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My nerves have returned full force as I enter the lobby of Genius Comics. Again, I’m subject to having to go to the main desk and ask to be let up to the executive floor like some criminal. After a quick conversation, the receptionist waves me to the elevator.
It’s not until I’ve pressed the button and pull out my phone to wait for the elevator to arrive that I realize I have Twitter notifications. A lot of them. It must be that post I made earlier this week about L’s efforts to unify the queen culture in LA. I’m not surprised that it has suddenly gained traction, given L’s appearance in the media again after last week’s hoopla.
But it isn’t.
And thank God I lose service in the elevator because three seconds of looking through the putrid waste that is filling my Twitter feed is enough.
Someone’s told whatever crappy Comicsgate-subset of the comic book universe that I didn’t get fired. These people are livid that I’m still a) a woman, b) writing comics for Genius, and c) friends with a drag queen. They felt that “they had spoken” and that their word should be law. That my continuing to be “allowed” to do my job is unacceptable, and generally indicative that I must be earning my right to continue as a creator through some other means of sexual coercion.
Some of my online friends and other comic book writers have come to my defense, but it’s . . . bleak. The thing that sends me over the edge is a post questioning whether or not I’m sleeping with my boss, my roommate, and Matteo. There are sketches. Dear Thor, I’m not ready for this level of vitriol today.
I’m badly off balance by the time the elevator arrives, and I’m not even sure what words I utter to Harry Potter Assistant when I do stumble out of the elevator. My brain is still reeling from the word vomit cocktail that has just been forced upon me. Who sketches someone sleeping with their boss? Who cares enough about someone else’s job to write that stuff?
“Miss Martin?”
I blink at the desk in front of me, confused about where the voice has come from, so bogged down by my thoughts am I.
“Ah—over here? If you please?”
I spin on my heel and find that Harry Potter Assistant has cleverly apparated behind me. He wears a rather alarmed look at my slow response, holding open Lelani’s office door. I discern a scant flash of judgment in his eyes as I make my way to the door and halt, looking in. I probably look exactly like a woman who has just been attacked by the internet and come out wanting on the other side. Like I’m not all there, or maybe like I’ve been drinking. I lift my chin, defying him to say anything.
He stares at me a moment longer before saying in a slow and measured tone. “Miss Kalapulani is expecting you.”
“Thank you, Isaac,” Lelani calls, motioning me forward from inside. I shuffle into her office, suddenly confronted with the vision of her sitting behind her desk at ease in her chair, and realizing that I hadn’t spent my time in the elevator doing what I should: readying myself for this conversation. Or, as I was considering now, chickening out on passing along Ryan’s message and just giving her the report from my meeting as if there were absolutely nothing else going on.
“Please, sit.” Lelani says as if this is our first meeting, and I need instructing. Truth is, I probably do, because my legs seem to be voting for bolting out her door and down the stairs. And yet, maybe Lelani has some sort of Jean Gray thing going on, because I find myself compelled to take the seat across from her at the desk, hands folded across my messenger bag in some semblance of normality.
“Hello,” I say into the awkward silence that blooms. I fish around for something to say that isn’t, “I followed you to a person-of-interests’ house” or “my roommate told me to tell you to quit snooping”, but can’t. “Nice day out?” It comes out as a question. And vaguely British. I’m a straight up lousy actress.
Lelani waves away my words as if they’re a pesky spider web. “How was the meeting with the movie team?”
I’d like to see this as an out to normalcy, but her words have the ring of formality to them. Like they’re a nicety we have to observe before getting to the nitty gritty. It makes my stomach squirm, but I try to channel her level of Zen. “Fine. Good. We discussed Red Canary’s costume, I am pushing for less cleavage and Daniel and I discussed fabrics with the team that will allow for stunt work.”
She makes a note on her iPad with a stylus. “Any open items?”
“The costuming firm will be submitting a proposal for the costumes next week.”
“And we reserve final approval?”
I squirm slightly. “I didn’t ask that; I assume we’d have to sign off.”
“Assumptions are weak, I want you to send a memo today following up. Include your notes for today, and verify that we need to sign off on the sketches. The production company is the one who will need to sign off on the cost, so I don’t care about that, but also include a rider in the memo about value engineering. If the costumes are changed significantly, we need to be notified. Also, since my area of interest is marketing, will you get a date of production for me? I’d like to be involved in some of the promotional production so that Genius may get rights to use some of the images in our own advertising.”
I nod slowly. “Okay, that makes sense.” I wish I’d thought of it, but it’s not the first time that I’m faced with just how good Lelani is at this job. This is my first ride on the Hollywood merry-go-round, and I try not to be too hard on myself that I hadn’t even thought to send a memo detailing what we’d talked about in the first place. My other meeting responses hadn’t been that formal, and now I wonder if I’d been lacking.
“When is your next meeting?” She’s still staring at her iPad.
“Two weeks.”
“Okay, invite me to the meeting on my calendar so that I’m reminded that it’s happening. We’ll assume after the next meeting that you’ll be returning to work, and that I won’t have to . . . oversee any more of them.” She says it without looking up, then clicks her iPad closed.
We regard each other across her desk. I expect her to dismiss me. She doesn’t.
The silence grows, gaining weight until it’s like a six-hundred-pound sumo wrestler sitting between us.
What does she expect me to say? Is she expecting me to just blurt out that I followed her? Is she going to get me fired? But she’d just said she assumed I’d be back to work, so that track didn’t seem likely. Maybe she’s just waiting for me to excuse myself. But no, the carefully blank look on her face says that she’s waiting. Expectantly.
And I’m about to give more credence to my Jean Gray theory, because the next second words are just falling out of my mouth. “Ryan says you need to stop what you’re doing.”
There’s no shock on her face, simply an elegantly shaped eyebrow that raises sardonically before settling back into place. Instead of responding, Lelani gets up from her desk, walks to her door, and holds it open.
I guess that’s my cue, and I start to stand before I realize that what she’s really doing is checking the location of Isaac. I fall back into the chair as she clicks the door shut, returns to her desk, and lowers herself into the chair.
“And just what did Ryan tell you I needed to stop?”
She wears the perfectly blank face, but I think that I note a shade of nervousness in her eyes.
“He . . . couldn’t tell me exactly. We were in front of a police escort.”
Her shoulders drop ever-so-slightly. She thinks I don’t know she’s up to something. “But he told me to tell you that he doesn’t need your help.”
She gives a laugh. “You know Ryan. He’s never been one for chicken soup and cookies. If he doesn’t want my visits, I’ll stop for the time being. But you and I both know that he needs the support.”
Her reaction—so carefully designed to put me at ease, to ease my mind—does more to cement my certainty that there is more that’s going on. And somehow, it gives me boldness. It’s as if since Ryan can’t express his wishes, that it’s left up to one of the only people in this world that he trusts. I know what Ryan meant. And he didn’t mean soup.
I clear my throat, and sit forward in my chair. “I believe he means your help with the case. The questions you’ve been asking Detective Rideout.”
She freezes. I catch the gleam of calculation in her eyes as she decides whether or not to play dumb. Instead, so goes with deduction. “Detective Kildaire told you.”
“Sort of. He said you’d asked Rideout for research. We’re both doing the same research. Matteo and I think we should team up. Maybe that’s all Ryan’s saying. That you don’t have to work on your own. We could help each other.”
She barely contains the derisive snort of her reaction.
“What?” I say, as if she’s personally insulted me, “I’ve helped the LAPD catch not one but three criminals. I would think that, add in Matteo, we’re a pretty attractive set. Ryan obviously worries about your involvement.”
“He shouldn’t. Like you said, it’s nothing the police don’t know about. You can consider your message delivered.”
Something about her words kicks something loose. If I was going big, I was going home.
“Or maybe he’s concerned with you following ex-cons.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Frank LaPitez.”
I watch as her face freezes, and the careful blankness slips, replaced by incredulity. “I thought that was you following me, but how could you possibly know about Frank?”
I briefly wonder if Casey Junior hired Lelani to investigate as well, but that doesn’t line up. No, Lelani knows about Frank from something else. No need for Spidey sense. Something is going on, and Lelani is smack dab in the middle of it. This is what Ryan wanted her to stop doing.
“I know about Frank because it’s my job to know about Frank,” I say cryptically. I don’t want to out that it’s Casey who has hired me . . . it’s a technicality, but it’s true. What I don’t know is how much Lelani knows about Frank, so I decide a little lying and detecting is in order. “And I know that Frank’s son claims he was wrongfully imprisoned.” Second truth, time for the lie. “I’ve uncovered enough evidence to show Matteo, so you can quit. Ryan obviously doesn’t want you caught.” I don’t know what it is that she thinks I have evidence on to show Matteo, but I’m just not that good at lying, so I leave it vague.
I don’t understand what flashes across her face. Something akin to impatience but . . . deeper. Loathing? Surely that’s not right. It’s gone, quick as a flash, and in its place is the most real face I’ve ever seen her wear. It’s unnerving how human she looks, suddenly, as if her young-woman mask has slipped, and behind it lays the soul of a weary old woman. I swear her hair flashes gray in the light as she cocks her head at me. It’s avian, like an eagle. I’m the mouse, and she’s measuring my life’s worth.
“Don’t.”
It’s not what I expect her to say. “Don’t . . . what?”
She lets out a breath. “Don’t tell Matteo what you’ve found. Tell me instead. I have a deal to offer you.”
“A . . . deal?” I’m not sure what game we’re playing and I’m not sure at all what information I actually possess that could warrant making me a deal I didn’t know existed.
“So, you know about Frank LePietz and . . .” she trails off, expecting me to fill it in. It’s a test.
“Uriah Pender. Yes.”
She shakes her head. “I’m always a little shocked at how effective your methods are.”
The words are more to herself than to me, and I bristle at the clear implication that I’m a bumbling idiot who stumbles onto success. But she’s off and moving before I have a chance to even open my mouth in indignation.
“Maybe you really are more of an asset than a liability.” She nods as if something has been decided. “Yes. I think this is the only way forward. MG, I’d like to offer you a partnership.”
I’m still treading water, having jumped into the deep end. “Er, like a P.I. firm?” Visions of Psyche flash through my head. Would I be Sean or Gus?
Her Cheshire smile is back in full force, and her teeth gleam in the low light of her office. It’s not a smile. “No, something a little more up your alley, I think. Crime fighting.”
I cough to cover the ridiculous laugh that rises in my chest. “Crime fighting.”
But Lelani doesn’t laugh, or even crack a smile. She moves around her desk and sits directly in front of me on the edge. “MG, if you tell anyone, I will kill you.” Deadly serious. “I’d like to offer you a job, working with me.”
I’m still not following. Everything in my brain has gone blank and fuzzy, like a TV screen on white noise. I can only think of one question. “Who are you?”
Her lips quirk up. “Why, the Golden Arrow, of course.”