Scarlett Fever

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THE OFFENSIVE

It was five A.M., and Scarlett’s phone was ringing. She sat bolt upright, her hand slapping around her pillows, her nightstand, her blankets, searching desperately for the phone before it woke up Lola…

But Lola wasn’t there, of course. It was just Scarlett, alone in the pearly half dark, an empty bed next to her. She found the phone on the floor next to her bed and slapped it up to her ear with too much force, causing further chaos in the head/skull region.

“O’Hara,” Mrs. Amberson said. “Thank goodness. I need a little favor.”

It took Scarlett a moment to process that statement.

“Are you there?” Mrs. Amberson asked.

“You…what? What time…”

“I need you to go over to my apartment…”

“No,” Scarlett moaned.

“I need you to go to those Foo dog bookends I have on the bookcase near the window. They’re the Chinese ones that look like dogs with lion heads, and they’re propping up my section on Futurist and Expressionist theater. Go to the Foo dog closest to the window and…”

“No.”

“…pull its head off,” Mrs. Amberson went on, not missing a beat. “It comes off, don’t worry. I’m not asking you to break marble with your brute strength. But you have to pull hard. Inside, you’ll find a roll of cash. Take it, get in a cab, and go to the courthouse downtown. It’s the one from Crime and Punishment, the one where your brother shot Sonny.”

As soon as she heard the word courthouse, Scarlett felt herself waking up. She sat up halfway, balancing her elbow on her pillow.

“Go in and speak to the lovely desk clerk. Just tell her you’re there for me. She will be able to provide instructions. Oh, and Murray will need a walk and some food. I know it’s a school day, but hopefully this won’t take more than an hour or so. Have to go! I know I can count on you, O’Hara. Have to dash! I’ve made a wonderful new friend who needs to talk to me!”

Click.

Scarlett blinked and grabbed a handful of purple curtain, pulling it aside to look at the anemic overcast sky that had spilled over the still-sleepy city.

She got out of bed, even though this seemed like a bad move.

The midnight-to-morning doorman at Mrs. Amberson’s building was more apathetic than Murray. He waved Scarlett right up without even looking away from his newspaper. He was the guy who greeted cleaners and workmen and staff in general…people who had to wake early and get things done. He could probably sense that Scarlett was an employee.

Murray the dog was curled up on the big white sofa when she entered the apartment, enjoying the quiet and the privacy. Her intrusion caused him such a shock that he rose vertically into the air. He didn’t look reassured when Scarlett took the heavy Foo dog bookend from the shelf, squeezed it between her legs to get a grip on it, and pulled its head off. He tried to run away, but slipped into the space between two of the fat cushions, and the more he struggled, the more he sank.

Scarlett pried out the tight roll of cash wedged inside the bookend. Once she got the bills free, she gave them a quick count, just so she would know what she was carrying. It was seven thousand, one hundred dollars in all, mostly in hundreds. This was Mrs. Amberson’s little emergency fund.

A half hour later, Scarlett’s cab pulled up to the long set of steps that Spencer had thrown himself down, where he had pulled the gun. She walked over the spot where Sonny had fallen and up the steps, to where Mrs. Amberson was sitting. Her spiky hair was slightly flattened, and her black evening dress was a sharp contrast against the white of the steps and the building. She was a blot on the face of justice. She had obtained a cigarette from somewhere and was puffing away on it like she was afraid someone would snatch it from her grasp.

“I know, I know,” she said as Scarlett approached. “I quit. I just needed the one.”

She took one final drag of the cigarette, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it away.

“What happened?” Scarlett asked.

“Oh, the judge was quite reasonable. They released me on my own recognizance. Sorry to make you come down here for nothing.”

“No…what happened? Why were you in jail?”

“There was a bit of a public altercation,” she said. “Altercation?”

“I suppose you heard what happened to your brother’s character?”

“Oh,” Scarlett said. “Oh…Oh no.”

“I requested a little sit-down to discuss what was going on. So one of the producers and I had cocktails last night. Apparently, they liked him quite a bit, as an actor and as a character. But apparently the audience wants justice. Plus, there were issues with the writers, with scripts that were already completed…the usual back office nonsense…and the only solution they could come up with to move the entire story forward was to beat him to death.”

“So,” Scarlett said, desperately trying to piece this all together in the thin early morning air, “you met with the producer and…”

“Well, I threw a drink at him, which was not considered appropriate behavior in the establishment we were in. And I may have slapped him just a tiny bit. Hence, the law. It’s all part of the strategy, O’Hara. I wanted them to know that you do not play with the AAA. What a good slogan that is! Oh, I’m exhausted. But the night wasn’t so bad. It’s not the first night I’ve ever spent in a holding cell. Granted, the last time was after a night out sometime in the late seventies and I was arrested with seven other people who were dressed primarily in gold body paint. Half of them just thought we were in a different club called Jail. They kept dancing against the bars and trying to buy drinks from the cops. Anyway…you need to get to school.”

Mrs. Amberson got up with the first trace of stiffness Scarlett had ever seen her exhibit. When she got into the cab, she luxuriated against the padded vinyl seat for a moment, closing her eyes in bliss and weariness.

“The battle is not over,” Mrs. Amberson said, stifling a yawn. “It’s not going to be easy, but it’s not over.”

“But Spencer is famous now,” Scarlett said. “Can’t he be on something else?”

“His flash of fame is a bit of a problem, O’Hara. It’s going to be a bit hard to get him employed after this, at least for the short term. Everybody saw David Frieze. That’s who Spencer is now. The most hated man in New York. Even the cake incident…that was covered all over the place. I’m not exactly going to be able to get him cast on Sesame Street.”

“I thought there was no such thing as bad publicity,” Scarlett said.

Mrs. Amberson turned and managed a smile.

“True,” she said. “There is always a way. I try to embrace philosophy.”

“Which philosophy?”

“As many as possible.”

She fell into a light sleep, which was easily broken when the cab pulled up to Frances Perkins.

“My goodness, O’Hara,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “This is your school? It looks like the setting of an Italian romance.” She opened the window and leaned out to get a look at the cone-shaped tops of the two rounded towers that framed Frances Perkins.

“I am left breathless by the symbolism in this construction,” she added.

Scarlett was at lunch before she noticed the seven thousand, one hundred dollar–size lump in her pocket. She accidentally pulled it out while she was in line for her taco. (Taco Fridays had gone down so well that Taco Tuesdays had also been instituted. Everyone loves a taco.) A freshman caught sight of it as she struggled to stuff it back in. She remained paranoid about it all day—too scared to keep it on her person, too scared to put it in her locker. In her mind, an unnamed god smote her boss with thunderbolts. Meanwhile, her phone buzzed all day with messages from said boss to come right over after school.

At least one part of this day was a little better than the one before—since they had spoken, Max was acting more like his normal self, doing his best to annoy Scarlett all period long in Biology. Moreover, he made a huge effort to make sure Dakota saw him do this. Once again, he positioned himself in the music room near her locker. Scarlett deliberated going in, and then impulsively opened the door.

“I have to go see my boss,” she said. “She’s been calling me all day. I just wanted to say bye.”

“You say that like I care where you go,” he replied.

“Later, freak.”

“Whatever.”

As Scarlett turned to go, she caught his reflection in the glass of the door, and he was smiling. So was she.

Spencer skidded alongside Scarlett on his bike as she approached Mrs. Amberson’s building. The bike was slightly less wobbly than before, but not much.

“She call you, too?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Scarlett said. “She must have news. Your bike seems a little better.”

“Yeah, it is a little. I sat working on it all day. I had nothing else to do.”

He got off and pulled out the lock to attach the bike to some ornamental gating outside the building. It still wasn’t quite stable enough to even lean correctly, and immediately started to fall. Spencer caught it before it slipped.

“I would have missed this bike if it had gone,” he said. “I have to admit it. It stands for something. I’m not sure what. I’m not even sure if it’s good. But that doesn’t matter. I believe in this bike.”

“Hey!”

This was from Murray, who had stepped outside to survey his doorway domain.

“Yeah?” Spencer said.

“You can’t lock that bike there!”

“Why not?” he asked.

“You can’t lock that bike to my building!”

“I’m visiting someone in the building.”

“You can’t lock that bike there!”

“Just don’t,” Scarlett said quietly. “He won’t stop.”

Spencer sighed and hoisted the bike up, carrying it at shoulder height. It looked particularly pathetic being carried like that, its wheel hanging crookedly. Murray tried to block their way inside.

“You can’t bring that bike into my building!”

“It belongs to 19D,” Scarlett lied. “The bike is coming in. It’s between nine and six, remember?”

Murray was furious to have his own rules used against him, but moved aside. He made them use the service elevator to go up.

“You’re forceful,” Spencer said. “I’m going to have you do all my talking for me from now on.”

“I had a long day,” Scarlett said.

Mrs. Amberson met them at the door. Dog Murray almost had a heart attack on seeing the strange man with the terrible machine on his shoulder.

“Come in,” she said. “Sit down. I need to speak to you both.”

This sober greeting alarmed Scarlett. She didn’t think she was going to like the news she was about to hear. Scarlett settled on the sofa, but Spencer chose to keep standing and pace the room.

“I had a conversation with the producer of Crime and Punishment this afternoon,” she said.

“The guy you got arrested for throwing a drink at is talking to you?” Scarlett asked, when she was done.

“Threw…what?” Spencer asked.

“I told you, O’Hara. Always do a little research. I spent a little time with some of the junior staff members of Crime and Punishment. As it turns out, the producer is well-known to have an affection for, shall we say, commanding women? Judging from what I heard, talking to him would produce no effect, but a direct strike would make a favorable impression. He thinks it’s a sign of character.”

“He liked that you threw a drink at him? You did that on purpose?”

“People are quirky, O’Hara. People in the entertainment business especially so.”

Mrs. Amberson strolled over to the massive picture window and looked out on the view of the city. Scarlett was slouched low on the white sofa. She watched a large plane glide by in the distance through the flawless blue sky. From her perspective, it looked like it flew right through Mrs. Amberson’s head, entering near the jaw on the left side, and flying out of her right ear.

“Is someone going to explain what’s going on?” Spencer asked.

“As it turns out, they’re casting the role of Sonny Lavinski’s daughter, Daisy. She’s fifteen years old and hasn’t been seen on camera since she was a baby. She’ll be a substantial part of the new story line. They think Chelsea is perfect.”

“I’m out and Chelsea’s in?”

“That’s the current situation. I wanted you to hear it from me before it was announced.”

They gave Spencer a moment to take in this news. He circled the room a few times and stared at Murray twitching on the floor.

“You know what really kills me?” he finally said. “No pun intended? It’s that I could have done that scene. I’m really good at getting beaten to death. It’s what people really want to see. It would make people like me.”

And that’s when it hit her—a flicker of remembrance first. Spencer working on the airline safety audition. A dozen ways to die.

“You can still die,” she said.

Both Mrs. Amberson and Spencer turned to look at her.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Do it yourself.”

“What?” Spencer said.

“I’m saying…” As the idea took shape, Scarlett became more animated. “I’m saying you don’t need the show to stage his death. You just do it, in public, like you did before…but bigger. You got yourself attacked in public. You jumped into a cake. What’s a death? A million ways to die, remember? Like the tie? Get yourself beat to death in public. I mean…stage it. People already know the character is going to die. So just do it.”

At this point, Scarlett was losing her grip on her thought. Mrs. Amberson leaned forward out of her seat.

“Go on, O’Hara,” she said. “Keep talking. Don’t stop.”

“Getting people there, to wherever we do it, is no problem,” Scarlett said, hurrying over to the computer and opening the Spies of New York page and pointing at the corner. “They have a box for tips. They would not ignore this. It would end up everywhere. Kill him big, in public, where everyone can see.”

Spencer was looking away from them, but his eyes were flicking from side to side, like he was watching something in his mind.

“I’d have to die painfully,” he said.

“Very painfully,” Scarlett said.

“Painful is easy. I’m good at painful.”

“A location,” Mrs. Amberson said, standing up. “We’ll need the right staging area.”

“I’d need a partner, too,” Spencer said. “Someone good.”

Scarlett paused for a moment, then the answer became instantly clear. It caused her only the slightest pang to say it.

“Eric,” she said.

Spencer looked up and nodded immediately.

“I need Eric,” he said. “He could do it.”

Once again, Scarlett was mildly aware of setting something in motion that she probably didn’t mean to—but maybe, she wondered, that’s what life really was. Making stupid plans and having to carry them out.