Chapter 91: What the Public Wants/What the Public Bought
“Are you out of your mind?” demanded Marty. Piggy wasn’t thinking it then, but she thought later that Kermit had nothing on Marty for arm-waving hysteria when he felt like it. “Both of you!” He turned and glared at Foo Foo. “Or should I say all three of you?”
Foo Foo opened her mouth to say something but Marty gave her such a fierce scowl that she subsided.
“We put you here to watch out for Missy,” Marty growled at Jimmy, “but I didn’t realize you thought you were Rambo. What in the Sam Hill were you thinking? Or were you thinking?”
“He had a…a camera,” Jimmy mumbled around the enormous ice pack which he had been holding pressed to his swollen eye.
“Oh--a camera,” Marty snapped. “Good thing he’s not a photographer!”
Jimmy’s head snapped up and he opened his mouth to make a retort, but Piggy intervened, drawing Marty’s wrath down on her own head instead.
“Jimmy’s right. Derwin had another camera.”
Marty turned and stabbed his finger at Piggy. “You! Put that ice pack back on this minute!”
Piggy obeyed, holding it to her swollen lip but talking around it. “He had some sort of little camera—not the authorized one with the secret signature on it.” Marty had insisted that all of the film be coded so if any pictures leaked he’d be able to track them. They had not told the photographers, but apparently they had found out—or guessed. “Derwin was taking unauthorized pictures of Moi and Foo.”
“And the filming schedule,” Jimmy added sullenly, and Marty’s shrewd little black eyes grew as wide as Piggy had ever seen them. Piggy gasped and looked at Jimmy in surprise.
“Vous didn’t tell me that,” she cried.
“The filming schedule,” Marty said. “Son of a—“
“And the other day I heard him say he didn’t think any of ‘em ought to have to sign a confidentiality agreement,” Jimmy burst out. Impulsively, Foo Foo reached out and patted him on the back. Poor thing—first the maintenance uniform, then the black eye, and now getting yelled at by Marty. Not to mention—and Foo Foo wasn’t about to mention it—eventually having to face Kermit. Kermit’s younger brother was not having a good day.
“Why didn’t you say anything about it?”
“I did,” Jimmy snapped. “I told him to get comfortable with it or get out.”
Marty signed, took the cigar out of his mouth, wrapped it in his hanky and put it in his pocket. “I meant,” he said gently. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jimmy looked miserable. “I thought it was, you know, just talk. He’s been kind of a pain in the—“
“Where’d you find him, anyway, Marty?” Piggy asked. She was not accusing. Her faith in Marty was not only well-founded, but absolute. “The other photographers I’ve worked with before, but….” She shrugged—and winced, rolling her shoulder where it still throbbed painfully.
“He came recommended,” said Marty thoughtfully. “But I’m gonna track the guy that did the recommending down and make sure I didn’t get fed a bill of goods.”
“Speaking of bills,” said Foo Foo dryly. “The hot dog guy says he doesn’t plan to sue—we buttered him up a little, promised him a calendar.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Marty. “I’ll get him a new cart. I know a guy.” Nobody doubted it. Marty walked over and put a gentle hand on the ice pack on Jimmy’s eye. “Lemme see, kid,” said the grizzled agent. “Let me see the damage.”
Jimmy lifted the ice pack and blinked up at him, trying not to flinch. Marty shook his head. “Good thing you got no nose, kid,” he said. “If he’d have broken your nose, you’d have two black eyes.”
“Swell,” muttered Jimmy.
“A little,” said Foo Foo. “But I think it’s going down some.”
Jimmy grinned in spite of himself, and winced. “Ouch,” he muttered.
“How’s Claude?” Piggy asked, careful to talk around the ice bag. “It was very brave of him to jump in.”
“Very useless,” said Jimmy. “If he hadn’t gotten in my way, I’d have had that little creep Derwin with the first punch. I didn’t need him in the middle of that.”
“Still,” said Piggy, but she patted Jimmy gently on the back.
“Kermit is going to kill me,” he moaned. “I was supposed to be preventing trouble—not causing it.”
“You didn’t cause it,” Marty admitted, his voice kind, but when he swung back around to glare at Piggy there was not much gentleness in his voice. “You, on the other hand, Missy, certainly added to the problem.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” snapped Foo Foo. “Piggy thought Derwin was going to hurt Jimmy.”
“Actually,” said Piggy dryly, “Moi thought Derwin was going to get away with that unauthorized film—and hurt Jimmy. That’s when—“
“Yeah, yeah—that’s when you decided to dredge up Wonder Pig and take the guy out.”
“Moi is trained in the martial arts,” she said with dignity. “I didn’t intend—“
“I know,” Marty said. “You didn’t intend to start a free-for-all—but you did!”
“Moi would not call it a free-for-all,” Piggy sniffed. “It was more of an organized strategic hit.”
“Oh yeah? Well, who organized crashing through the screens around the shoot? You know how hard I worked to keep every Jim, Frank or Jerry from getting a shot with their new it-phone? And all for nothing.” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head slowly, making his jowls shake. “Look, Missy—tomorrow every tabloid in the city—not to mention every website on the planet—is gonna have pictures of you and little Miss ToTo having a little smackdown with a groups of photographers.”
“I just hope they got one of me clocking Derwin—and getting the camera,” Piggy growled.
“You and me both,” muttered Marty, but grudgingly.
“In bikinis, no less,” said Jimmy. In spite of the pain, he was starting to smile.
“Way less,” said Foo Foo, tugging again on the seat of the suit, but she turned and flashed Piggy a brilliant smile. “We might make the cover of Wrestlemania.” She looked over her shoulder again at the little suit. “I hope they got my good side.”
Piggy started to giggle. “Moi is assuming they got all sides,” she said, her blue eyes merry, “but all your sides are good sides and so are Moi’s.”
“Kermit is going to kill me,” Jimmy moaned again.
“Forget Kermit,” Piggy said briskly. “Worry about your Mom.”
“Oh, sheesh,” groaned Jimmy. He put the ice pack over both eyes, determined to shut out the world. “I’m going to be road kill.”
But Piggy, who had weathered more than her share of tabloid shenanigans this past year, was determined to reframe this little episode.
“Vous are not,” she insisted. She reached out and caught Marty’s wrist, stopping his pacing. “Listen. Listen Marty, listen Jimmy,” she began, looking carefully around to see that no one was close enough to overhear. The protective screens, which Jimmy had dubbed a combination of crime scene tape and venetian blinds, had been hastily re-erected, and the four of them were reasonably free from prying eyes—or at least prying cameras. “So tomorrow the tabloid splashes a bunch of pictures of me and Foo Foo wrestling around on the ground with a misguided photographer—what’s the worst they can make out of it?”
“Well, Kermit—“ Jimmy began, but Piggy made a slashing motion with her hand. “No—I’m not talking about what Kermit’s going to say—Moi has an idea about that, too. I’m just saying, what’s the worst the tabloids could say about the pictures—whatever pictures they got?”
“That we look amazing in our bikinis,” Foo Foo said defiantly, with no hint of irony.
“Duh,” said Piggy, grinning. “I suppose they could say that Moi has anger issues.”
“Or hates the paparazzi.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to think that Piggy hates cameras, or cameramen in general,” Marty said dryly. “Even I couldn’t sell that.”
“Hmmpf,” said Piggy disdainfully. “What else?”
“They could say, um, I started it,” said Jimmy reluctantly. “And, you know, people might think I was a, um, Piggy’s jealous boyfriend or something….” he mumbled, and the parts of his face that were visible were blushing.
‘They might,” said Piggy thoughtfully, “but I don’t think so.”
“I’m gonna have to go with Piggy on this one,” Marty said. “Everybody seems to think you’re some sort of tuff guy from home sent down here by Kermit to keep unwelcome attention away from the Mrs.”
“Yeah, and you don’t act flirtatious with Piggy,” said Foo Foo. “Not like you do with me.”
“What?!” Jimmy sputtered. “I don’t—I wasn’t, er, flirting,” he cried, mortified.
“Were too,” said Foo Foo smugly. “But not in a bad way, sweetie—just in a hey-I’m-charming-and-you’re-beautiful sort of way.”
“As opposed to what?” Jimmy demanded. “Hey-I’m-a-jerk-and-you’re-available?”
“No—that’s not your style,” said Foo Foo, but Jimmy looked even more mortified.
“I—I do not have a style!” he insisted. “I’m…I’m just…nice. Friendly-like.”
Foo Foo looked at Piggy and Piggy looked at Foo Foo, then Piggy shrugged microscopically.
“Okay,” said Piggy. “But you don’t come across friendly-like with me. You come across big-brother-ish and protective.”
Jimmy opened his mouth to point out their respective ages but luckily some self-preservation instinct kicked in and he sulled up and said nothing.
“What else?” said Marty, keeping things moving. He wanted to see what Piggy had in mind.
“I…I suppose they could say that Piggy was up to something that she didn’t want people to know about,” Foo Foo said with an apologetic look toward her friend. “You know how they like to, you know, imply that Piggy’s a flirt.”
“Moi?” said Piggy archly, and Jimmy snorted, then gasped as pain shot through his throbbing eye.
“So who is Moi supposed to be flirting with? Claude?”
Hardly,” sniffed Foo Foo, then cocked her head on one side. “I can’t think of anyone at the shoot.”
“Okay then,” said Piggy. “That’s out. What’s left? I’m not flirting or being flirted with. Moi is not snarfing bacon bits or anything.”
Everyone but Piggy flinched, surprised by her choice of words, but it made it perfectly plain how much she despised being the topic of unkind gossip.
“Well,” said Marty. “The only guy clever enough to do much of anything with those pics is Scribbler.”
Piggy shot him a venomous look, but he held his hands up protectively. “Don’t give me that look,” he said. “He’s a slimy little weasel but he has a nice turn of phrase.”
“We don’t even know he’s the one behind Derwin—he clammed up nice and tight after I hi-ya’d him.”
“Piggy, Honey—he was out cold,” Foo Foo said diplomatically. “I don’t suppose he woke up until he was at the ER.”
“ER, bah,” Piggy snapped. “I didn’t hit him that hard—regrettably.”
“Can we get back on topic,” Marty said wearily. “Forget Derwin—let’s think about what Scribbler could do with the pictures.”
“But we don’t even—“
“So let’s think about what someone like Scribbler could do with the pictures,” Marty said, almost shouting to be heard over the other three all talking at once.
“So what could he do that anyone else can’t do?” Jimmy asked, sounding puzzled.
Marty was silent for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again without saying anything.
“What?!” Piggy demanded. “I know that look—what are you thinking?”
Marty sighed, and his jowly face looked sad and tired. “I’m thinking that his target all along has been Kermit, not you.” He shrugged. “What could Scribbler do with those pictures that would discredit Kermit?”
“I don’t think anyone can fault him for wanting her to have protection,” Jimmy said, stung by the thought that someone would attack Kermit’s integrity.
“No, me neither,” said Marty, looking at Piggy. Again, there was that sense of expectancy about his face, as though he were waiting for her to arrive at some heretofore unseen conclusion.
“I don’t—“
“Think, Doll—what will this look like?”
But Piggy couldn’t think—she didn’t see what Marty was trying to say without him having to say it. “It will just look like Moi and Foo Foo—“
“Right—another bathing beauty on the scene—“
“—like Moi and…oh. Oh…you don’t think....”
“I do think,” Marty said. “Or—at least—we have to consider what they could make of it”
Jimmy and Foo Foo were looking back and forth between them in bewilderment, obviously not on the same wavelength as the diva and her agent.
“What?” Foo Foo demanded. “What could they make of it?”
“Yeah—what?” Jimmy said peevishly. “I don’t understand—“
But Marty’s next words, directed at Foo Foo, brought everything into sharp focus for both of them. “Foo Foo, Honey—where’d you sleep when you were in Vegas?” Marty asked.
Foo Foo bristled immediately. “Seeing as how it’s none of your business—“ she began, but then the realization hit her like a ton of bricks. “Oh. Oh! I roomed with Kermit and Piggy—in their suite.”
“Bingo,” said Marty, and Foo Foo did not feel like pursuing the familiar joke.
“But that’s preposterous!” Jimmy said, clueing in at last. “You’re trying to say that someone might imply—oh. No. No no no—you have got to be joking. If there was ever a one-pig frog on the planet—“ he began heatedly, but Marty lifted a grizzled eyebrow.
“She’s not a pig,” he pointed out, waving his hand vaguely toward Foo Foo, who seemed stunned into speechlessness. Marty went to put his unlit cigar back in his mouth and realized he did not have it in his hand anymore. He patted his pockets, found it and jammed it back into his mouth.
“But—but what can we do? And besides—Derwin didn’t get any photos. Moi got the camera.”
Marty sighed. “Once the screens went down, I think we have to assume that there are going to be photos out there, and if Derwin was taking them for Scribbler, well, Scribbler and his rag will probably just get them from somewhere else.”
“But—but what can we do?” asked Foo Foo. She did not say it out loud, but she was thinking of Rowlf. This would be terribly unfair and awkward for him, but in the face of Kermit’s overwhelming misery she didn’t like to mention it.
“Well—I can think of something,” Jimmy said defiantly. “But we’re going to have to get cleaned up pretty quick.” He took the ice pack off his eye and squinted at them. “How do I look?” he asked.
“Ouch,” said Piggy. She was bumped about and had a mildly swollen lip, but it would probably be gone by the morning.
“Okay,” Foo Foo ventured, but it wasn’t a very effective lie. Jimmy looked like he’d taken a top-notch slug in the eye, which he had. Jimmy stared at her, gritting his hard palette, then reached out gently and took her paw. “Good enough to go out with?”
Foo Foo’s eyes widened with shock. “Good enough to…oh.” Foo Foo smiled. It was not the saucy, irrepressible smile she usually flashed. It was a sweet smile, full of fondness and gratefulness. “Good enough for a double date,” she said. She turned laughing eyes on Marty, but he had gotten there slightly before her.
Marty walked over and put a friendly arm around Jimmy’s shoulders. “You got a devious mind, kid,” the tough old agent grinned. “Let me know if you ever need a job.” He turned to Piggy. “D’you get Scooter earlier?”
Piggy nodded. “I texted him to get Kermit’s phone away from him without being obvious. He’s waiting for me to call.”
Marty gave a rueful grin, chewing on the cigar. “Forget calling,” he said. “Let’s just go to the studio and explain it in person.”
Piggy looked down. She still only had a robe over her bikini. “Like this?”
“You don’t think he’d like it?” Jimmy teased, but Piggy squelched it with a look.
“So get changed already. How long can it take you to go from gorgeous to gorgeous?”
“You have no idea,” Jimmy said, sotto voce, but Piggy and Foo Foo just laughed and went to get dressed.
“I heard you had a little trouble this morning,” Scribbler said. He peered at the man’s bandaged nose and impressive black-and-blue shiners.
“A little!” the man snorted, then gasped in pain and held his tender nose. “She darn near put my lights out.”
“You sound surprised,” said Scribbler dryly. “I thought you knew what you were getting yourself in for.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man groused. “I did. But then her little dog bit me!” He started to turn around and show Scribbler but flushed and did not complete the movement.
Scribbler instantly looked suspicious. “Why’d Foo Foo bite you?” he asked. “They don’t suspect you do they?”
“Naw—it was an accident. We were all on the ground, scuffling over the camera. They think I was trying to take out that little jerk Derwin.”
Scribbler looked less suspicious, but more annoyed. “Let me see the pictures.”
“You know, I’m not sure I want to sell them anymore—at least not to you.”
Scribbler’s hands balled into fists. “We had a deal. I’ll pay what I promised but you have to deliver the goods without—“
“About that. The price—it’s gone up.”
Scribbler took a step forward and the other man retreated, hands raised protectively over his splinted schnoz.
“Why you little--!”
“Hey now—no need to get violent. I…I just want a little more for all my trouble.” But the bravado was gone, replaced by whininess. Having lately been on the other side of this sort of argument more times than he cared to count, Scribbler sensed weakness and went for it.
“I’m not paying for your trouble,” Scribbler snapped. “I told you what I’d pay for pictures of the shooting schedule, and—“
“—and the pig. You’re paying me for pictures of the pig, too,” the man said pugnaciously, and though Scribbler made an outward show of reluctantly giving in, inside he was elated.
“Yes—I did say that.” He looked at the other man and grimaced. “I’ve got the cash if you’ve got the pictures—let’s get these envelopes traded and get the heck out of here. I don’t think you really want to be seen with me right now, and I sure as heck don’t want to be seen with you.”
Furtively, suspiciously, the two men exchanged brown envelopes. One contained cash, the other a half-dozen photos that were going to make Scribbler a hero with his boss. The transaction complete, they backed away from each other. When there was at least 50 feet between them, the other man turned and started to walk away. Scribbler’s voice made him turn.
“Just so we’re clear,” Scribbler said. “If these are not the exclusives I was promised—if I so much as catch a whiff of these photos online or in any other publication, I’m not going to call the union.” He paused and gave a grim smile. “I’m going to call Marty.”
The other man’s eyes widened in alarm. “You wouldn’t!” he gulped.
“I would,” said Scribbler. “I’ll call him up and tell him where I got them. And then—“
“Then?” the man squeaked, pale and unhappy.
“Then, Claude,” said Scribbler. “I’m gonna call Kermit. Burn those negatives as soon as you can.”
Piggy’s attempts to frog-nap her husband for a very public double date were not met with any resistance. In fact, by the time they had all bombarded him with explanations, he was ready to do almost anything if they would only all stop talking at once.
Scooter listened with wide-eyed astonishment to their tale, trying to absorb all that had happened.
“So, we’re going on a double date tonight so…” Kermit looked nervously at his brother, and even more nervously at Foo Foo. “So, um, Jimmy and Foo Foo can be seen out on a date?”
“A double-date—with us. That’s the important part.”
“I’m still not—“
“Boss, they’re trying to give the tabloids one possible explanation for the scuffle today, and that’s that Jimmy got annoyed with one of the camera guys for trying to take pictures of his, um, girlfriend.”
“His girlfriend?” Kermit said. “Foo Foo? But I thought—“
“Sweetie—don’t think about it too much,” Piggy said. “You’ve had a tough day. Just come out to dinner with us and let me feed you and dance with you and make goo-goo eyes at you.” It is possible that she carried her point because she had her arms around his neck and was batting her big, blue eyes at him, but it really doesn’t matter why. Kermit put his arms around her without protest.
“Gee—what’s in it for me?” he teased, and laughed when Piggy made a sound of outrage.
“Boss,” said Scooter. “If you don’t go, I’m going to,” he said. Lunch had been a long time ago and he was ready to go home to hot food and warm arms.
“Well, okay,” said Kermit. “But I don’t want you to think I’m easy or anything….”
Jimmy punched him in the arm, playful but hard enough to make Kermit yelp.
“Hey!” he protested. “What was that for?”
“That was for the way this trip is trashing my reputation,” Jimmy said sourly. “Mom and Dad are going to disown me at this rate. So get your phone and your keys and let’s hit the night life already.”
“Um, Foo Foo,” said Jimmy as they walked out to the car. “Look—I was out just the other night with Rowlf, and I don’t want—“
“Why don’t we call him from the car,” Foo Foo said, more relieved than she could say. “I don’t want him to think…um, you know.”
“That you’d stoop so low as to date me?” Jimmy teased.
“That I was on the rebound!” she corrected, and they both laughed.
“They say a picture is worth a thousand words,” mused Scribbler’s boss. “How much do you think a thousand words are worth?” The pictures were fanned out on the big desk and, like his boss, Scribbler found it hard to take his eyes off of them. Blurry digital photos had already been posted on the web, but these pictures were amazing, the details vivid and sharp. Over five successive photos, Piggy and Foo Foo were shown tackling a green-haired muppet photographer, demolishing a veggie-dog stand in the process. The look of terror on the hapless camera jockey’s face was only exceeded by the look of wrath on Miss Piggy’s. Foo Foo’s teeth were bared in a snarl, and Piggy had a similar fierce expression on her face. It did not hurt the titillating appeal of the photos that pig and dog both wore very little.
“I’m thinking a lot of newspapers,” said Scribbler. “You gonna use them all?”
“I think so,” came the thoughtful reply. “We can use one on the cover and then do a two-page spread inside.” There was a pause in which restless fingers thrummed on the desk. “And I think we want to make this a sealed copy—put the sticker on so they have to buy the paper to look at it.”
“It will run a little more,” Scribbler said, but he wasn’t objecting.
“So we’ll charge a little more,” came the smooth replay. “Other people have photos, but nobody has photos like this.” The dark eyes flicked up to Scribbler. “He only gave you five photos?”
Scribbler hardly even flushed. “Yep,” he said matter-of-factly. “He only sold me five photos of the pig and the dog and the photographer.”
“And this—this green blur here on the edges. That’s the cousin, right? Wonder what he’s doing here?”
“Security, I hear,” said Scribbler dismissively. “Fat lot of good that did.”
“It certainly did us a fat lot of good,” came the smug replay, then the tone became more businesslike. “Now, about those thousand words….”
“Almost done,” said Scribbler, and he grinned broadly. “And, boy, is the public going to like it.”
In the end, some of them bought Scribbler’s explanation. Careful cropping of the photos seemed to imply that the fight had been between Piggy and Foo Foo instead of the coordinated effort against Derwin that it had actually been. Pictures of the two briefly-attired gal pals apparently rolling irately on the green grass of the dog park did indeed seem to imply a surplus of emotion.
Some of the reporters, who had been tipped off by the fan boards about a secret posh-posh dinner date, printed pictures of the two couples swigging champagne and dog-trotting at an exclusive night-club. Their version had been a celebratory dinner to commemorate their triumph over the paparazzi. Somehow, the detail that Derwin had been one of the official photographers on the calendar wasn’t making it into the press. Marty still had feelers out about the tip he’d gotten about hiring Derwin, but publicity might have to die down a bit before he heard anything useful back from them. But Derwin—who had been trying to sneak unauthorized photos at the shoot, but not of the schedule—was not inclined to argue about anything with anybody at the moment. He considered himself lucky to have escaped with his head still attached to his shoulders, and if people bought the idea that he’d been hoping to sell unauthorized pictures to the tabloid press—well, he had.
Whatever story they bought—and there were others, and how, on the fan boards as well as the press—they all bought some kind of newspaper with the pictures in them.
Marty wouldn’t have dared to suggest that there’s no such thing as bad publicity—he certainly knew better—but he sat in the quiet cool of his office and mused about the previous week. While he mused, he lit his well-chewed cigar and took precisely two puffs on it before carefully extinguishing it in the ashtray in the top drawer. And while he enjoyed his two contraband pulls on the cigar, he thought that, even though he did not agree with the sentiment that said that it was more important that they were talking about you than what they were saying, he did believe that it was more important what people in the business believed about you than what they knew about you. It was a cynical thought, but not a stupid one, and Marty sighed and closed his eyes. It was entirely possible that he would just kick back here and sleep in his office, safe and secure from the aggravating world.
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