by Janey Mack
An enormous collection of dense blossoms took center stage on the kitchen counter.
Creamy dahlias, white Lisianthus, bone-colored roses, and ivory hydrangeas skillfully arranged in a thick glass rectangle the size of a large shoe box, inset with another glass, slightly smaller rectangle, smooth white beans pressed between the two vases, hiding any trace of the stems.
Pure art. Transcendent and beautiful even in its decay.
“They’re gorgeous,” Mom said, coming into the kitchen. “Thierry already took pictures.”
I lifted the flap of the thick ivory envelope and removed the card.
Every pearl has its oyster
H
If he only knew . . .
I grinned, not quite sure what to make of it—his intention, no doubt—and that pleased me just as much.
Mom picked up the envelope and examined the brown script on back. “The Dilly Lily. The man has taste.”
I handed her the card. She read it and smiled. “And a sense of humor.” Her brown eyes flickered over my stomach. “How badly does it hurt?”
“Bad enough.”
“You called to let him know about your bruised pancreas.”
I cringed, only half-kidding. “Texted.”
“Coward.”
No argument here. “Seriously, Mom. One cannot maintain a relationship based on pity alone.”
“A three-hundred-dollar floral arrangement doesn’t exactly scream pity, baby. You make your brothers look like Mensa versions of Dr. Phil,” she scoffed. “My God, have I taught you nothing?”
“I know, I know, I know.”
“You may think you do.” She stroked the spiky petals of a fist-sized dahlia. “How was work?”
“Horrific and exhausting.” And not without impending repercussions. “Yours?”
Mom went to the fridge and took out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Not quite that good.” She poured a balloon glass almost to the rim. “Take this up and have a soak.”
Icy-cold white wine and a hot bath. Mom’s favorite cure-all.
Throw in a couple of oxys and it works pretty well.
“Maisie?” Mom’s voice came through the phone intercom. She refused to have people yelling back and forth. Not when our house was so large, there were so many of us, and she did so much work from home.
I picked up the phone next to my bed. “Yes?”
“Mr. Bannon’s on line two.”
The second of four light-up buttons was blinking. I clicked it. “Hello?”
“How you feeling, Scout?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sure,” he said in a serious voice that had me wanting to hang up. Caring commiseration would destroy my fictive dream. My current survival strategy was taking a page from the TV show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant. One hundred percent denial.
“Thank you for the flowers,” I said. “They’re amazing. Spectacular. . . And undeserved.”
“I don’t know about that.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You made me look good in front of the mutts.”
I laughed.
“Maisie?” Mom hesitated over the intercom. “Leticia Jackson is on line three.”
“Uh, Hank? That’s my boss.”
“I’ll hold.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Well, that came out about as wrong as anything could. “I mean, I’m afraid it’s going to be a long, unpleasant conversation.”
“Sure,” he said, as unreadable as ever. “Take care.” He hung up.
Rats.
I took a deep breath and clicked line three. “This is Maisie.”
“Where the hell you live, McGrane?” Leticia said. “Some kinda office building?”
“Hey, Leticia—”
“Don’t you ‘hey, Leticia’ me. Not when you bring a shit storm like this raining down on our heads—”
My cell phone chirped. A text from Ernesto. I let Leticia vent on speakerphone and opened the message.
Ernesto: Chica. What’s up?
I think I got fired by the mayor today.
Ernesto: No shit? Guy’s a complete prick
The prickiest
Ernesto: WTF? Ur not kidding!
What?
Ernesto: Ur on Ch. 5.
“Leticia?” I interrupted. “Are you in front of a television?”
“I’m in my damn home, McGrane. Of course I’m in front of a TV.”
“Turn it to Channel Five.”
Local TV news—twenty-two minutes consisting of fourteen teasers for stories that were shorter than the tease itself, a semi-accurate weather report, sports scores, and Mike’s Moan, an Andy Rooney–style segment where Chicagoans called or wrote in with their gripes about anything and everything Illinois.
Looking like an obese version of Daniel Tosh sporting a thick mustache and glasses, Mike always wore a Chi-town sports team jersey. “Lately you’ve all been moaning to Mike about the highway robbery known as city street parking. But what comes around, goes around.”
The TV cut to a series of stills of the orange-booted limo.
“Even our own Mayor Talbott Cottle Coles can’t escape the boot of anguish.” The picture changed to a clip of PR video of Coles waving in front of the American flag. “Nope,” Mike said. “No one’s free from the ticket tyrants. The meter fascists. The heartless harlots.”
Okay. This isn’t so bad. Of course, there’d be fallout, but it’s not radioactive or anything.
“But get a load of this,” Mike said to the camera. “Saint Ditka be praised, even the meter maid didn’t feel too good about sticking it to our mayor.” Up flashed a still of me sliming my vest.
At least it was a still.
“That’s all from Mike. Go Bears. Go Bulls. Go Sox. Go Blackhawks. Go home, Cubs.”
The TV cut to commercial.
Ouch.
“Humph,” Leticia said. “This is worse than I was considering. You best take tomorrow off, McGrane. Let me see how the land is lying and shit.”
“Okay. ’Bye Leticia.” I hung up.
The cell chirped again. Ernesto.
Ernesto: Chica. Want me to come over?
No. U’ll only interfere w/suicide attempt
Ernesto: Ha. Ha. Tomorrow nite?
Sure. We’ll get wasted!
Ernesto: Just checked ch. 2 and 7. Only talked about the boot. No video. @) - - , -- x12
Talk about a sign things were circling the drain. Ernesto was texting me flowers.
Thanks, E.
Ernesto: Xo xo
Xo urself.
I woke up Friday morning, wondering how I was going to get fired. I went downstairs, where Thierry was making liver and onions and French fries for me for breakfast. I took a seat at the bar.
“I hear you are a TV star,” he said. “I make liver for the bruise, yes?”
And because I adore it. “Thanks, Thierry.” He set a glass-bottled Coke in front of me. “Anyone else around?”
“Non.”
I sighed in relief.
Thierry flipped the liver in the pan. He glanced over his shoulder with me and ducked. “Enough are coming tonight, that I stay and cook.”
Great.
“Add me and one more.”
“You bring Hank, yes?” He set my plate in front of me. Heaven. Beef fat–fried shoestring fries with sea salt and a side of seasoned mayonnaise took half the plate while the rest held liver with a butter-blackened crust and caramelized onions.
“No, just Ernesto.”
“You will want the ketchup?” He moued in resignation.
I nodded.
Shaking his head, he placed it in front of me. In the bottle—so I could feel his disappointment.
Join the club, baby.
“I make pizzas tonight.” Thierry’s pizzas were cooked in the wood-fire oven Mom had expressly commissioned for him. He tossed the crust and everyone loaded their own. No matter what, it was a night that always turned rowdy. And hell, if anyone deserved a party, it was me.
Afterward, I took a long shower and wasted the early afternoon cute-ing up while watching David Niven in Stairway to Heaven on TMC and then redoing my eye makeup after crying through the entire second half.
“Maisie?” Thierry said on the intercom. “Jennifer Lince is telephoning you.”
Crap.
I drove downtown to the TEB building and parked in the $11.50-an-hour ramp.
Why not? I’d be back on Mom and Dad’s dime in law school soon enough.
I threaded my way through the fleeing corporate stream and spent the elevator ride hoping I wouldn’t have to sit and sweat the mandatory half hour in reception before getting fired.
Fired. Cripes.
I’d never been fired from anything. Although I guess expelled from the Police Academy probably counted. Well, at least after Jennifer canned me, I had something to fire back—Golly gee, I’m so sorry that Cash won’t be able to make it to the Dhu West Gala after all.
Bing. Silver lining present and accounted for.
Jennifer Lince’s secretary was waiting for me when I stepped off the elevator. “This way, Miss McGrane.” She led me back, all polite smiles and seriousness, and opened the door without knocking, closing it before I got all the way inside.
A good-looking man, late forties with blond hair slicked back, excellent caps, and a manicure waved me in. He was sitting behind Jennifer’s desk, Ferragamo-shod feet propped on top, right next to Cash’s eight-by-ten. “So this is Agent Maisie McGrane.”
Jennifer sat on the edge of her seat, chipmunk-tense, an enormous frozen smile on her face. If she’d had whiskers, they’d have been bristling with excitement.
The man twirled his finger. “Let me get a look at you.”
Jennifer nodded at me so hard I thought her head might fall off. I turned around in front of him, feeling ridiculous.
“She’s cute,” he said approvingly to Jennifer. “Tight. Fit. Not just attractive but actually pretty.” He smiled and spoke to me. “Attractive’s code in my business for ‘not Quasimodo,’ but it doesn’t guarantee much more than a step away from the freak show.” He dropped his feet off the desk and sat up. “I’m Sterling Black. I run public relations for the Dhu West Corporation. And you, Maisie baby, have gone viral.”
Chapter 26
“What?” I said.
“You’re at 31,750 hits and it’s only been up 140 minutes.” Sterling gestured to Jennifer. “Show her.”
Jennifer brought over a MacBook Pro with fifteen-inch screen open to a YouTube video. She set it on my knees, tapped Play, and stepped back.
Choppy cuts of the local Chicago news stations talking heads were jammed together, bantering in an understandable edit. “Even our—great mayor—Talbott Cottle Coles—isn’t immune—from the boot.” It ended on a still shot of the orange Wolverine clamped to the rear limo tire.
A chrome logo GN spun into view. A gorilla knuckle-walked across the screen and lobbed a grenade at the logo, which melted in a fiery explosion with the voice-over, “Guerrilla News. We’re not afraid to throw bleep at anyone.”
Juvenile, but slickly produced. I looked up at Sterling. He pointed back at the screen. The explosion faded to black, and up came a familiar face, wearing a maroon military beret and fatigues, seated behind a steel desk with a camouflage-netting backdrop. “This is Allegra Luciana Maria Gaccione reporting for Guerrilla News, and I’m gonna blow you away.”
The video cut to Talbott Cottle Coles asking my name and ended with him ripping off my badge.
God, I made a Care Bear look macho. Surprising, how much worse it felt watching it happen.
Allegra smiled at the camera. “This is what the mayor and the MSM don’t want you to see. Let’s take another look.”
The screen froze, dimmed except for a large circle showing Coles’s hand on my vest. The video rolled and re-rolled as he ripped it off again and again. Allegra said in a serious voice-over, “Threatening a parking enforcement agent is a felony.” The picture cut to Allegra in studio. “And this is just the beginning of the indignity that our own mayor dumped on poor Miss Maisie McGrane.”
I gripped the sides of the laptop to keep from covering my eyes.
What followed was a PR bloodbath. Five camera angles expertly spliced together, showed Chicago’s wunderkind playing my demise to the crowd with the occasional shot of me, pale-faced and pathetic.
Allegra folded her hands on the steel news desk. “How’s that work, exactly? A powerful leader, man of the people, throws a city employee—a defenseless young woman—to the wolves? Publically berating and embarrassing her because he can’t handle the fact that his limo got booted for parking in not one but two handicapped spaces?” Allegra shook her head piously, but the gleam in her eye was undeniable. “Watch closely, the best is yet to come.”
The Guerrilla cameragirls had captured Coles’s hands to my chest in excruciating multi-angle detail, and ran it in slow-mo, graciously returning to normal speed for my Red Bull puke-up.
“Did you know touching a parking enforcement agent is felony aggravated battery?” Allegra demanded. “Three news stations push a puff piece. The mayor got a boot. Where’s the outrage, Chicago? Where’s the DA? I’m guessing he’s throwing back a couple of thirty-dollar scotches with Talbott Cottle Coles at the Standard Club, weaving a damage-control web.”
She saluted the camera. “This is Allegra Luciana Maria Gaccione reporting for Guerrilla News, and I hope I blew your mind.” The Guerrilla News gorilla crossed the bottom of the screen and lobbed a grenade at Allegra. The screen exploded in flames, then cut to black.
The YouTube counter read 37,035 hits.
I closed the laptop, leaned forward, and set it smoothly on the desk. Amazing, really, seeing as I’d just been beaten with a sack of oranges.
“I’m going to hire that kid,” Sterling said. “But first I’m going to make you famous.”
The most vicious, callous thing anyone’s ever said to me. A choking gasp forced its way out of my throat. Sterling Black—whisking my reinstatement off the table without even knowing it.
Arrgh.
“Imagine the potential, Maisie,” he said. “Fame and the inevitable fortune that follows it when properly managed.”
Jennifer put her hands together and fingertip-clapped.
What potential? The only famous cops aren’t cops at all but retired FBI profilers and that lemon-sucking D-lister Steven Seagal. Cops aren’t famous because they don’t want to be.
Sterling kept talking. I didn’t hear him. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, tasting a vile combination of sweet and ammonia as though I’d taken a straight shot of antifreeze.
Sterling gave me the raised brow and half smile. Waiting for my gratitude.
I was fresh out.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Black—”
“Sterling,” he said.
“Okay . . . Sterling . . . I don’t want to be famous. You can have my fifteen seconds.”
“Minutes,” he corrected.
Seriously, dude. I’m praying my time is running in Planck units.
“Instant celebrity. If you’re lucky, Maisie, really lucky, an opportunity like this knocks on your door. And do you know how many people ignore that knocking?”
“The few of us who rank reality TV lower than class action lawyers and used car salesmen?”
Jennifer Lince sucked in a breath. Terrified or in awe of Sterling Black, most likely a combination of both.
“Irreverent. Smart.” He pointed at me. “I like you.”
The Don Draper worked for him well enough.
Sterling tipped his head toward Ms. Lince, and without taking his eyes from mine, said, “Jenny, sweetheart, why don’t you go get a massage on me?” He winked at me, but Jennifer took it to be hers as he’d intended.
Snaps for smoothness.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Black, sir.” Jennifer got jerkily to her feet, adjusted her skirt, an
d left the office.
He waited until the door closed behind her, spade-shaped fingers drumming on my manila personnel file. “Not a lot in here for me to get to know you.” He toyed with the corner of the file. “Are you a fan of Talbott Cottle Coles, Maisie?”
“I didn’t target him, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t,” he lied with a smile. “Nice to know, nonetheless. Did you vote for him?”
“No.”
He chuckled. “Me, neither.”
Great. Let’s ride off into the Republican sunset together, Sundance.
“Maisie McGrane.” Sterling leaned toward me. “I want you to be the new face of the TEB.”
“I’m sorry?” I clenched the edge of my chair so hard my fingers went numb. Which was all right, as they now matched the rest of me.
“This is the perfect opportunity to springboard into a positive Parking Enforcement Agent campaign.” Sterling started the soft sell. “Put the candy-coating on the necessary evil of public safety, etcetera.”
Focus. Hank’s Law Number Four: Keep your head.
There had to be an escape hatch.
“That’s ummm . . . wow . . . really flattering, but I’m just not that kind of a girl.”
“Of course you are. My next big thing.”
How about the old, “it’s not you, it’s me”?
“Look, Sterling. I’ve never taken a decent picture. Ever. And when I’m not stuttering, I lip off. Absolutely the last person in the world you want to be the spokesmodel for feeding the meter.”
“No worries, Maisie,” Sterling said, a practiced look of concern on his face. “Every journey begins with a little self-doubt.”
“Maybe I’m not explaining this right.” I wiggled my fingers. “I want this to fade away.”
“There’s only one way that’s gonna happen.” He shrugged. “You quit.”
So, that’s how you wanna play it, huh?
“I’m not going to quit.” Not yet.
“And I don’t want you to. But I’m not going to lie to you, either,” Sterling said. “With that video, the cat’s out of the eco-friendly shopping bag, and Talbott Cottle Coles is gunning for you.”
