29. Scott
TWENTY-NINE
SCOTT
Francis: Why aren’t you answering your phone?
Scott: I don’t know about this.
Francis: About what, exactly?
Scott: About Curtis.
The phone rings for probably the sixth time since I walked away from Curtis yesterday afternoon.
Francis Calling
With a long, suffering sigh, I answer the call.
“Look, I’m not going to get in your way, but I don’t think I can be part of this. Some of what Curtis showed me was pretty fucked up.”
“Some of his ideas are a little out there, but there’s plenty enough truth to prove at least to you that they aren’t good people.”
“I’m not arguing that,” I say, and huff out another heavy breath.
“Curtis told me who you are. I’m not sure if it was on purpose, but it actually makes a lot more sense now.
I understand what you’re trying to do, and I’m not saying I disagree with you entirely.
I just don’t want to be associated with someone like that. ”
Francis lets out a short laugh. “We don’t need Curtis,” he says.
“What do you mean, then why are you working with him?”
“I’m not working with him, Scott. We aren’t partners. He’s a detestable cockroach of a human being. Curtis was merely a tool to get me in the door. Now that I’m in, I don’t need him anymore.”
“In what door?” I ask, frustration bleeding into my tone. “That’s the other thing. I don’t know if I can help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“Scott…”
“I can tell you I haven’t witnessed any of the stuff Curtis showed me. You’ve already exposed the only dirty secret I know. So if all you need is gossip, I’m not your guy and you can stop calling me. I’ve already got Blake Holland breathing down my neck, I don’t need you, too.”
“What does Blake want?”
“His laptop. He found out I took it and has been trying to get me to meet up and return it to him.”
“I was wondering why he didn’t report it missing.”
“Maybe he feels bad for me?”
“You give people too much credit. There’s got to be another reason.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it. I just want to be done with it all.”
“You deserve recompense for the way you’ve been treated, Scott. You were an employee, and they abused you. The very nature of your relationship with Naz should never have been permitted. He had power over you, used it to get what he wanted from you, and then discarded you.”
“I know!” I yell, my patience shattering.
“And if you don’t mind, I really don’t want to keep reliving it.
I get it! He was manipulating me, lying to me, and using me.
And it worked, okay? I was in love with him.
I probably would have let him keep manipulating me for years, or however long it took him to get tired of me if you hadn’t stepped in.
And I’m grateful, but no one is going to believe that I’m a victim of anything.
” I pause and suck in a breath. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“I don’t want to be any part of any lies or batshit conspiracies, but I’d stand behind you if we could show proof of their professional misconduct.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Promise me you won’t get me involved in Curtis’ smear campaign.”
“My business with him is done. You have my word.”
“Actually, we might need his help one more time, unless you have another computer genius on your payroll.”
“What exactly is your plan?”
I’m dressed in the same ridiculous running shorts I wore yesterday to meet Curtis Howard.
I actually jogged here this time, so I’m wearing sneakers instead of flip-flops, but I’m not wearing a shirt at all, it’s tucked into my back pocket.
I’m hoping that my lack of propriety and the obvious display of not being wired will make Francis overlook my choice of shoes.
The transmitter Sunni stuck to me yesterday is tucked inside the laces on top of my right sneaker. Cory said it should be strong enough to pick up our conversation as long as we aren’t in a particularly loud area. Of course, this is New York City, everywhere is a loud area.
Francis is cautious, but his overconfidence in himself makes him dumb.
It didn’t take much to get him to confirm that he’s been working with Curtis Howard, and he’s already admitted to being responsible for the leaked recording, even if he hasn’t said how he did it.
But he’s slimy. It’s going to take a lot more than some vague conversation to pin anything on him.
I need concrete proof that he was involved in the bomb threat.
I’m determined to get him to spill the truth about whatever’s happening at the label, and find out just how much of the bullshit the band’s been dealing with over the last couple of years has been because of him.
Getting him to meet in person was harder, and I had to bluff my way through it. I told him I was out, because how can he expect me to trust him if he won’t even show me his face? I already know his name, so it felt squirrely to me that he refused to get his hands dirty.
After I told him the only way I’d agree to help him was if he was the one to retrieve the laptop, he compromised with me and suggested we meet in person, then go in together close to closing time when it’s less busy.
Don’t you just love it when a plan comes together?
Hands on my hips, I turn in a circle and search the faces around me expectantly.
Cory sent me a picture of Francis so I could confirm that’s who shows up, but when he approaches me, I almost overlook him completely.
He’s an exceedingly average-looking guy.
Maybe five-foot-ten, short auburn hair gelled and combed to the side, with a bit of a receding hairline.
He’s pretty pale, with a few patches of red across the bridge of his nose and cheeks that suggest he got some extra sun recently.
The crease between his brows and the accentuated frown lines place him at close to fifty years old.
He’s wearing brand name but basic clothes, khaki pants and a light blue button-up, a pair of wire-frame glasses in the front pocket. His shoes are good quality but worn.
I don’t know why, but I was expecting him to look younger. At least he seems clean and doesn’t look like he might secrete something on me.
“Why are you so sweaty?” he asks by way of greeting.
“Are you… Francis?”
“In the flesh. Not what you were expecting?”
“Just making sure,” I say, holding out my hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Francis.”
“Likewise,” he grimaces. Unlike his buddy Curtis, I don’t have to even try to squeeze too hard while pumping my arm a little too enthusiastically.
“Jesus, you’re like an overgrown labrador, aren’t you?” he asks, pulling his hand back and shaking it out. Rather than looking annoyed, he looks a little amused.
“I get a lot of happy endorphins when I work out,” I say.
“I’m assuming that’s also why you’re so sweaty?”
Smiling, I nod. “I thought it might help with that whole wire thing, because if I’m all wet, it would mess up a wire, right?
” I know it doesn’t work that way but sometimes letting people underestimate you is beneficial.
“Although, for the record, you came fully dressed. How do I know you’re not wearing a wire? ” I ask, crossing my arms.
“If you’d like to pat me down, feel free. Although I’d prefer it if you at least dried your hands off first.”
“Good idea.” Laughing, I gesture to a shaded area near the edge of the plaza. “Why don’t we get out of the sun? I’ll grab us a couple of cold drinks, and we can shoot the shit for a while. How’s that sound?”
“That’s fine. Nothing for me, thanks.”
While Francis picks a table, I buy a bottle of water and two lemonades from the nearest vendor.
“I got you a lemonade in case you change your mind. If you don’t end up drinking it, I will.”
Nodding his thanks, Francis stands up stiffly and holds his arms out. It takes me a minute to remember.
“Oh! Right. I forgot,” I say, chuckling nervously. After wiping my hands off on my shorts, I lightly pat Francis down. I do it properly, because while he might think I’m an idiot, he has to know Cory wouldn’t have hired me as a bodyguard if I didn’t have some kind of basic training.
“Seems good,” I say, then clear my throat awkwardly. “Do you, uh… Need to check my pants or anything?”
“What?” Francis looks at me like I’ve grown another head.
“Curtis was very thorough. And despite telling me several times that he’s not gay, he spent a lot of time looking down the front of my shorts. It was pretty uncomfortable.”
Francis sighs exaggeratedly. “He’s a troubled man, that one.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“A lot of his ideas are off the wall, but he’s effective.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how does someone like you end up crossing paths with someone like him? I don’t mean any offense. You just seem like a pretty normal, nice guy. Something about that guy just didn’t sit right with me. Like a radar was going off in my head.”
“We live in a corrupt world, Scott. Sometimes you have to play the game. I made it my mission to expose some of that corruption, and in order to do so, I had to work with some unsavory people to get what I needed.”
“And Curtis was one of those people.”
Francis nods affirmatively and takes a sip of his lemonade.
“The band played by their own rules, and they rarely saw any consequences until certain media sites started speaking out about celebrities using their influence to sway the minds of young people. I originally approached Curtis on one of his online forums. He had released an article that was getting attention in conservative spheres about how Lest Is Moore was brainwashing America’s youth and turning them into liberal heathens, or something to that effect.
Once it was picked up by a large news site, it got even more traction. ”
He looks at me. “I know what you’re thinking. In a way, he wasn’t wrong. It’s basic marketing, to appeal to people’s base desires. They were selling sex already, and now they were selling anarchy disguised as freedom. Why else did they suddenly make being political their entire personality?”
“I assumed because things were getting worse in the country.”
“Worse for who? Not them. None of this affects them. It’s all just a dog and pony show to sell more tickets and albums. And before you go preaching about all the money they raised for charity, I can guarantee you they made five dollars for every one they donated.
I know how it works. It’s all just marketing. ”
My lips turn down. Part of me wants to argue.
I’ve seen enough of their finances to know that while they’re doing very well for themselves, they also give back more than their fair share and don’t even publicize the majority of it.
And they do it because they actually care.
I’ve been privy to too many political discussions and planning sessions to know that much is true.
“Didn’t think of it like that before?” Francis asks, assuming that I’m frowning over whatever truth he thinks he’s selling me.
“What does this have to do with you and Curtis?”
“Ah. Well, it just so happens that this wasn’t the first news piece that particular network purchased from Curtis. And with all of his ranting about the band, I figured we could help each other out.”
“You gave him information and he gave you?”
“Access. Introductions. My way into a non-competing media corporation. X Media Corp. doesn’t produce or manage musicians, so all the non-compete bullshit I was forced to sign didn’t apply.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask why so many of their employees were recently hired at the label, but I can’t give away how much I know.
I just need to keep him talking until he eventually gives away what his role is in all of this.