I’ll give the man credit, though. He did just as well as Maxina in defending my scheme, assuring his patrons that all the necessary precautions had been taken. Bottom line: we controlled Harmony. This story would end exactly the way we wanted it to.
“Yes, but when?” asked an Interscope man. “The longer this goes on—”
“I know. I know,” Maxina replied with a heavy breath. “We’re not talking weeks. We’re not even talking a week. The plan is for her to confess on Monday.”
She checked my reaction, which I buried a mile deep within me.
Nothing would be gained by arguing with her. Not here. I smiled my way through the rest of the meeting. I listened. I waited. At 11:30, we finally dispersed. Simba practically left skid marks. Maxina stayed to console the RIAA people. For me that meant more waiting and smiling. By a quarter to twelve, it was only the two of us in the cavernous room.
“I’m really sorry, Scott. If it were up to me, I would have kept them in the dark. But the last thing we want is for them to overreact and make premature concessions.”
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“That all depends,” I said.
“On?”
“On whether or not you’re serious about Monday.”
With a pained groan, she sat back down in her seat. “I am.”
“That’s way too soon. I told you I needed a week.”
“And I told you we’d wait to see how the press reacted before making any decisions. Sit down. You’re giving me neck cramps.”
I took a chair. “They reacted. They ate her up with a spoon. What did you expect?”
“I expected her to be news. I didn’t expect her to be breaking news.”
“I can’t believe you’re even surprised.”
“Of course I’m surprised. In case you haven’t noticed, Harmony is a black woman. A lower-class black woman. From the way they’ve already canonized her, she might as well be rich, blond, and dead.”
“I told you this wasn’t about race.”
Maxina chortled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t take you as an expert on the matter.”
“What exactly are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid she’ll get too strong for us to handle. I’m afraid that if she chooses not to confess—”
“She will.”
“If she doesn’t, a scratchy audio recording might not be enough to bring her down.”
“And if she confesses on Monday,” I countered, “it won’t be enough to bring her back up. The public won’t know her well enough to forgive her.”
Maxina finally understood my concern. “Can’t we speed up the process?”
“How? If we rush her out there, she’ll look like a media whore. Nobody likes a media whore.”
“They might not like her, but they’ll forgive her.”
“Are you willing to bet on that?” I asked. “Because if you’re wrong, they’ll ruin her life. She might even get prosecuted.”
“Don’t you think you’re being dramatic?”
“Hey, you were the one who demanded I look out for her! You were the one who said that our plan had to be foolproof. And you were the one who threatened to be my — how did you put it? — my bane, my karma, my comeuppance, if I used her and threw her away like Kleenex! And now that’s exactly what you’re asking me to do!”
My voice bounced off the walls, hitting her from all sides. She rested her fist against her lips.
“Look, when this is over, I’ll use every available resource to—”
“That’s bullshit.”
She paused. “Are you doubting my word?”
“No. I’m doubting your effectiveness. You may have powerful connections but your playbook needs to be euthanized.”
Suddenly, the sun didn’t feel so hot anymore. “Scott, I’m hoping to keep this civil.”
“This is civil. And I’m telling you, in a civil tone, that Harmony will not be confessing on Monday. Or Tuesday. And probably not even Wednesday.”
“Scott—”
“She’ll confess when I feel it’s safe for her to confess, and not a minute sooner. I’m the one she trusts. If you go behind my back, she’ll just bring it right to me. And if you try to undermine my authority with her, you’ll only drive her away from both of us. You’ll all but guarantee her defection. I know you’re smarter than that.”
“I thought you were smarter than this,” she said with frozen ire.
“Apparently not, because I’m willing to risk my career in order to get this job done right. If I could offer you more collateral, I would. You’re just going to have to trust me to do the right thing.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then you’re in for a rough week.”
With that, I stood up, turned around, and made the long trip to the door. My heart pounded. My stomach produced enough acid to melt a horse. But still, it was a moment of dark and primal victory, like beating up a biker gang. It felt great to be alive.
The Judge was waiting for me in the hallway, well out of earshot. He threw me a casual grin. He wasn’t as dumb as I thought. Clearly he understood the importance of being my friend.
________________
It was two o’clock, and we were still at Trader Vic’s. The Judge had finished his sixth and last beer an hour ago and was waiting for his blood alcohol level to fall below the DUI line. I was in a similar bind, except I was being held captive by two ten-ounce Zombies. I didn’t expect them to be so strong. They were still eating my brains.
“Marvin Gaye,” he uttered out of the blue. “Now there was a talented artist. I knew him.”
“Really.”
“Yup. Brilliant man. Troubled man. Died way before his time, just like Tupac. And just like Tupac, they milked his corpse for all it was worth. I was working at Columbia Records when they released his first posthumous album. This was the same year as the obscenity hearings, so the public was still very wary of the music industry. So what did my bosses do? They changed the name of one of his songs from ‘Sanctified Pussy’ to ‘Sanctified Lady.’ Chickenshit bastards.”
“I have to be honest with you, Judge. I like the second one better.”
“It’s just a title, for God’s sake. You could call it ‘Kumbaya’ and it wouldn’t change the fact that the song is all about the joys of fucking a religious woman. Changing the name was like calling a gun a flower. Just call it what it is. Let Marvin be Marvin. But no. They had to mess with his art. All because they were afraid of the few loud morons who judged a song by its title.”
He leaned back and rested his hands on his belly. I wanted to pat his head for luck.
“You married, Scott?”
I humbly brandished my unadorned left hand.
“So is there anyone special in your life?”
Had I been less sober or more forthcoming, I might have shown him my other hand. Instead, I went for the big lie. “I’m seeing someone.”
“What does she think about all this shit going on?”
“She doesn’t keep up with the news.”
“She doesn’t?”
“No. She doesn’t even watch TV.”
“That’s weird. What is she, religious?” He raised a glib brow. “Is she a sanctified lady?”
“No, no.” I laughed. “She’s deaf.”
Sorry, Jean. This had nothing to do with you. I was just fighting a nasty rumor and you were the nearest available weapon.
But if Harmony made a good distraction from Annabelle Shane, Jean made a great distraction from Harmony. The Judge was fascinated. He barraged me with questions, some of them stupid enough to make me feel better about my own deaf-related ignorance. For others, I had to improvise my answers. “Can she drive?” Yes [but not well]. “What if there’s an ambulance coming?” Well, um, there’s a special device in her car that flashes [was there?]. “Was she born deaf, or did she lose her hearing?” She lost her hearing at a very early age [from what I gather]. “How do you guys talk in bed?” None of your damn business. [Don’t know. Don’t plan to find out].