It happened at eight o’clock. At long last, my baby got to see the light of day. After five days of labor, Harmony Prince was finally born.
Maxina was the one to call with the good news. “Scott, I just got word from my sources at the L.A. Times. They just burned the plate for tomorrow’s front page. Gail Steiner’s piece is all over it.”
“Does she mention Harmony by name?”
“Many times.”
I deflated into my easy chair. “Oh, thank God…”
“You did it, Scott.”
I did it. The copyright to the Christmas-party rape claim was now officially ours. In a matter of hours, the Times would trumpet their coup all over the newswires, making Harmony the truest of overnight sensations.
“Thank God,” I breathed again. “Thank God.”
“I don’t know,” Maxina teased. “I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I hired you to get ruthless and mean with Lisa Glassman, and here you managed to stop her without touching a hair on her head.”
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.
14. SANCTIFIED LADY
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.”