Authors: Anthony Francis
“And shouldn’t it be like a whole ’nother contract or something?” Cinnamon said. “I means, bein’ in front of the cameras, it seems natural, but isn’t it like workin’?”
“She’s right,” Alex said. “They’re both right, Denis.”
Ekundayo wavered, then nodded.
“Dakota, you said a few ground rules,” Alex said. “We just heard two. What’s three?”
“Oh, that. No script, not when it counts,” I said. “Sure, I’ll say ‘this is the Valentine Challenge’ or whatever. But when it comes to my work—I say what I say. You tell me what we’re talking about, and ask the questions, but I do not read from a script.”
“Look,” Ekundayo said. “This is
television
. That is how it works—”
“No, this is how it works,” I said. “Jesus may be my God, but my copilot is the truth. I’m a practicing tattoo artist, but I was trained as scientist. Our mission is to accurately represent the world. I take responsibility for
everything
I say, and I will
not
read someone else’s words.”
Ekundayo let out his breath, long and slow. “OK,” he said.
“Feeling your balls effectively busted?” I asked.
He didn’t look me in the eye. “You might say that.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I said, giving him a half-smile. “The worst is over.”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, it isn’t,” he said. “You are going to hate this.”
A dapper, slender man with a shaggy bowl haircut and a slim briefcase stepped into the room—Felix Meyer, the Foundation’s lawyer. His eyes immediately found me, then looked away. We’d grown tired of seeing each other after my long dispute with the Foundation.
Following Felix was an equally slender woman with a dark black ponytail that poured forward over her shoulder like black oil—Erica Browning, chairwoman of the Foundation. We had barely met, but her eyes immediately zeroed in on me and glared. I glared right back.
“Counselor Meyer,” I said. “Miss Browning.”
“Ms. Frost,” Felix Meyer responded, snapping open his briefcase.
“Mr. Ekundayo,” Browning said, “I thought Felix already gave you the waivers—”
“I think we’re all here to talk about the other bit,” Ekundayo said.
“Oh, hell,” Browning said, glaring at me, then glancing at Meyer.
“Well,” Meyer said, after the briefest pause, “My office is preparing a, a statement—”
“She knows,” Alex said. “About the bankruptcy, at least—”
“Damn it, Alex,” Browning said. “You can’t go airing our dirty laundry—”
“You know, Miss Browning,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “when I settled with you earlier this year, it was contingent on you delivering. You welshing on your payments is no different than me welshing on my part of the agreement—”
“Which is what, not suing us?” Browning said. “You put us over a barrel, Ms. Frost. We cut you an advance from your winnings so you could make a down payment on a house. We paid for your legal fees when we should have been suing you for killing
our founder—
”
“Who was a murderous schmuck, but anyway,” I said. “You know what, I had forgotten that check, and I’ve never said thank you. Well, thank you, Miss Browning. You helped me get a nice house—but you agreed to pay the rest on a schedule, and you haven’t paid up.”
Browning frowned. “Ms. Frost, Alex is right. The Foundation is almost bankrupt. We’ve been sued. We’ve lost donors. Valentine himself helped bring in a lot of income in speaking fees. The only thing keeping us going is—”
“I don’t care,” I said. “Or, you know what, I do care. I don’t want to put you guys out of business. I admire the job you’re doing of skeptical education. But I lost two teeth and nearly my life in the games Valentine pulled on me, and I still beat him fair and square.
I want my money
.”
Browning shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that brings us back to the show.”
I glowered at her. Then, I got it.
“Aha,” I said. “That explains all the stalling on my check. You had to re-sell the rights to the show, and are waiting for your next payment from the network—”
“Almost right,” Ekundayo said, “but it isn’t that simple.”
I stared at him. He had an interesting accent. I liked listening to him talk. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“
The Exposers,
” Ekundayo said, “was on its
seventh season
. That’s ancient in network years—close to two hundred episodes, which are self-contained and interesting and have a lot of replay value. Seven seasons is all a network really needs to syndicate them—”
“And after Valentine was killed,” I said, “
The Exposers
got canceled.”
“No, even before that, it was nearly canceled,” Alex said. “Valentine fought for it, tooth and nail, me too. We lobbied the network hard, brought Denis back on board, had all these specials planned—but then you exposed him for what he really was, and, um—”
An uncomfortable silence spread across the table.
“Anyway,” Alex said, “ghoulish as it sounds, all the terrible publicity after his killing makes for great TV. So we’ve got a hook for the network—but no headliner. By myself, I’m not big enough. We’re bringing back Jacob Dauntless, but even he isn’t big enough—”
“But
I
,” Ekundayo said, “found the angle which finally clinched it.”
He smiled grimly, and a growing sense of horror filled me.
“Oh, hell,” I said. “What did you do? Spill it.”
———
“To sell season eight,” Ekundayo said, “we listed
you
as a presenter in our roster.”
24. I Said, No Cameras
“Say
what?
” I exploded. Somewhere in the back of my mind was outrage about being asked to profit on all that pain, but all that popped out was, “You owe me a
million dollars
, and want me to
work for it
as your
trained monkey
on TV?”
“Fuck,” Cinnamon said.
David Lloyd-Presse’s eyes gleamed, and I suddenly saw, concealed under his hand, the red camera light that meant he had been recording this whole conversation.
“Damn it, I said
no cameras
,” I snapped, clenching my fist and twirling my hand to uncoil my vines—then snapping them out to hit the OFF button on the camera. The cameraman cursed, jumped back . . . and then lifted the camera with both hands like it was a baby.
“Oh my God,” Lloyd-Presse said, looking alternately at the camera, then at the glowing vine retracting into my hand. “Oh my God,” he said, hitting REWIND, then PLAY. “Tell me I got that.
Tell me I got that
—”
“Maybe you got it, but you’re not going to use it,” I snarled, rising.
Lloyd-Presse cradled the camera protectively. “You don’t understand. That was an awesome shot, exactly what we need for the promos—”
“I
said,
” my voice rising to a shout, “my
daughter
is
not
a
sideshow
—”
“Mom,” Cinnamon said, very quietly. “It’s OK. Let it go.”
She stared up at me, her lower lip set.
I pursed my lips. Then I nodded.
“All of you, get out,” I said. “Everyone with a camera. Everyone with a briefcase, or with a bad attitude, or with the bad fucking idea of putting foul-mouthed foul-tempered foul-everything
me
on network fucking TV. I need to talk to Alex.”
“Remember,” Browning said quickly, “Alex is not authorized to negotiate—”
“No,
you
remember, very clearly, that I signed no fucking waiver that would authorize you to use that footage,” I barked. “None at all. And if I find another hidden camera, hidden microphone, or so much as a
court sketch artist
hiding behind a potted plant—”
“Miss Frost—”
“Out! Everybody but Alex out!” I barked, cracking my neck, letting mana run down my skin, making my tattoos glow. I felt the Dragon shift and twist on my back, raring for release.
Let me at them!
But I just shook my head and snapped. “Out! Right the fuck now!”
Browning backed up, backed out the door. Meyer stood as well, wincing, but, oddly, smiling. He and Ekundayo took Lloyd-Presse’s arms and gently led him from the room as he muttered, “But don’t you see that? I have to get that. We need to film that—”
The door closed behind them, leaving Cinnamon and me alone with Alex.
“Tell me,” I growled, “there are no hidden cameras in here.”
“No,” Alex said. “I’m surprised you let them leave with the film—”
“I was already committing assault. I wasn’t upping it to robbery. Alex! Talk!”
Alex rubbed his forehead. “First, do you see why I made
them
tell you?”
“No!” I snapped. Then the ridiculousness of that set in. “Scratch that—yes.”
“You’re pretty scary,” Alex said, “and not only did I not want to tell you . . . I really wanted to see the look on Browning’s face when you blew up.”
My mouth dropped. “I missed it.”
“Priceless,” Cinnamon said. “Very most sincerely gobstopped.”
“Anyway,” Alex said. “Look, this is a huge mess. In case it isn’t already clear to you, I do not run the show here. But when it was clear the Foundation was in trouble, I had some ideas, I talked, they listened—and I take full responsibility for the mess that we’ve gotten you into.”
I stared at him. My eyes narrowed. “You take full responsibility . . . meaning, you approve of what Dennis did? Meaning you
approved
the idea? Alex. Alex! Whatever gave you the idea that I’d let you turn me into your trained monkey?”
“Well,” Alex said, “the families of the victims are suing the Valentine estate—”
“I know,” I snapped. “I was almost party to the suit. I hear they’re settling—”
“Yes, I am,” Alex said. At my blank look, he clarified, “I wasn’t just Valentine’s protégé. I’m also his heir, and the executor of the estate. After I found out what he’d done . . .
of course
I settled. It was the only decent thing to do. I’m even trying to set up a fund for the victims—”
“That,” I began, then stopped. Alex was Valentine’s heir, and it was technically
his
money that he’d given away. And as posh as Valentine’s private little empire here was, that had to be a
lot
. “That . . . that’s the decent thing to do. Thank you, Alex.”
“Oh, don’t thank me,” Alex said bitterly, “because that’s how I screwed you—”
“Alex,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Valentine treated the Foundation like his private bank,” Alex said. “Leeching off it, then feeding his own money back into it—oh, that’s not fair. His salary on
The Exposers
was outrageous, I admit, but he was also the executive producer of the show—”
“Meaning he coughed up the seed money for each new season,” I said slowly. “Like Lucas bankrolling the later
Star Wars
films, which gave him total creative control. But you gave that money to the victims. Leaving none for the show. And leaving none for me.”
“Dakota,” Alex said, “I’m sorry. You were—you were alive. So was Cinnamon. And I never expected that setting up the fund would leave the Foundation in the lurch, much less you—but there were so many lawsuits. So many. I had to do something to settle them.”
“No,” I said. “No. That’s right. How—how many were there? Victims, that is—”
“Seventeen,” Alex said. “That we know of. And that’s not counting the ones with his control charms, or that woman who was half skinned alive—”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, sitting down. “Oh, Jesus.”
“So I started signing settlements, trying to do good,” Alex said, “but found out I’d very nearly signed myself out of a job. The Foundation had to mortgage its buildings to keep paying the employees. So . . . we negotiated with the network to do a special on his challenges—”
“Oh, you son of a bitch,” I said. “You son of a bitch! I knew I owed you footage, but here I was thinking you’d do a respectful ten-minute segment on the attack, and you’re planning, what, an hour-long spot ‘on his challenges.’ The only challenge he took last year was
me!
”
“The only person to have beaten him,” Alex said. “It would be great TV.”
“Christ, Alex!” I said. “What kind of man are you? This is the most gauche, ghoulish—”
“Pull out your thesaurus and throw every name in it at me,” Alex said, “but at the end of the day, I’m a stage magician. More importantly, a
television
stage magician. Keeping this show alive is my actual job, as important to me as . . . as your tattoo shop is to you.”
I folded my arms and looked away.
“Now, it may seem ghoulish or gauche or whatever, but
this will be great TV
. If I’d told you before you walked in that room, that moment was lost. We need your honesty to make great TV. From that, we can make some money and do a lot of good to help the victims—”
“
I’m
a victim,” I said.
“So was I,” Alex said. “I almost got killed trying to save you and Cinnamon—because Valentine practically led me to you with a dotted line. Remember, I had your working magic tattoo on me. I was living proof that you’d beat his challenge. He was going to murder me—”
“I remember,” I said, staring at him, arms folded. “The old fuck bragged about it.”
“Jesus,” Alex said. “But . . . working with that psycho made me a lot of money. So, the way I see it, we’re both people who stand to profit from a murderer’s illicit gains. I’ve given mine back to those who need it. Frankly, I didn’t expect you would—”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, blood boiling. “Don’t you
dare
turn this back on
me
—”
“Given the circumstances,” Alex said, raising his hands, “I completely understand, even though I personally don’t approve of using Christopher Valentine’s money to do anything but set this right. Hell, I’d dissolve the Foundation if I could. Tell me what good that would do.”
“It might make me feel better,” I said, “but that’s a
terrible
reason.”
“I agree, on both counts, but . . .
I don’t want to use any of his damn blood money,
” Alex said, glaring at me. “And you shouldn’t either. We should wash our hands of that fucker and make our way on our own. For you, that’s tattooing, but for me, that’s television. Now, you may think it ghoulish, but we’ve got a chance to turn this tragedy into a real success. We’ll be able to pay you,
honestly
, without blood money, and keep the Foundation afloat for the legitimate good it does—scholarships and education. We have a chance to make things
right
.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “Fuck
you
. But . . . but . . . all right. Tell me what I’ve got to do.”
“I would like you to participate in the special,” he said—and drew a breath. “And . . . to participate in the show. Five tapings. No further commitment. In exchange, the network will pay you one million dollars, if you’re willing to write off the debts of the Valentine Foundation—”