“One whose sister you used to fuck,” Nick offered.
“Oh Nicholas! How crude!” Arthur exclaimed.
Dick rolled his eyes. “The point is, Acevedo isn’t going to roll over and allow anything to be slow walked without bringing fifty news crews along while he investigates and calls a session and does whatever stunts he’s known for. This is his signature issue.”
“Richard,” Arthur replied, “we have a few bits of leverage over Congressman Acevedo that we think will prove to be persuasive.”
“I hope,” said one of the PROMESA officials, “it’s something more than him being gay, because a few local reporters spent some time with him and said it’s more or less an open secret.”
Arthur looked to Nick with concern, which Nick relished with a smile.
“Everyone, I assure you, Acevedo is no issue.”
“Well,” Dick countered, “I want to go on the record as saying that I’m not yet convinced.”
“Richard.” Nick sighed. “Nearly everyone of consequence is on payroll and our leverage over Congressman Acevedo is far more personal than his sexuality. Elisa, will you please show our guest in? I suspect he will convince Richard here to get on board.” Nick gestured to one of the housekeepers.
A well-dressed gentleman walked in, a large manila file under his arm.
“Agent Bonilla,” Nick offered, “can I get you a rum? Everyone, Agent Bonilla has some very interesting information to share with you all about Congressman Acevedo’s roots. Very intriguing information, indeed.”
PUT IT IN THE BAG
In just a matter of hours, a business that Olga had built for nearly twelve years collapsed in the wake of what some on social media had called an “Epic AM Meltdown.” It was, aside from meeting Matteo, the best thing that had happened to Olga in years.
The Good Morning, Later clip had gone viral, something she’d imagined possible the second the producers allowed her rant to continue. Going “off script” was only permissible if, of course, it would lead to clicks. In the immediate aftermath, as she walked off set and made her way home, she felt buzzed and a bit nauseous, like she’d quickly drunk a bottle of champagne. But, after an hour or so, she felt remarkably good. Like she’d come to the end of a Scooby-Doo episode and pulled off her own mask, revealing that all this time she’d been playing the part of Happy-Go-Lucky Party Planner when in reality she was the terrifying Educated Woman of Color. Her clients were polite enough to wait until the afternoon to begin their awkward calls to say that they didn’t want to fire the business, per se, but that they were worried that Olga might “call too much attention to herself” at their affair, or that her presence might “upset” some of their more conservative guests. One former mother of the bride went so far as to compose a lengthy email saying how “betrayed” she felt by Olga’s “little speech,” that Olga had “bitten the hand that fed her” by “villainizing the rich” when they were “just living the American dream,” which she was “sorry Puerto Ricans have not tried to take more advantage of.” Olga wrote back to say that she always knew she was one of the 53 percent of white ladies who had put this moron in the White House, so she hoped the ghosts of dead Puerto Ricans danced in her head at night, too. But, other than that one incident, Olga had taken a very conciliatory tack.
Meegan was at first distraught, then unnerved, and then, ultimately, excited by how this moment could be her windfall.
“Here’s what I’m offering,” Olga said, in an effort to calm Meegan’s hysteria at the upset calls that had been coming into the office. “For all our clients already under contract, you take them over and you’ll get the rest of the money they owe us. My business name is mud, so start your own LLC. You can keep all the photos for your portfolio and any leads that might still come in. It’s time for you to hang your own shingle anyway.”
“What will it cost me?” Meegan said, with skepticism.
Truthfully Olga wanted to just walk away from the whole thing and not think of it again. The ability to shed this entire persona felt, in the moment, priceless. But she couldn’t be stupid. Her monthly expenses were high, her savings pathetic. She needed to buy time to figure herself out.
“Let’s call it twenty percent off of anything you book for the next year.”
“Wow!” Meegan said cheerfully. “You know, Olga, you’ve been such an amazing mentor to me. I’ve learned so much. Often, before I make decisions, I ask myself, ‘How would Olga handle this?’”