Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,86

the floodlights on my glasses. I gave up and signed anyway. I mean, what was I going to do—refuse, get back on the helicopter, and go home? Maybe Crowther wouldn’t even let me use the helicopter. Maybe I’d have to swim.

“Jolly good,” he said, as I handed the device back to him. “This way, my dear.”

I followed him into the yacht’s relentlessly modern entertaining area: a white box, essentially, with sharp-angled sofas, a circular fire pit, and brushed steel fixtures. It was an obsessive-compulsive’s fantasy in there, a clean-room laboratory masquerading as a living room. The only vaguely organic-looking matter was supplied by the tall women with tiny waists draped everywhere—on the sofas, by the bar, inside the bubble chair that hung from the ceiling. In fact, I could see only one male: He was older than me, smirking, with a reddish mullet. He looked uncomfortably familiar. Was he from Rabbit? Invasion Media? Or perhaps the New York office of Zero Management? Then it came to me, and my fists balled involuntarily. It was… I couldn’t even believe I was in the same room… it was that asshole reporter, Chaz Chipford, from ShowBiz magazine.

“You know him?” I hissed to Crowther, trying not to glare at the man who’d made a career out of running front-page “exclusives” predicting Project Icon’s demise.

“Who? Chaz? Oh, yeah.”

“He’s your friend?”

“God, no. Can’t stand him. Dreadful little man.”

“Then… why is he here?”

Crowther stopped walking and turned to me. We were in the middle of the room. Chaz was about ten feet away—too far to hear us over the nondescript Latin-themed lounge music. “They really don’t teach you very much at Project Icon, do they?” he said. “Rule number one, Sasha: Always look after the press. That means lots of hot girls, otherwise known as publicists. It also means free booze, finger buffets, gifts, upgrades, whatever you can throw at them. Cash, if you must.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Absolutely not. Chaz writes whatever I ask him to, more or less. Oh, and see those lights over there?” He pointed out of the window: Beyond it, I could just about trace the illuminated outline of a smaller vessel. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it from the air.

“Paparazzi,” he said. “I invited them here myself. I even chartered the boat for them. And you know what that means? It means I know exactly what they’re up to, all hours of the day. It also means they keep other paparazzi away, to protect their turf. It gives me control, Sasha. I get to be photographed at my best, when I’m not eating. No one looks good when they’re eating, Sasha. Remember that. It’s important.”

“But… don’t these journalists have… ethics?”

“C’mon, Sasha. Chaz Chipford isn’t exactly a contender for any literary prizes. Look at him: He’s pathetic. Entertainment reporters have all the sophistication of single-cell amoebas. Have you ever been to a junket before? My God, it’s depressing. Full of broke, ugly, desperate morons. You don’t even have to pay them for a good review most of the time. A free drink and two minutes with a celebrity is enough. It’s incredible that the likes of Len Braithwaite hasn’t figured that out yet. He won’t even provide an open bar for the press at Project Icon, never mind a massage room. No wonder the trades have been so hostile. Well, it’s too late now.”

Suddenly, Crowther stood back, grinned, and opened his arms. Someone he knew was approaching from behind me. I turned—and felt blood drain from my face.

Then I almost lost my balance.

“Hello, Sasha,” said my former boss. “It’s been a while.”

“Bill,” I croaked.

“The one and only,” he replied, “Although thanks to you, that’s not exactly true any more, is it? I hear you stole my identity. Just don’t take out any credit cards in my name!”

“But I thought you—?”

“All faked,” interrupted Crowther. “The accident, the light falling from the rig—the blood, the ambulance. That’s why we did it in Denver. We knew no one would ever go visit him.”

“But… why?” I could barely move my jaw.

“Bill had a contract he couldn’t get out of, and I needed his help. It’s not easy setting up a franchise like The Talent Machine in eighteen months, y’know. I wanted the best of the best. And Bill here was at the top of my list.”

“Sorry, Sash,” offered Bill, sheepishly. “He made it worth my while.”

“Len is gonna freak out!” I blurted.

“Len will never know,” said Crowther, firmly. “Remember our little agreement?”

“Oh, the nondisclosure thing, right… look, I