display?

It took perhaps five or six minutes for us to reach the ocean. The aircraft banked. For a moment, I felt suddenly light-headed. Then we turned up the coast—ocean to one side, the lights of Highway 1 to the other. For the first time, I felt wind buffet the cabin. We seemed to be descending, somewhere near Malibu.

Static in my headset.

“Can you see it yet?” asked David.

I looked out of my window. Ocean everywhere now—the color of poured concrete in the moonlight. We must have been a mile or two offshore. Then spots of white in the gray vastness, gleaming brighter as we lost altitude. Was it an island?
A boat?

More static.

“He named it
The Talent and the Glory,
” announced David, answering my question. “Took delivery last week. If you believe
ShowBiz
magazine—which I don’t, personally—it cost fifty million bucks. The guys I work for say it was more like twice that.”

“Damnit, David,
tell me who he is,
” I said. By now, I had a pretty good idea, of course.

“Four hundred and four feet long,” he continued, ignoring me. “Forty-eight thousand horsepower. Maximum speed: twenty-eight knots. What we’re about to land on is the basketball court, which he installed especially for his good friend, the president of the United States. Prez was out here on Monday, actually. Amazing the kind of company you can keep when you own a boy’s toy like this.”

The deck was right below us now. Any moment… any moment… bab-da-
bump.

We were down.

David climbed out.

My door slid open.

Slowing rotors. Floodlights. Salt in the breeze.

It took me a second to recognize the figure standing there, waiting. Dark sweater, canvas pants… sockless feet in tasseled loafers. Not the usual open-shirted attire. Even the
hair
threw me off: It was loose and floppy, entirely devoid of product, like he’d just come out of the hot tub or shower. The voice, however—well, the voice was unmistakable. Somehow both oily and hoarse. It brought to mind gin cocktails, dutyfree cigarettes, and carpeted bedrooms from 1985.

“Well, this isn’t quite Hawaii,” it crooned. “But we could sail there in a week or two from here.”

“
Nigel Crowther,
” I said, dumbly.

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.”

El Woofaleah

I WAS SURPRISED AT HOW
tiny and ancient Nigel Crowther appeared when he wasn’t on camera. He couldn’t have been much younger than Len, in fact. There was also an unsettling…
femininity
about him. Something to do with the tone of his skin—as though the outer layer had been peeled away—plus of course those infamous twin protrusions from under his sweater. It was extraordinary that Crowther’s nipples were visible at all, given the thickness of the fabric that covered them—which made you wonder if it were somehow deliberate. The breasts, too, were unavoidable: great swollen mounds, not quite of Mia Pelosi dimensions, but large enough to make his belly seem almost modest in comparison.

“I, uh… I like your helicopter,” I said, not sure of the etiquette in such a situation.

“You’re quite an awkward girl, aren’t you, Sasha?” replied Crowther, who’d noticed me staring at his chest. I hadn’t meant to be so obvious. “That is your real name, isn’t it:
Sasha?
I never approved of the way Len turned you into Bill. How dehumanizing. Then again, it’s the only way Len knows. They gave him a terrible time at school, y’know, especially
when he took up tap dancing. Imagine that: Chiswick Technical School, west London, just after the war—and there was Len, a sickly kid with curly hair and a passion for musical theater. There were toilet plungers in Chiswick which spent less time in the bowl than he did. Created a monster, if you ask me. And yet not a very
effective
monster, judging by those abysmal ratings. Anyway, come on inside.”

He paused.

“Oh,” he added, handing me an iPad with a stylus attached. “And if you wouldn’t mind signing this. Standard nondisclosure agreement. Can’t have you telling anyone about this little meeting, I’m afraid. But I think you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to say.”

Squinting, I tried to read the words on the display, but there was too much glare from the floodlights on my glasses. I gave up and signed anyway. I mean, what was I going to do—refuse, get back on the helicopter, and go home? Maybe Crowther wouldn’t even let me
use
the helicopter. Maybe I’d have to swim.

“Jolly good,” he said, as I handed the device back to him. “This way, my dear.”

I followed him into the yacht’s relentlessly modern entertaining area: a white box, essentially, with sharp-angled sofas, a circular fire pit, and brushed steel fixtures. It was an obsessive-compulsive’s fantasy in there, a clean-room laboratory masquerading as a living room. The only vaguely organic-looking matter was supplied by the tall women with tiny waists draped everywhere—on the sofas, by the bar, inside the bubble chair that hung from the ceiling. In fact, I could see only one male: He was older than me, smirking, with a reddish mullet. He looked uncomfortably familiar. Was he from Rabbit? Invasion Media? Or perhaps the New York office of Zero Management? Then it came to me, and my fists balled involuntarily. It was… I couldn’t even
believe
I was in the same room… it was that asshole reporter, Chaz Chipford, from
ShowBiz
magazine.

“You
know
him?” I hissed to Crowther, trying not to glare at the man who’d made a career out of running front-page “exclusives” predicting
Project Icon
’s demise.

“Who?
Chaz?
Oh, yeah.”

“He’s your friend?”

“God, no. Can’t stand him. Dreadful little man.”

“
Then… why is he here?
”

Crowther stopped walking and turned to me. We were in the middle of the room. Chaz was about ten feet away—too far to hear us over the nondescript Latin-themed lounge music. “They really don’t teach you very much at
Project Icon,
do they?” he said. “Rule number one, Sasha:
Always look after the press.
That means lots of hot girls, otherwise known as publicists. It also means free booze, finger buffets, gifts, upgrades, whatever you can throw at them. Cash, if you must.”