quick glance at his colleagues: “This conversation is being recorded, right? Just in case any of us need to refresh our memories in future.”
The others nodded.
“Okay,” said Big Nugg, calmer now. “So what you offerin’?”
“Just let us know by the end of the day if Jimmy wants to leave the show.”
“Huh?”
“If Jimmy doesn’t like the contract.”
“What you sayin’?”
“If Jimmy doesn’t want to sign, Mr. Nugget, you need to let us know as soon as possible, because we’ll need to find a replacement for him. I believe we eliminated a country-western singer a few weeks ago. We’ll need to call him back. Make arrangements.”
“You mean… ?”
“I really don’t know how to make this any clearer.”
“So it’s this”—Big Nugg shook the contract in his hand—“or ma’ boy’s off the show?”
“I think you’ve finally captured the essence of the situation, yes.”
The muscles in Big Nugg’s neck were so tight now, I half expected them to pop through the skin. Clearly, the cattle ranching business in Nebraska had never taught him the concept of leverage. Or maybe it had, but he simply hadn’t expected it to apply to the business of talent, which seemed so much more… artistic than that.
“C’mon, Little Nugg,” he said, gesturing to his son. “This just ain’t goddamn right.”
Little Nugg stood up and put on his cowboy hat. And with that, the pair of them left the room.
The lawyers checked their watches and didn’t move.
One minute eighteen seconds later, Jimmy came back and asked where to sign.
The contract had already been laid out neatly on the desk.
23
Whatta Man
SO LEN JUST ABOUT gave me a raise when he saw Mia’s dress. “Oh, Mamma Mia, you look delightful!” he exclaimed, his untrustworthy green eyes fixed on her nonexistent neckline. “Such elegance! Such class!” Then, grinning: “Mes couilles dansent de joie!”
I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Mia, on the other hand, seemed to understand very well (all those operas had made her fluent in six languages, as I might have already mentioned). When Len pranced away, Merm shivering with pleasure, she looked at me with disgust and spat, “You promised me it wasn’t slutty! I don’t want some… old guy telling me his balls are dancing for joy.”
“That’s what he said?” I coughed. The depth of Len’s creepiness never lost its ability to shock me.
“And now I’ve got nothin’ else to wear, you bitch,” Mia went on, with a nasal sob.
She was due on stage in five minutes. Too late for any wardrobe changes.
I guess I should have been mad at Mia for calling me a bitch—but part of me thought she had a point. I mean, the dress wasn’t exactly to my taste. Then again, “The Power of Love” wasn’t exactly to my taste, either. (Nor were any of the other songs she’d performed on Project Icon.) But for the show, for what Len wanted, the dress was perfect. So what was I supposed to have told her back there in the confession booth—that she should buy something else, something Len would hate?
Besides, it wasn’t like I’d chosen it for her: She’d taken it off the rack herself.
“Look, Mia, I’m just doing my job here,” I explained, without much conviction (if my eighteen-year-old self could have heard me say that, she would have vomited). “Len loves the dress. And he might be old and a bit of a pervert, but he’s the boss, so be happy that he’s happy. Oh, and if people think it’s too revealing—so what? You’re beautiful, you’ve got an incredible body, and you’ll get a ton of attention… and attention means votes. It can only help your career.”
“You people,” she muttered. “You’re so full of it.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, Mia,” I said, irritated now, “you’re the one who picked out the damn—”
I’d become distracted.
“What is it?” demanded Mia, reddening.
“Your, um… your left side.”
“What d’you mean, my left—?”
“The… your, um… you might want to—”
She looked down.
“OH MY GOD.”
“Wow,” I said, “the whole thing just popped out like that, huh? Can’t you use sticky tape or something?”
“Fuck you, Bill. FUCK YOU.” Mia teetered angrily for a moment on her plastic heels—almost falling into me—then clattered away to the nearest mirror.
She was right, of course: I was full of it. Or a lot more full of it than I used to be, anyway. It was the only way to survive in this place. I’d even started to believe some of my bullshit—especially when it came to the day-to-day management of the judges’ egos. Nevertheless, it was