Slick (36 page)

I loved her all over again. “Sorry. Next time I’ll do better.”

“This
is
next time,” she replied. “You got this plane off the ground. Now you have to land it.”

I suppressed a hysterical laugh. “I will. I will.”

“Not that I want to get into this tonight, but what’s your estimated flight time?”

“One week,” I told her.

“One whole week?”

“Look, I’m not just giving you the cure for Lisa Glassman here. I’m giving you the cure for Annabelle Shane.”

“In one week we’ll be needing the cure for Harmony Prince.”

“She comes with her own cure. That’s the great thing about this. Trust me. I know this can work.”

Maxina took a good long breath. “I’m too tired to argue. Let’s see how the press reacts tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll let you call the starlet yourself.”

“Oh, you bet I will.”

“Tell her to rest up, Scott. She’s in for a quite a day.”

Maxina wasn’t as joyous as I was. It was easy to see why. To think of the power being put in Harmony’s hands. To think of the power I wielded with Harmony in
my
hands. My God. I’d be writing both sides of America’s latest and greatest drama. Forget “he said/she said.” Now it was all about what
I
said. No wonder I couldn’t fake an air of professional detachment. I was about to score with an entire nation.

I sat alone in my apartment, in absolute silence, gazing out at absolutely nothing. I didn’t move but I was very, very conscious of the phone in my lap. If I told Harmony she was about to wake up famous, would she even sleep? Would I? And if I assured her that from this point on, her fate was safe and snug in my loving hands, could she believe it? Could I?

Screw it. I’d just hand her the facts and let her sort them out. No more creative omissions. No more giving her the kid’s version of things. She was in for the crash course now. The Bitch was about take her places even I never went.

Her name came up with the sunrise. East to west, all across the nation, wherever there was sound or light, there was—

“—Harmony Prince,” said the talk-radio people in Tampa.

“—Harmony Prince,” said the morning TV anchors in St. Paul.

“—Harmony Prince,” said the newspapers in Reno.

“—Harmony Prince,” said the websites all over.

“—according to a story from this morning’s L.A.
Times
—”

“—
Los Angeles Times
, a woman by the name of Harmony Prince—”

“—Harmony Prince—”

“—nineteen-year-old Harmony Prince is filing a civil claim—”

“—civil suit against rapper Jeremy Sharpe—”

“—rapper Jeremy Sharpe—”

“—aka Hunta—”

“—the controversial rapper Hunta—”

“’I never hurt a woman in my life. I never forced a woman into sex.’”

“—Hunta, for purported sexual abuse—”

“—sexual abuse from an alleged—”

“—alleged rape incident stemming from a—”

“—claimed he never forced a woman into sex.”

“—incident at a record-label Christmas party.”

“—was a dancer at the Christmas party of—”

“—forced the woman into sex.”

“—forced her—”

“—raped her—”

“—raped the woman, for God’s sake—”

“—raped the dancer—”

“—the nineteen-year-old dancer—”

“—the nineteen-year-old woman—”

“—the nineteen-year-old victim named—”

“—victim by the name of—”

“—name of—”

“—Harmony Prince.”

“—Harmony Prince.”

“—the victim, Harmony Prince.”

“Holy shit!” yelled Harmony from her bathroom. “Scott! What do I do?”

I ran downstairs. “Okay. Step one: move away from the window.”

“There’s gotta be a hundred people outside!”

“Move away from the window,” I echoed, while turning on the TV. Lo and behold, there it was. Her apartment complex. On almost every channel, a roving newshound reported live from outside her building. I could see at least six satellite news vans in the background. Four police cars. Two ambulances. A fire truck. It was like Melrose High all over again. And Harmony didn’t even have to shoot anyone.

“Holy shit, Scott...”

“Take a deep breath, hon. Alonso’s coming. He’ll be there as fast as he can.”

We could have gotten her out of there yesterday, of course. Easily. Quietly. But where was the fun in that? The media needed pictures. Quality pictures. All they had so far were two JPEG images of Harmony and Hunta (courtesy of the L.A.
Times
(courtesy of Alonso (courtesy of me))). Later, I’d scan that wonderful Polaroid and anonymously send it off to UPI. Later, though. It was only 7:30 in the morning. I had to keep her sane until Alonso got there. I had to hold her together. I had no clothes on.

“Did you pack your essentials?”

“What? Yeah. Yeah. I did it last night like you told me.” Someone kept pounding at her door. “My roommates! What do I tell my roommates?”

“Tell them to use the other bathroom.”

“They wanna know what the hell’s going on!”

“Tell them to leave you alone.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“You should probably say ‘please.’”

“PLEASE!”

I rubbed my eyes. “Harmony, please don’t cry. Everything that’s happening right now is good. This is good.”

“It don’t feel good.”

“It will. It’ll feel great.”

“Scott, I’m so scared...”

“I know you’re scared. Alonso’s coming.”

“I wish you were coming.”

“I’m already here. You already have me.”

Her roommates kept pounding. “I DON’T KNOW, OKAY? PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE!”

My other cellular rang. “Harmony, just breathe.”

“They’ll never forgive me.”

“They’ll forgive you.”

“Is that your other phone?”

“I’m not answering it.”

“What if it’s Hunta?”

“It’s not.”

On TV, the chaos boiled over. The newshounds swarmed around a new figure. He looked crisp and fresh in his three-piece suit.

“He’s there!” I yelled. “Alonso’s there.”

“Thank God!”

“You’re all dressed?”

“I’m all dressed. And I got my essentials.”

“Then you’re all set.”

“What do I tell my roommates?”

“Tell them you love them,” I said. “Then tell them good-bye.”

Alonso made his way into the building. Harmony stepped out from the bathroom. The reporters got in pounce position. The phone kept ringing. This was better than sex.

 

 

At 7:40
a.m.
on Thursday, February 8, Harmony Prince made her live television debut. Alonso led her down the walkway like Allan Quartermain, fighting off the savages with one arm while securing the damsel with the other. He was wonderfully telegenic. The cameras added a healthy fifteen pounds and all but erased his goofy, showboating nature. You could almost believe he wasn’t enjoying the attention. He even got in a few quality bites.
Stop it! Act like adults for God’s sake! This is
not
news!

But the real star of the show, of course, was Harmony. She was beautifully helpless as she clung to her lawyer. No Oscar-winning actress, no precious child, nobody could broadcast their state of being like Harmony did. Her face was a vortex. You couldn’t help but share her righteous horror as the reporters pawed at her, pelting her with unbelievably rude questions.
How much are you asking for? Have you ever been raped before? Why didn’t you go to the police? Did Hunta videotape your sexual assault? What would you say to him right now? Would you shoot him if you could?

I couldn’t have prayed for a more powerful premiere. She couldn’t have made a stronger impression if I’d tried. Just think of all the morning viewers, staring slightly agape while the cereal dripped from their raised spoons. Think of her poor roommates, who watched their sweet little sister step out into the media storm only to be digitized, miniaturized, fictionalized. She walked out the door and came back five seconds later through the TV screen, a character no more real to them than Frasier or Buffy.

How strange it must have seemed. How odd it must have been for Lisa Glassman to wake up and find her leverage missing, to learn that she was the secret butt of a nationwide joke. It could have been worse, sweetheart. I could have dropped the mountain on top of you instead of in front of you. I would have found a way. I always find a way. I’m very, very good at what I do.

 

 

The police followed along, if only to prevent the world from losing Harmony the way it lost Princess Di. But here in America, we chase our cars from above. The local news choppers trailed Alonso’s black Audi with military precision. This wasn’t just a provincial affair. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, the sister affiliates in all other markets, everybody picked up on the feed. Only ABC abstained, refusing to interrupt the live opening ceremony of Disney’s new California Adventure theme park. There were over twenty news crews down in Anaheim that morning, and with the exception of the Disney/ABC synergy squad, they were all preempted by Harmony. Her first step into the limelight and already she had the world’s biggest mouse on the bottom of her shoe.

It was a short trip north from Harmony’s apartment to the Fairmont Miramar on Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica. Greta Garbo used to stay there when she wanted to be alone. John F. Kennedy stayed there when he
didn’t
want to be alone. And Marilyn Monroe fled there when the media pressure was getting too intense. Now it was Harmony’s turn. Her tower suite was a bright and airy wonderland complete with bathroom jacuzzi and balcony overlooking the Pacific. Ordinarily it would cost $645 a night, but Alonso finagled a free tab in exchange for hosting at least one press conference from the hotel’s new garden room. That, too, would happen by the end of the day.

Minutes after settling in to her residence, Harmony dropped onto the king-size bed and called me. I could hear her popping open the aspirin bottle. Emotionally, she was a twirling, flying coin. I wasn’t sure if she was going to land on numbness or hysteria.

“That was the craziest shit I ever saw,” she told me. “They was standing everywhere. In the mud. In the flowers. On each other. I mean the way they pushed all over each other to get to me...”

I beamed from ear to ear. “Yep. They live for this kind of stuff.”

“And the wires. I never seen so many wires in my life. Everyone had at least six wires coming out of them.” She let out a precarious laugh. “I was like ‘Shit, where do they all go?’ For a second I thought maybe all the people was all hooked up to each other. Like they was all just part of one big machine.”

“You’re not entirely wrong.”

“Yeah, but who decided
I’d
be the big story? Who decided that I’d be what people wanted to see?”

I turned off the TV. I could feel Harmony inching her way to tears. She needed my full focus.

“It’s all a business decision,” I explained. “The income’s based on ad rates, the ad rates are based on audience numbers and so far this Melrose thing has drawn in huge numbers. People who don’t normally watch the news are now watching the news.”

“So what am I, the next Annabelle Shane?”

“Yes, but to them you make a much better lead character.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because unlike her, you’re still walking and talking. Unlike her, you don’t have a killing spree on your record. And unlike her, your beef is with the original Bitch Fiend himself. He’s the one they’re after. He’s the reason you’re hot property right now.”

“Shit. If that’s how they treat me, I don’t even want to think about how they gonna treat Hunta.”

“They’ve been setting him up as the bad guy all week. With or without you—”

“It’s with me,” she argued. “If I’m the better story, then he’s in a lot more trouble with me.”

“Yeah, but you’re forgetting the twist. This is a rescue operation. You’re saving him. You know it. I know it. He knows it.”

“My roommates don’t know it.”

“Honey, you’re going out of your way to upset yourself.”

“They know I’m lying,” she said. “They saw me right after the Christmas party. I was fine. I was—”

“Harmony—”

“I kept saying it was the easiest money I ever made...”

There she went. Whether she was covering her mouth or the receiver, I didn’t know. But I could read the tears in her silence.

“Harmony? Harmony, listen to me. Are you there?”

She sniffed. “I’m here.”

“You just went through one of the most intense experiences a human being can go through. Your mind is moving a million miles an hour right now, and it’s taking you to dark places. Just slow it all down, okay? Step back into the light.”

“What are people gonna think about me?”

“Only good things,” I assured her. “This is my story now. And I’m not going to stop until the world sees you the way I do.”

“As a victim,” she groused.

“That’s not the way I see you and you know it.”

After a few more sighs and sniffs, Harmony settled down. I desperately wanted to put her at ease and get started on my task list. All I’d managed to do so far was throw on a robe and make myself a Venti-size cup of coffee.

“You got any family, Scott?”

“Not anymore. Both my parents are dead.”

“Did they know what you do? I mean, for work?”

I smiled wanly. “They knew I was a publicist, if that’s what you mean.”

“But how did they feel about you doing, you know, this kind of stuff?”