Time's Up (21 page)

“I look like the naughty meter maid from a Frederick's of Hollywood catalog,” I said, trying to pull the pale blue poly-nylon blend shirt closed.

“It's perfect,” Bliss said. “A smidge snug. But just what we're looking for.”

“A smidge?”

“Huh.” Her teeth gleamed in an insincere grimace. “I was sure you were a double zero just like me.”

Sure you were.
“Try a four.”

“Not possible.” She shook her head in baffled amazement. “Go figure.”

The wardrobe woman batted my hands away, put ginormous squares of double-stick tape on the tops of my breasts, and none too gently pressed the blouse tight to my skin. “If you don't mess with it, the tape'll last fourteen hours.” She slung a fluorescent-orange 1970s-style crossing-guard belt around my waist, complete with matching sash that sliced across my far-too-exposed cleavage.

The wardrobe woman left the room, leaving Bliss and me alone, staring at my reflection in front of the full-length mirror. A toss-up as to which was more disturbing, the abject horror in my eyes or the satisfaction in hers.

The shirt, so tight I could barely breathe, was tucked into a navy blue pencil skirt that had gone to war with a sharpener and lost. Badly.

Apparently rock bottom isn't low enough. Cave diving, anyone?
“Um, seriously—”

“You look great,” Bliss said. “Far more approachable.”

The dressing room door flew open, slamming against the wall. Leticia stomped in, wearing a brand-new, freshly pressed PEA standard-issue uniform. “Yo, Bootsie. You wanna 'splain to me what's wrong with my pink suit?”

“Oh Leticia. I know, it's been a whirlwind, hasn't it?” Bliss bit an impossibly full lip in sympathy. “Why, I'm sure Daicen hasn't had a second alone with you to discuss the dress clause on your contract.”

Leticia got a load of me. Her eyes bugged. “Holy shit. What the hell you got on, McGrane?”

“Pure genius.” Bliss said. “It's part of Sterling's ‘make friends with the public' campaign.”

“Yeah, right.” Leticia snorted. “She be makin' all kind o' friends lookin' like a ho'.”

Bliss crossed the room to the wet bar. “The City of Chicago will vote on your uniform. One of several we'll be unveiling over the Internet, on billboards, and in magazines.”

“Hold up,” Leticia said. “Are you telling me, a bunch o' rootie poos can pick a hoochie suit like that? And I'll have to wear it?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh hell, no!”

“Obviously it would be cut to your size,” Bliss said with her back to us.

“Oh yeah?” Leticia's braids began to shake like a rattler's tail. “And what
size
do you think I be?”

A cork popped. Bliss turned, holding a green bottle of champagne. “What do you girls say to a little preshow Bolly?”

Leticia's eyes lit up.

“I don't think so,” I said. “I'm guessing Sterling won't want us acting like a couple of
Maury
show refugees.”

Bliss poured a glass to the brim, handed it to Leticia, and said to me, “Well, aren't you just a big ol' wet blanket?”

Leticia took a sip as Bliss poured a glass for herself. “Break a leg.” She held out her glass to Leticia.

They clinked glasses. “I'll break both.”

A soft knock sounded on the door, and the wardrobe woman reappeared. She held up an old school–style stewardess cap. “Almost forgot.”

I sat down and let the wardrobe woman bobby-pin the cap into my hot-rollered overteased 'do.

Leticia laughed so hard, champagne came out her nose. “Damn, that hurts!” She snuffled into a handful of tissues.

Bliss set her glass down. “Ready to shine for Dhu West and Sterling, ladies?”

“Sure,” I said, in a voice so flat it'd been ironed. “Let's do it.”

 

The green room wasn't green at all.

Leticia grabbed the sleeve of our maroon-jacketed page, startling him. “Yo, you're supposed to take us to the green room. This here's pink.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “It's Baker-Miller Pink.”

The page continued, “The studio looked to the American Institute for Biosocial Research and found that this particular shade of pink helps suppress anxiety and puts people at ease. It can even slow heart rates.”

Subliminal Xanax
. A safe bet it was not the on-deck color at the
Maury
show
.

I perched gingerly on the edge of a pink fabric couch.

Leticia followed the page to the craft services table, where a watermelon swan floated in a pond of tropical fruit and breakfast rolls. Another bottle of Bollinger wrapped in a white towel waited in an ice bucket.

The page poured a glass for Leticia and with great deference asked if Bliss and I would care for any.

“Actually, would you be an absolute lamb and double-check on our meet and greet?” Bliss said breathily to the page.

The page nodded his head like he was trying to hammer a nail into his chest with his chin. “Yes, ma'am, right away, ma'am.” He left.

Bliss pointed a finger at Leticia and me. “The two of you are not, I repeat,
not
to leave this room for any reason. Do you understand me?”

Leticia took a bite of kiwi from the plate she'd dished up. “Where you think we're gonna go?”

Bliss tapped the toe of her nude-colored Jimmy Choo.

“You're the boss,” I said.

“That's right, I am. I'm going to check on Daicen, then I'll be right back.” With a final warning look, Bliss va-va-voomed away.

Leticia tossed back the rest of her champagne and poured some more. “You seriously ain't letting that ho-bag date our agent, is you?”

“I'll get right on that,” I said with a mock salute. “I can't think of a thing Daicen'd like more than relationship advice from his baby sister.”

Leticia settled in next to me on the pink leather couch. “I'm not feeling 'zactly copacetic in here.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Color's startin' to mess with me.”

“I know. I feel like a strand of E. coli trapped in a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”

“Jesus, McGrane. Don't say any o' that crazy shit on TV, a'ight?” She leaned back and crossed her legs. “I got my peoples recording this.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all we ask for around here,” said Grade-A celebrity morning-show host Juliana Tate from the doorway of the pink green room. She had the bizarre anthropomorphic shape required by all television newscasters and live show hosts—the Tootsie Pop—a giant melon of a head on a tiny stick-like body.

Leticia made a gargled squawk, thrust her plate and champagne onto my lap, and got to her feet. “Miz Tate?”

Juliana Tate walked into the room in high heels and a fitted black suit. “You must be Leticia Jackson.”

Leticia nodded slowly, mouth ajar, as mooney-eyed as a Hare Krishna.

I set her plate and glass on the pink end table.

“I'm so pleased to meet you.” Juliana turned and flashed me her trademark toothy smile of oversized Chiclet caps. “And you must be Miss McGrane.”

“Guilty.” I got to my feet, wishing Leticia would quit gawping at her.

Juliana shook my hand. “I can't tell you what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, Maisie. That video—” She tucked the perpetually loose strand of her pert bob behind her ear and puffed a short but empathetic exhale. “It took real guts to do what you did.”

“It's a thankless but important job, serving the public.” Juliana's sympathetic smile didn't quite cover the exploitative spark in her hazel eyes.

Leticia finally found her voice. “Picture?” She held out her cell phone to me.

“Don't be silly,” Juliana said, taking Leticia's phone. “Page!”

The maroon blazer young man reappeared with a professional digital camera with paparazzi-sized flash and a clipboard.

Juliana handed him Leticia's phone, her voice saccharine-sweet as she bared her teeth at the page. “Looks like
someone
forgot to acquire all electronic devices.”

His nose twitched like a gerbil's on blow. He pocketed Leticia's phone and looked at me. “If I might collect—”

“It's with my things in Wardrobe,” I said.

“I don't know if you know this,” Juliana gushed, “but
Faces of USA
, my pictorial book of my interviews, hit the
New York Times
best-seller list this week.”

“Girl, you killin' it.” Leticia high-fived her.

“I know, isn't that fantastic?” Juliana clasped her hands. “So, of course my publisher's demanding another.” She inclined her head at the page.

He offered the clipboard and pen for Leticia to sign. “It's a photo release, ma'am,” he explained. “For the book. I'll e-mail you a copy of the photo immediately.”

Leticia signed her name without so much as a glance at the paper and offered me the clipboard.

“No thanks,” I said.

Juliana Tate tipped her head back and laughed. “In less than fifteen minutes, you gals are going to be on-screen in front of one-point-two million viewers. Now is not the time to go camera shy, Maisie.”

I took the clipboard. A standard-issue photo release. “Would you mind if I sign it after my agent okays it?”

“Certainly.” Juliana's smile didn't waver. “Let's take the picture now, though. The
Good Day
set is a busy place.”

“Where would you like the photo, Ms. Tate?” the page said.

Juliana pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Out by the logo, I think.”

Leticia and I posed with Juliana Tate in front of the gold and orange sunrise set of
Good Day USA.
To Leticia's complete delight, co-host Alec Anders and his mostly shaved enormous balding head hopped in the photo op, and then, to her displeasure, so did Bliss.

Ten minutes later, prepped and polished, we waited like racehorses in the starting gate.

“Joining us today,” Alec said as Bliss pushed us out on set, “are two of Chicago's parking enforcement agents, Leticia Jackson and Maisie McGrane.”

“Welcome, welcome,” Juliana Tate said, meeting us midway. “Ms. Jackson, would you like to take a seat by Mr. Cruz.”

Victor Cruz gave a small wave.

“Oh, I got that, Juliana.” Leticia salsa-danced toward Victor and Alec on the main set. “It's all good.”

“Ms. Jackson,” Juliana said into Camera Three, as Leticia crossed the set, “is wearing the current parking enforcement agent uniform.” She grinned into Camera Two as it pulled back, giving America a good look at me. “And Ms. McGrane, what is that you're wearing?”

Hooters meets
Police Academy
.

“Dhu West, the company that oversees Chicago's Traffic Enforcement Bureau, wants its employees to feel at their best when working with the public,” I said. “I'm wearing one of the test uniforms that both my fellow workers and the public will be voting on to represent the Windy City.”

“Now that's my kind of retro,” Alec said from the stage where Leticia and Victor Cruz sat.

At weather guy Raine Ledoux's chuckle, Camera Four's green light went on at the faraway green screen set. “Didja know Australia's Gold Coast meter maids wear bikinis?”

“No, Raine, I didn't,” Alec said. “How
is
the weather Down Under?”

“Sixty-seven, Alec.” Raine rotated his hand over the top third of the green screen and said in a poor Australian accent, “As you can see, the precipitation levels are pretty high. I'm afraid those
Sheilas
might be a tad bit chilly.”

“Poor things probably all huddled up around the
barbie,
” Alec said.

Camera Three's green light came on just in time for Juliana's two-count laugh. “Brrrr. When we come back, Ms. McGrane and I'll be having a cozy chat about her job and how she came to be here.”

A swarm of people in jeans and wireless headphones descended upon us, touching up hair and makeup, checking my mic as Juliana and I made our way to the living room set—two armchairs and a coffee table in front of a fake set of windows on New York.

“What about Leticia?” I said, watching her flirt outrageously with Alec forty yards away, as Cameras One, Two, and Three moved in and set up around us.

“What about her? Oh honey,” Juliana pouted in sympathy. “You had to know we'd show the video.”

The floor manager called for quiet. “And three . . . two . . .” He pointed at Juliana.

“I'm here with parking enforcement agent Maisie McGrane. Do you mind if I call you Maisie?”

Seeing as you have for the last half hour, why not?
“No, not at all, Juliana.”