Slick (39 page)

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.”

I grinned. “Take a break.”

“So is it good?”

“He probably shouldn’t quit his day job.”

“What’s his day job?”

“Lawyer.”

“Is he at least a good lawyer?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “He’s a very good lawyer.”

 

 

Alonso only had two days to prepare for the media onslaught. Two days to fill a six-week-old case file with fake notes, fake phone logs, fake letters, what have you. He was playing the game on two levels: as a man who was genuinely representing Harmony Prince, and as a man who was genuinely fooled by Harmony Prince. He had to start building himself up as a dupe now. Once the confession hit, there’d be an immediate investigation, and he didn’t have the cozy distance that I had.

If that wasn’t enough, he also had his personal life to worry about. He feared the press heat would spill over into his private affairs, so he scrambled like mad to tidy up. He didn’t detail me on that part of the effort, but he did once mention that he was in a complicated relationship with a complicated woman, the circumstances of which, regrettably, had some story value. I figured she was either criminally young or famously married.

Doug’s theory was a little more exotic.

“I bet she’s a he,” he mused with cackling delight. “I mean, come on. Look at Alonso. Can’t you just picture him as the ‘husband’ to some high-heeled trannie?”

I wasn’t so sure, but the fact that Alonso had split his novel’s dedication between God and her suggested that the relationship was as serious as it was mysterious.

Media-wise, he had little to fear. The only woman he’d be associated with, now and forever, was Harmony Prince.

Since her grand debut, his firm received an average of seventy-five press calls an hour, not to mention an endless stream of faxes from talk-show producers begging him to book his client on their show. By 10
a.m.
he’d brought in a freelance publicist to establish order. She was a young and perky thing, and she didn’t know any more than the public did, but she cracked the whip like a skilled dominatrix. Within the hour, the media folks were kissing her hard leather boot. The journalists were especially docile, only because they knew she was hand picking the audience for the end-of-day press conference.

And quite a conference it was. At 5:20, the national news outlets and West Coast affiliates cut away to the Garden Room of the Fairmont Miramar. The place was packed with reporters, photographers, security guards, camera crews, and enough electronic equipment to fill a Best Buy. Every network had a different name for the event. On CNN it was the
hunta accuser: press conference
. MSNBC billed it as
alleged hunta sex assault victim, attorney statement
. KTLA 5, Los Angeles, presumed a little too much in their overlay by declaring that
hunta’s rape accuser speaks
. Although technically accurate (Harmony could indeed speak), it was a functional misnomer. The star of the show remained safely locked away in her tower suite.

Madison sat next to me on the couch. “So where is she?”

“I doubt she’ll be there.”

“Why not?”

“Credibility,” I said. “A good victim wouldn’t parade herself in front of the media. At least not right away. If her handlers are smart, we won’t hear a peep out of her until next week.”

“You sure?”

I shrugged. “That’s what I would do.”

To the abject disappointment of the press corps, Alonso made a solo entrance. He threw his guests a priggish little grin.
Sorry, people. This is only the first date. And we’re not that easy.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I have a statement from Miss Prince.”

While the cameras flashed and popped, he retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his suit pocket. He looked a little too pleased for my comfort, but then again, so did I.

“‘I appreciate the concern and support that people have shown me in this trying time,’” he read. “‘And as much as I understand the public’s need to learn more about me and my situation, I consider this a personal matter. I’m sure if you or someone you love was victimized, you wouldn’t want it to become national news. So I ask the members of the press and the community at large to please respect my privacy and the privacy of my loved ones. I never asked to be abused. And I certainly never wanted to be famous for being abused. Thank you for your understanding.’”

Madison snorted jadedly. “That was so written by committee.”

Actually, the committee was sitting right next to her, although Alonso did add the “I never asked to be abused” part. He was afraid my speech lacked quotability. I regretted listening to him. The words were pure overkill. Worse, they were completely uncharacteristic of Harmony. She didn’t have a self-pitying bone in her body.

Soon Alonso opened up the floor to press queries. This was always a tricky part of the game, like juggling knives. But the media was on our side. They wanted to believe Harmony. They just had to sell her to their audience, and for that, they needed more to go on.

“The police nearly killed her once when she was crossing the street. That would be enough to make anyone wary.”

“I won’t speculate on that.”

“I will not discuss the particulars of the case.”

“I will not discuss the particulars of the case.”

“We’re still in prenegotiations. We haven’t determined an amount yet.”

Is Miss Prince upset that the
Los Angeles Times
revealed her by name?

“Absolutely. So am I. When I spoke to Ms. Steiner, I was led to believe that my client would remain anonymous. Obviously I was misinformed.”

If you’re so protective of your client’s privacy, why did you cooperate with the Associated Press when they
—

“By then the cat was already out of the bag, and there was no way to get it back in. The least I could do was make sure that Andrew Cronin got all his facts right.”

So then it’s true that she miscarried
—

“Look, I’m here on behalf of my client. I’m asking you, as she asked you, to keep a respectful distance. Miss Prince doesn’t want to be an enticing headline. She doesn’t want to be a ratings grabber. And she certainly doesn’t want to be a tool in the public crusade against rap.”

“I can’t say. We never discussed it. I do know that she has an issue with Jeremy Sharpe, and it’s not because of his music.”

Alonso continued to parry, thrust, and dodge the questions for six more rounds before calling it a day. His responses—our responses—were nothing but sound and light. But they were quick, they were interesting, and they were easily repurposed. The press was satiated for now. As soon as Alonso thanked his audience, the networks kicked back and burped out commercials.

I looked to Madison. “So, what do you think?”

She squeezed her chin, deliberating her answer as if I were grading it.

“I don’t know. I mean to me the whole thing reeks of bullshit. But I might just be biased, working for Hunta and all.”

“Back it up. Which part smells to you?”

“Well, for starters, there’s the fact that the lawyer held a big press conference just to ask the press not to make a big deal out of this. I mean, come on.”

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.”