13
IT WAS AN UNSEASONABLY warm March evening and Pablo let the windows down to smell the faintest tinge of spring in the air amid the exhaust fumes on the Queensborough Bridge. It hadn’t taken long to get into Manhattan from Silvercup Studios, but getting back to Queens was going to be a nightmare—traffic out of the city after 4 p.m. was like getting caught in a whirlpool with no way out. Why couldn’t Keisha have a refuge that was in Williamsburg instead of Times Square?
The dimly lit, mesquite smelling and smoke-filled restaurant was bustling with a pre-theatre crowd. Of course, Keisha never waited for a table; she practically had rent control on her regular table, she was there so much. The food was great, but Pablo had started to think the Supermodel ate there just to be seen sneaking incognito into her VIP back corner booth. She loved to hear the ripple effect of her passing. Isn’t that Keisha Kash? I think I just saw the star of Model Muse. Look, there’s Pablo too. Well, she almost liked the comments.
He entered the throne room of self-proclaimed Queen Keisha, who was holding court with three platters of pork ribs. Half-eaten sides of mac and cheese and collard greens littered the table like a crime scene.
“Here, eat something.” She shoved a cold platter under his nose while gnawing on a rib.
“I’m fine.” Pablo pushed the plate away as his iPhone binged at him from his lap. It was Miss Thing. Keisha was eating and explaining some drama in her life. Pablo knew the drill: listen, agree with her, express opinion (preferably outrage), offer support, and get her back to the set. He didn’t need to hear what she was actually saying to know how to respond. He looked down at the text.
Miss Thing TEXT: Where the fuck is she? We’re stranded on set!
Pablo discretely snapped a photo of Keisha sucking on a rib bone and texted the image back with a few words.
Pablo TEXT: Crisis in Keishaland.
He immediately regretted it, but text regret was a common millennial phenomenon. What had possessed him—his therapist would ask—to send that pic of Keisha chowing comfort food to her biggest frenemy on the show? He would say he didn’t know. He did, though. He did it because he could and he was too tired to care about not doing it.
Miss Thing binged back.
Miss Thing TEXT: Tell her to come suck on this meat!
Attached was a dick pic. Miss Thing’s. What little appetite Pablo might have had was now gone for good.
“I’m completely freaked out,” Keisha was saying. Pablo had missed most of her monologue, but since she generally repeated herself, he didn’t worry. He’d catch up on the next cycle. Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a luxurious red Cartier box. Her hand trembled as she placed it in front of Pablo.
“Did T-Rex propose?” This was one plot twist he hadn’t foreseen.
“Just open it.” She was not in a joking mood.
He dropped the jewelry box on the table. “Is that blood?”
It was indeed. Between them, a vial of blood lay in Cartier’s velvety cushions, capped with a purple stopper. Pablo looked at Keisha in disbelief.
“It gets worse.”
She had his full attention now and just as his phone binged at him. He placed it on Airplane mode—there were some situations that nothing should interrupt and this was one of them. He took the scrap of folded paper that was grasped in her hand.
“What are you gonna do with it?” She sounded frightened.
He unfolded the note. “Read it.”
She watched every move on his face. Squeezed his hand when he reached and took hers. Closed her eyes as he sighed.
“What’s a Kimoru?” Pablo asked.
“I dunno.”
“Hmmmm…”
“Please, Pablo, I’m scared.” He could see the fear in her huge eyes the way she scanned the immediate vicinity, as if looking for the first sign of danger.
“Do you think you have a stalker?” he finally asked.
She grabbed his wrist and dug her nails into his flesh. “That’s why you’re here? I have no clue!”
“I’m gonna hang onto this.” He folded the note up and put it inside his jacket pocket. “Put the box in your purse. And don’t let anyone else see it.” Pablo’s mind was whirling. “I think we should go to the police.”
“No,” she blurted.
“Do you know who sent it at least?”
“No.”
“How’d you get it? I mean, this is some freaky shit, Keisha!”
“It was left with the overnight doorman. Some messenger kid with a baseball cap dropped it off.”
“So, whoever sent this knows where you live?” Pablo was horrified. “What in hell is going on?”
Keisha nibbled on one of the cold ribs, and then began nervously devouring what was left on the platters, pushing the cold and greasy collards towards Pablo. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared, Pablo. Really scared.”
He nodded and reached forward again, putting his hand on top of hers. “I’m gonna figure this out. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
She looked eternally grateful, and for a moment it was just them, again—BFFs. “What would I do without you?”
From across the restaurant, a very angry looking Joe Vong power-walked his way through the crowd towards their booth. Clearly, not one of those die-hard fans looking for a selfie, the bouncer let him pass.
“I’ve been to six places looking for you guys,” he yelled at Pablo. “When the EP of the hottest show on TV calls, you pick up your fucking phone.”
“I had my phone on do not distur—”
“Back off, Joe,” Keisha snapped back. “I have an emergency situation and I needed Pablo to help me.”
Joe leaned towards Keisha. “I don’t care if your apartment is on fire. You’re supposed to be in the studio, on set. Filming. Now.”
“How dare you speak to me like I’m some flunky? I’m your boss. And I own you.”
“Do you really think I’m the only one who wants to know why you aren’t on set?” he hissed at her. “The network brass sent me.”
Pablo flipped his phone off airplane mode. Six messages from Vong binged at him. Joe Vong glared over at him. “Oh, now you’re receiving messages?”
Keisha slurped one last sip of her vanilla milkshake as Joe waved to the waiter to bring the check. Her signature was an aggressive slash that nearly tore the receipt. She stood up and looked at the two men. “Well, come on. We gotta go.” She turned and left them hurrying to catch up.
The traffic back to Long Island City was more like a parking lot. Joe sat up front in the Escalade. Keisha wouldn’t sit with him in the back, ever. When Pablo’s phone binged, twice, she complained that the high-pitched bell gave her a headache. It was going to be one of those nights. Pablo quickly flipped his device to vibrate, but it wasn’t Miss Thing texting now, it was Rachel.
Rachel TEXT: 911…damage control STAT!
Judges going to walk!
Pablo didn’t bother with a response. What could he do stuck in traffic? Miss Thing would blow a head gasket at the smallest inconvenience. He’d once lost his cool when the DP called for a “battery change” in the middle of one of his runway lessons. The problem with being a Mr. Fix-It was that Pablo couldn’t help feeling that he was somehow responsible after texting that photo of Keisha. For once, the Supermodel’s tardiness was justified, but it was a pattern. The more successful the show became, the later she got. They were two and a half hours behind schedule and she still had to go through hair and makeup—which was easily a two-hour process on its own. If he was one of the judges, he’d go ballistic.
The evening clouds hung heavily over the enormous red Silvercup Studios sign, etched across the New York City skyline. There was a PA waiting for them on the sidewalk ready to usher Keisha to her dressing suite, while Pablo and Joe hurried to the main soundstage. In his head, Pablo went over the order of fires he was going to have to put out because Joe was better at pouring gasoline onto problems than dousing them with water. First up, was Miss Thing. He had to make sure the photo he texted of Keisha at Virgil’s didn’t fall into the wrong hands, or worse, end up on social media.
Rachel looked up at Pablo as he stepped into the control room. A wide shot of the judging room was on screen. Three of the Model Muse resident judges and guest judge, Christian Siriano—the youngest designer to win Project Runway—were sitting uncomfortably under the blaring lights, using small battery-operated fans to keep themselves from sweating.
“Thank God, you’re back.” Rachel looked relieved. “The fucking A/C is down.”
“That, I cannot help you with. What else can I do?”
“Hold on a sec,” Rachel barked over at three producers working at a long collapsible table. “Uh, excuse me, people. How about doing reaction shots, while we’re waiting for her highness?”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” the perpetually perky Harper chirped. She had one of those cheerful customer service voices that made Pablo want to strangle her. “Seeing as we always take so much time at the end of the night shooting reaction shots, I took it upon myself to shoot them now. Especially since Sasha is sober-ish, or was. She hasn’t had her evening bottle of Chardonnay with Adderall chaser yet.”
Harper was a fashion train wreck who wore saggy jeans that fell halfway down her butt, ugly sneakers and a nylon fanny pack that solidified her spot as the least fashionable person on the crew, after Joe Vong. But no one cared how she dressed because she was the kind of person who never seemed to have a bad day and never said anything nasty about anyone, which said a lot in their business. Getting a warm hug from her on a bad day was enough to change anyone’s mood; she gave good back rubs too. In a boot camp of drudgery, she infused such positive energy Pablo appreciated but often wondered what anti-depressant she was on. Or was it Lithium?
“I also told the judges Keisha was recording voiceovers,” Harper said. “They seemed to buy it.”
Rachel looked at Pablo. “That girl is going places.”
Pablo had to agree. She may act like the Pollyanna of Primetime TV but she was inventive, efficient and a good liar. All excellent character traits for a producer.
“Well, De La Renta is gonna need some Febreze. When Miss Thing catches one whiff of smoked pork ribs coming off Keisha’s wig, there’ll be hell to pay,” Pablo quipped. “I gotta ask him why good human hair wigs hold so much odor.”
“Great. Why don’t you go over to Keisha’s dressing suite and ask him now?” Rachel mocked. “And while you’re there, tell them to hurry the FUCK UP. I need her like, yesterday.”
“I was just trying to have a little fun, jeez. Take my head off why don’t you.”
Rachel pointed to a close-up of Miss Thing on a different monitor while she struggled to utter the appropriate politically correct term. “You can’t sneak much past her. I mean him, them, whatever! Just get me Keisha, please. Miss Thing is gonna start throwing a tantrum, if we don’t do something fast.”
Sure enough, down in the judging room, while the studio buzzed with crew members setting up lights, taping marks on the floor and producers frantically running around trying to look busy, Miss Thing was perched in his chair, looking not just annoyed but like trouble in the making.
Mike, the goofy looking sound engineer, all legs and arms and very little torso, walked up to Miss Thing with his sound rig, holding a wireless microphone pack.
“If we’re just shooting God damn reaction shots, with no audio, why do I need a mic, Mike?” Miss Thing screamed at the top of his lungs.
Completely unphased by the outburst, Mike smiled. “Ah, come on, Miss Thing. After six seasons, you know the rules. Plus, I’m the only person you actually like on this set.”
“It’s true. I love to be mic’d by Mike. But it’s just because you gotta juicy ass and your girlfriend doesn’t mind me flirting with you.”
Mason coughed and cleared his throat. “Do all the boys you like have girlfriends?” Winding up Miss Thing was one of Mason Hughes’ favorite past times.
“Lemme make one thing very clear. I don’t like boys.” Miss Thing stopped him mid statement. “I like men. Your arrogant ass might wanna examine why your ‘wife’–who does way too much yoga, I might add–looks like a prepubescent teenage boy, herself.”
Mason’s face flushed red. “Your rude and insinuating comments about my wife are—”
“Is there something you’re not telling us about Sukhdeep?” the model coach interrupted, glaring at the Brit. “She don’t pass to a trained eye like mine, ya know. And P.S. she might wanna stay outta harsh daylight. Hashtag just saying.”
“What are you implying?” Mason sputtered.
“Zip it, King Arthur.” Miss Thing flipped his hand up in Mason’s face and dismissed him. “Queer fear is so last century.”
Chin in her hand, her elbow on the table, her words slurred together, Sasha leaned over toward Mason. “I heard you saved your wife from a sex trafficking ring in India.”
Simultaneously, Mason stood up as Miss Thing pushed back his chair.
“Annnnnd they’re off,” Sasha mocked.
“Tell Rachel, I’ll be in my trailer.” Mason stormed off the set like he had a cricket bat and two balls stuck up his arse.
“Tell Rachel, I’ll be in my trailer too.” Miss Thing grabbed his makeup purse, a miniature reproduction of a doctor’s bag. It was a race between Mason and Miss Thing to see who could leave the set first and most dramatically.
Sasha’s head spun around to watch them flounce away, then passed out with a loud thud, her head on the table.