Time's Up (18 page)

“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.

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.

“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.

“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.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Black, sir.” Jennifer got jerkily to her feet, adjusted her skirt, and 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.”

“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.”

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.”

“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.”

“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.”

I settled back in my chair and got comfortable. “He won't get far with video evidence of aggravated assault with a side of battery. An open court case against the city's top official probably won't look so good for Dhu West's parking poster girl.”

Sterling's eyes went opaque.

Time for the heat.
“I have eighteen months to press charges.”

“But you won't.”

I knew why I wouldn't. But why was he so sure
?
“Oh?”

“Ah-ah-ah.” He wagged a finger at me. “I
know
you. An aggressive little up-and-comer.” He gave me a couple grooving nods. “And I'm digging the wide-eyed innocent routine. It's cute.”

“I'm not interested.”

“You're scared. I get it. And hey, I'm impressed that you have the sense to look ahead—imagining the worst-case scenario and all that. Clever. But you won't be going this alone. I've got your back.”

Sterling held out his hands, holding an imaginary bounty. “I'm offering you money, position, and the potential for more. A lot more. You can write your own ticket.”

Cute.
“What's in it for you?”

He ran a finger across his lower lip. “Let's just say Dhu West has been a very close friend of the mayor's. But there comes a time when a public separation is preferable to one or both parties. Dhu West feels that now is that time.”

“And let's not forget who's really at stake here.” His face drew into a good-looking frown. “All the other parking enforcement agents.” He shook his head sadly. “Your reviled, spat-upon sisters and brothers watch as one of their best and brightest takes it on the chin from an elected city official. Assaulted. By the mayor of Chicago, no less. Why, it practically screams ‘Come beat the shit out of us! Everyone hates us!' to the general public, doesn't it?”

I could almost hear the theme song to
Rudy
playing in the background. I smiled as though it didn't matter—could never matter—but of course it did. For me the job was the means to an end. Even now, I could leave it any time, take my chances with law school or whatever else I could think of. But Leticia? Niecy and the rest of those poor stiffs?

It was their life.

A small groan came from the back of my throat. Amazing really, how those who possess no conscience are so adept at pressuring those of us who do.

“I do things two ways, Maisie. The happy way or the hard way. With the happy way, there's space to adjust, make requests—everyone's happy. The hard way's exactly that.” He made a clicking sound against his teeth. “Hard.”

According to Hank, there are more than twenty-two ways to kill a man with your bare hands. I know of a dozen. But bashing Sterling Black over the head with his MacBook Pro until his brains leaked out of his ears had an appealing sort of Zen symmetry to it.

Sterling leaned back in the Swedish desk chair and put his hands behind his head. “Which way do you want it?”

“Happy.” A little time was better than none.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Sterling said.

In came his Charlie's Angels squad of personal assistants—a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead all in tight short skirts and low-necked blouses. Twentysomethings with Bluetooth earpieces attached, walking that fine line between sexy and slutty and owning it.

The auburn beauty faced down Sterling across the desk. The tip of her tongue slipped out and touched her upper lip, her green eyes alight. “The big three plus plenty of cable.” She put her hands on the end of the desk and leaned way over, giving him the cleavage shot. “Who do you want most?”

Unaffected by what my brothers would deem a stellar rack, Sterling put his hands behind his head. “Who's hungriest?”

She beamed and said in a voice that hummed, “They all are, baby.”

“
Good Day USA
.” Sterling turned to me. “Do you know what spin is?”

“As in O'Reilly's No Spin Zone?” I said.

“That geriatric spaniel couldn't spin his way out of a paper sack.”

Sterling's aides giggled on cue.

He grinned at me. “I'm the top
top,
baby.”

“The Caesar of spin,” oozed the brunette.

He turned to the blonde. “Contract.”

She whipped out an iPad and began tapping and dragging on the screen with a slim black stylus.

“Standard, one through sixty, add on 4 clauses A through F, rights clauses 35 A through R, print and video 75A through 78C,” Sterling said. The blonde clicked and tapped, then nodded at the brunette, who disappeared from the office.

The redhead took the chair next to mine and said in a soft voice, “You have no idea how lucky you are to have Sterling.”

The brunette returned with a thick stack of paper, secured with a black binder clip, and set it on the corner of the desk closest to me. Red Post-it flags marked with
Sign Here
were scattered among its contents.

Sterling gestured for me to pick it up.

“What is it?” I asked, not reaching for it.

“Standard PR contract. Boilerplate, you know how it is.”

Boilerplate
. The single word that raised the hackles of any decent lawyer. “No, actually I don't.”

Sterling smiled. “You need representation at a higher, more specific level for this opportunity.” He uncapped an ebony Waterman pen and set it on the contract.