Slick (52 page)

Well, one of us was in for an education. And that was just the sideshow to what was happening on TV. I put a blank tape in the VCR and began recording. It was six o’clock. Zero hour. For a hundred and fifty million television sets around the world, Harmony was just a click away.

 

 

Lawrence Zeiger and I had a few things in common. We both grew up in New York. We both hailed from German Jewish ancestry. We both changed our names at age twenty-four, mostly for aesthetics but a little bit to hide our German Jewish ancestry. I became Scott Singer. He be came Larry King. And he did it ten years before I even became at all.

Larry King Live
had been a staple of CNN since 1985. During that time, Larry had interviewed pretty much every name you’ve ever heard of, plus a few thousand you haven’t. He’d even chatted up people who technically didn’t exist. Aside from Jay Leno, no media figure had crossed the fourth wall more times than Larry, appearing as himself in over two dozen Hollywood properties, from
Ghostbusters
to
Murphy Brown
to
The Exorcist III
. Not being a CNN viewer, Harmony didn’t learn of Larry’s actuality until she was booked onto his show. She always assumed the guy with the suspenders was just another fictional character.

But Larry certainly believed in her. On Thursday and Friday he had devoted the entire hour to Harmony, bringing in his usual panel of experts to squabble over the merits of her case. He closed the show by promising a “very special guest” on Monday.

And now here she was, sitting across the desk from him, in front of his signature light map. All throughout his intro, she smiled and fidgeted with palpable anxiety. I felt for her, even though I knew she was in good hands. Larry King was not a gorgeous man, but he had a heart of gold and a steadfast neutrality. He wasn’t emotionally manipulative like Barbara Walters, or completely insane like Connie Chung. He was a throwback to gentler times, when objectivity ruled the news.

On Harmony’s left was Alonso, the sharpest-looking one of the bunch. Despite his commendable appearance, the poor man had been reminded by everyone, from me to Maxina to Larry’s producers, to keep his big trap shut. This was Harmony’s vehicle. He was just the airbag.

Okay,
said Larry
, before we even start, do you want to explain that button you’re wearing? What does that mean, “The Jury?”

With a pleasant laugh, Harmony raised the round button clipped above her right breast. The camera briefly zoomed in on it.

“This has nothing to do with the case. The Jury’s just the rap group my roommates are in. They’re gonna be real big, real soon. Hey guys! Hi Tracy!”

Madison shot back into the apartment and practically vaulted onto the couch. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing. It just started.”

So you’re a big fan of rap
.

“I love rap, Larry. I always have. East Coast. West Coast. It don’t matter to me, as long as it’s good.”

“Well, if it don’t matter to her,” Madison mocked, “it don’t matter to me.”

I looked to the door. “Where’s your mother?”

“She’s coming. She’s just texting Neil.”

“Oh. Is he expecting you guys at home?”

Madison shot me a dark look. “Was that a joke?”

“No. Why would that be a joke?”

“Scott, I’m trying to hear this.”

A lot of people expected you to have a problem with rap, given the circumstances
.

“I never had a problem with rap, Larry. Rap never hurt me. It was just a man who happened to be a rapper. I mean, if he was a milkman, nobody would be blaming milk.”

Madison gaped in affront. “Oh my God. Is she for real?”

Yes, but that line couldn’t have been more forced. Come on, Harmony. Stop trying to be cute.

Okay. I know this isn’t easy, but let’s talk about Hunta for a second
.

Alonso was about to speak, but Harmony cut him off. “Actually, I’m trying not to talk about him. I don’t want to talk about him. Anything I got to say about him, I’m saving for the trial.”

Harmony patted Alonso’s shoulder. “See? I listen to you.”

Better. Much better. It took all my energy not to smile. Damn it. I shouldn’t have let Madison stay. I should have watched this alone, without anyone watching me.

“I don’t know what to expect anymore. I’d just love for this whole thing to be over. Actually, I wish it had ended back in January, before the whole Melrose thing.”

Finally, Jean entered the apartment. For once she was dressed stylishly in a professional gray blazer, short skirt, high heels, and expensive earrings. She looked pretty damn formal for a self-employed graphic designer. She looked pretty damn good.

She closed the door, then flashed me an edgy grin.
Hi. Thanks for having me. You must be insane.

I returned an acknowledging shrug.
Sorry. I meant well. I’m scared, too.

“Have a seat,” I said, motioning around. “Anywhere.”

She took off her blazer, revealing the sleeveless white blouse she’d worn to Club Silence. If she was embarrassed to be seen in the same shirt twice, she didn’t show it and I didn’t care. With arms as perfect as hers, she could wear that top for the rest of her life and I wouldn’t mind. God help me. I had yet to recover from Saturday night’s tumult. All I did was put my attraction on layaway while I dealt with Harmony.

Jean sat down on the couch, on the other side of her daughter. From the way she held herself, you’d think there was a spitting cobra between us.

I leaned back to get a clear view. “Do you want anything to drink? Or eat?”

“Scott, you’re missing this.”

Jean shook her head. I sat forward again, muttering to Madison.

“Should I turn on the captions?”

She was still fixed on CNN. “Don’t bother. She’s going to get up in a minute and start thumbing through your magazines.”

“Because I’m already all over the place,” Harmony replied evenly. “I mean, I know they’re just doing their job, but...I don’t know. Ever since Thursday, I been reading all this stuff about me, and it’s all been...”

You feel you’ve been misrepresented
.

“I feel like I’ve been simplified.”

I had to laugh at how right she was. As Harmony spoke, the network ran alternating text bites on the bottom third of the screen, under her name.
was raped and impregnated by stepfather at age 11/ discovered murdered bodies of mother, half-brother in 1994 / spent 13 months in hospital after being hit by police car.

“I mean, I see these experts and psychologists talking about me like they know me. Complete strangers are talking about these things from my life like I was a TV movie or something.”

Well, you’ve been through an awful lot for someone so young
.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be defined by the bad things that happened to me. I mean, everyone’s had something bad happen to them at some point. It affects the person they are but, I mean, it doesn’t necessarily define them.”

Madison mocked her again. “I mean...I mean...I mean...”

“Oh, like you’re so eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

After a few seconds of stumped silence, Harmony laughed. “Wow. I guess I brought that on myself. Uh, let me think about that.”

Larry took the opportunity to cut to the first commercial.

“She’s good,” I said with false frustration.

Madison tied her hair back. “I don’t know. She seems awfully perky for an alleged rape victim.”

“That’s the thing. She’s downplaying it beautifully. If she went on TV going ‘Woe is me, woe is me,’ there’d finally be some backlash against her. Everyone likes a victim, but nobody likes a whiner.”

“I didn’t know she had braces. I bet they’re fake.”

“Why would she wear fake braces?”

“So she doesn’t look too perfect.”

I tugged Madison’s ponytail. “Not everything is a calculated move.”

Jean continued her efforts to exist inoffensively. I smiled at her. “You must be bored out of your mind. I’m sorry.”

She gently waved a hand.
I’m fine. I’m fine.

Madison signed to her, smirking. “Relax, Mom. You’re not embarrassing me.”

Jean quickly signed back. Madison laughed, then squeezed her mother’s arm.

“What did she say?” I asked.

“‘Give it time.’”

Jean kicked off her shoes and approached my wall unit. Within moments, she was thumbing through my old issues of
Brandweek
.

“See?” Madison said. “She just can’t sit still in front of the TV.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, but it’s made her all weird. I mean we barely have any culture in common. She doesn’t even know who Jerry Seinfeld is.”

Finding no interest in
Brandweek
, Jean kept browsing until she discovered my untitled copy of
Godsend
on top of the TV. She skimmed a few pages, then raised the stack in query.

Madison signed to her. “It’s just some novel his friend wrote.”

She tilted her head, mouthing her question at me.
Ira?

“No,” I replied. “A different friend.”

Ironic that Alonso, the friend and author in question, just materialized behind her pelvis.

“Mom, move. We can’t see.”

Jean sat down with the manuscript. As the show continued, I found myself frequently checking in on her. She seemed at turns both enthralled and bewildered by Alonso’s prose. At one point she caught my glance and threw back a look that was way too complex to decipher. There was definitely some sadness there. I couldn’t tell what it was related to. Madison? Neil? Me? None of the above? I motioned for her handheld, fumbling with the stylus.

With an evocative pout, she wrote into the device.

Smiling, I scribbled back.

She studied me, deadpan, before passing her reply.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing, but it was a losing battle. Jean was a cruel woman, the kind who’d fart at a funeral just to watch the faces around her quiver and crack with painful suppression. But she fell into her own trap. She found my tortuous struggle so amusing that soon enough we were both red-faced and rumbling.

It was hopeless. Madison caught us.

“Scott, you’re supposed to be watching this!”

I let out a sobering cough. “It’s okay. I’m taping it.”

“Maybe I wanted to watch it with you! You ever think of that?”

“You will,” I promised. “Tomorrow, we’ll go through it piece by piece. I swear.”

Madison stood up, muted the TV, then aimed her hot glare at her mother: the human virus. Twelve minutes and already she’d contaminated the work effort, the apartment, me.

Jean grimaced, expecting the worst, but her daughter remained spitefully mature. With a stern glower, she addressed us in two different languages.

“Okay, fine. But instead of passing notes behind my back like third-graders, how about including me in the conversation?”

I shut off the handheld and tossed it back to Jean. “Sure. We’ll talk. You can translate. Just turn up the sound a little. I want to keep an ear open.”

Madison adjusted the volume, then faced us from the easy chair. “All right. Let’s talk.”

For a few awkward moments, none of us could come up with a topic. Then Jean pointed at the TV, signing.

“She wants to know what we’re watching and why. Can we tell her?”

“Of course. It’s hardly a secret.”

“This won’t be easy. Trust me.”

She wasn’t kidding. Jean was so far removed from the cultural spectrum, she didn’t even know what rap was. It took several minutes for us to explain the background, the main cast of characters, and our role in the drama. She wasn’t entirely pleased.

“It’s not so simple, Mom.”

“What did she say?”

“She said we’ve got it ass-backward. We’re saving the villain from the damsel in distress.”

I shook my head. “It’s a lie. He never even touched her.”

“‘How do you know?’”

Because it was my lie. “Because his wife knows him better than anyone. She has no illusions about him. And she believes he’s innocent with every fiber of her being.”

Madison translated my defense with gusto. Her mother backed down.

“’If you’re right,’” she offered, “’then this Harmony woman is either malicious or deranged.’”

I scoffed at Jean. “It’s not so simple,
Mom
.”

“Why do you say that?”

The question came from both of them. I leaned back and shrugged. “I just think people are complex. That’s all.”

Jean signed with sarcastic wonder. Madison giggled. “‘Ooh. You’re deep.’”

With a tight smirk, I flipped Jean the one piece of sign language I knew. She punched my arm, then gestured to Madison, who was still laughing.

“She wants to know what other crazy projects you’ve worked on.”

Delving into the crisis management archives, I told them about the time I fought to save a Stanford professor whose correct but unfortunate use of the word “niggardly” had raised quite the brouhaha. Ironically, it took four months and ten angry phone calls to get him to pay my invoice. I also shared the tale of my one political client: a California congressman whose sanity was called into question when he held a public moment of silence for Detective Bobby Simone (Jimmy Smits), who’d passed away the night before on a very special
NYPD Blue
. The congressman was simply injecting some droll levity into a long and dull assembly meeting, but newspapers all over the country painted him as a schizoid loon who couldn’t tell fiction from reality. With my help, he got better.