“I choose who I lay, Mr. President. But don’t feel sad—I’ve got you on my list, if there’s a slow night.”
“Is tonight slow?”
“It started that way …”
He threw his arm around her. “You’re an ugly broad. In fact, you’re really a beast. But I hear you’re the greatest. Want to come home with me?”
“You make it sound so romantic.”
His eyes narrowed. “I hear you also have a big mouth. That you spread the word, give a Nielsen rating on every guy you lay.”
She shrugged. “Why not? My ratings save some of my girl friends from shacking up with a blintz.”
Dan’s smile was ugly. “Who the hell are you to give a guy a rating?”
“Let’s say I have an excellent basis for comparison.”
“Want a drink?” he asked, as the waiter placed his Scotch before him.
She shook her head and watched him drain the glass. He stared at her. “You’re getting prettier by the minute, Gargantua. And I’m getting curiouser and curiouser.”
“You’re also getting very drunk,” she said.
“Yeah, time to go home. Maybe I’ll take you home with me.”
“You forget, Mr. President. I make the decision.”
He was almost humble as he stared at her. “Well, wanna come?”
She thrilled at the glorious surge of power. He was begging now. “If I do, you have to send me home in a Carey car.”
“I’ll send you home in a Rolls-Royce if you’re half as good as they say.” He lumbered to his feet and signaled for his check. She was relieved to see he automatically picked up hers.
“Are you sure you’re sober enough to enjoy it?” she asked.
“You make me enjoy it,” he challenged. “I think it’s about time someone gives a rating on you.”
She stood staring at him on the street. “Forget it. I’m too great to waste on a drunk.”
He grabbed her arm. “Scared? Maybe your reputation is phony. Probably is. How could you be any different from any other dame—unless at the finish your cunt plays ‘The Star Spangled Banner’?”
“I think I’ll show you, little man.” She hailed a cab and helped him in.
He had a nice apartment in the East Seventies. Typically bachelor and typically executive. He led her directly into the bedroom and fumbled out of his clothes. She saw the surprise on his face as she undressed. Her perfect breasts always caused this reaction.
“Hey, baby, you’re stacked.” He held out his arms.
She came to him. “A little better than Susie Morgan, huh?”
“Wouldn’t know,” he mumbled. He threw her on the bed. His kiss was sloppy. He tried to mount her but he was limp. She slid out from under him and rolled him over.
“Take it easy, sonny,” she said. “You may be president of the network, but you’re just a boy to me. Now lie back. Ethel will show you what love is about.”
She started making love to him. And as his excitement mounted, as he responded and whispered, “Baby, baby … you’re the greatest,” she forgot that tomorrow he would pass her in the hall without a nod. Right now she was making love to the president of IBC. And right now she felt beautiful… .
SIX
DANTON MILLER tossed the trade papers aside. He couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing. He spun his chair around and faced the window. In one hour he was to have lunch with Gregory Austin. He had no inkling what it was about. No warning, just the goddam phone call and the impersonal voice of Gregory’s secretary.
So far the ratings were about the same. News was still in the cellar, but the new guy, Andy Parino, had just started cutting in from Miami a week ago. He had to admit it gave the show an extra dimension. Well, that was their problem. He had his own. The variety show was canceled. He was positive the Western Gregory had handpicked to replace it would bomb. And he was determined to come in with a mid-season saver. That’s why he had spent every night of the past week with two writers and a half-baked singer named Christie Lane.
Last week he had stumbled into the Copa to catch a well-known comic—Christie was merely the supporting act. At first Dan had paid no attention to this forty-year-old second-rater who looked like an old-time Coney Island singing waiter. Dan had never heard of the bum. But as he watched him, an idea began to form. Suddenly Dan turned to Sig Hyman and Howie Harris, the two writers who had accompanied him, and said, “He’s just right for what I want!” He knew they thought it was the whiskey talking. But the next morning he sent for them and told them he wanted to do a pilot with Christie Lane. They had stared at him with disbelief.
“Christie Lane! He’s a stumblebum, he’s over the hill,” Sig Hyman stated.
Then Howie jumped in: “He can’t even get a Saturday night at the Concord or Grossinger’s off-season. Did you read the Copa show notices in Variety? Christie didn’t even get a mention. The Copa girls’ costumes did better than he did. He only plays New York as a filler-in when they’ve got a jumbo name. And those Irish ballads—” Howie rolled his eyes.
And Sig added the clincher: “Besides, he looks like my Uncle Charlie who lives in Astoria.”
“That’s just what I want!” Dan insisted. “Everyone has an Uncle Charlie they love.”
Sig shook his head. “I hate my Uncle Charlie.”
“Save the jokes for the script,” Dan answered. Sig was right about Christie’s looks. He looked like Mr. Average Man. He’d be perfect for a homey-type variety show. Sig and Howie gradually got the idea. They were top writers who had worked only for established stars. Three months ago Dan had given them each a year’s contract to help him develop new shows.
“We make Christie the host,” Dan had explained. “Form a stock company—girl singer, announcer, do sketches—and we make use of Christie’s singing voice. If you close your eyes the bum sounds like Perry Como.”
“I think he sounds more like Kate Smith,” Sig said.
Dan smiled. “I tell you the timing is right. Television runs in cycles. With all the violence of The Untouchables and its imitators, the time is ripe for a show the entire family can watch. Christie Lane is a second-rater. But no one in TV knows him, so he’ll be a new face. And we’ll use a big guest star each week to attract ratings. I tell you it can work!”
Like many performers, Christie Lane had started in burlesque. He could dance, sing, tell jokes, do sketches. He worked with Dan and the writers with hysterical eagerness. Dan guessed him to be about forty. He had sparse blond hair, a large homely face, and a medium frame that was beginning to show the hint of a potbelly. His ties were too loud, his lapels were too wide, the diamond ring on his pinky too big, the cuff links were the size of half-dollars, yet Dan sensed he could create a likable character out of this oddly assorted but talented man. He was an indefatigable worker. Whatever town he played, he quickly scurried about and managed to pick up extra club dates on the side. He lived out of two wardrobe trunks and when he was in New York, he stayed at the Astor Hotel.
By the end of the first week, Dan’s conception of the show had begun to take form. Even the writers got “with it.” They wouldn’t change the awful ties, the wide lapels. Christie actually thought he dressed well. He liked the goddam ties. This was the key to his character, Dan told them. They’d pick some good songs for him to sing, but at the same time allow him to do something corny of his own choosing.
Dan had sent a brief synopsis of the show to Gregory last week. Perhaps the lunch was about the show. But Gregory wouldn’t waste a lunch just to okay a pilot. He’d send down word to go ahead … or to kill it. He hoped Gregory gave him the green light. It would be grim to have put in all this time and work for nothing. He got a headache at just the thought of all those nights in the smoke-filled suite at the Astor. Christie and those cheap cigars. And always the ever-present show girl from the Copa or the Latin Quarter sitting patiently and wordlessly; reading the morning papers; waiting for Christie to be finished. And the stooges—the two alleged “writers” Christi
e carried with him. Eddie Flynn and Kenny Ditto. They were supposed to supply Christie with jokes. As far as Dan could see they were “gofors.” “Hey, Eddie, go for some coffee.” “Kenny, didya go for my cleaning?” Christie came from a world where a man proved his importance by the stooges he carried. Sometimes he paid Eddie and Kenny as little as fifty dollars a week. When things went well he paid them more. But they were “with him.” He took them to nightclub openings, the racetrack, on tour, and now, as Christie had stated, “My boys must be put on the show as writers. They should each get two C’s a week.”
Dan had hidden his amusement and relief. Four hundred dollars a week tacked on to a budget was minuscule in a major television production. And it would make Christie indebted. Sig and Howie would get the major credit on the screen, and it was always easy to list additional dialogue in small letters in the crawl at the end of the show. Of course they were still far away from the pilot. But if Gregory gave him the Go signal, he could have a pilot on tape by August. He hoped to do the show live—tape it at the same time, so they could use it for delayed markets. They could save a lot of money doing it live and Dan would be a hero if he brought it off.
For a brief moment he felt good. Then he thought of the lunch and the ulcer pain began. What in hell was the lunch all about?
At twelve twenty-five he entered the elevator. The operator punched the button to Penthouse. Dan had once said P.H. also stood for Power House. The name had stuck among the executives. A man could be made or broken up there. Well, he was prepared for anything. He had taken two tranquilizers right after the phone call.
He walked directly to Gregory’s private dining room. He noticed the table was set for three. He was just taking out a cigarette when Robin Stone entered. Gregory walked into the room and motioned them both to the table.
It was a sparse lunch. Gregory was on one of his health kicks. You never knew what to expect. Gregory had a chef who had worked at Maxim’s in Paris. You could come there one day and enjoy a cheese soufflé and flaming French pancakes, sauce that stabbed an ulcer and delighted the taste. This usually happened when Gregory read that a contemporary had died in a plane crash, or was stricken with cancer or some similar inexorable disaster. Then Gregory would smoke, eat all the rich food and say, “Hell, a flowerpot could fall on my head tomorrow.” This state of gastronomic luxury would continue until another contemporary had a heart attack. Then the Spartan regime commenced again. Gregory had been dedicated to this present health kick ever since his last bout of indigestion.
In the beginning the talk was general. They discussed the chances of any team against the Yankees, and the effect of the weather on their golf scores. This was a lousy April. Hot as hell one day, then wham, down in the forties.
Dan silently made his way through the grapefruit, the two lamb chops, the string beans, the sliced tomato. He passed up the fruit Jello. He wondered what Robin Stone was thinking. But most of all his sympathy went to the chef whose talent was being stifled with Gregory’s present regime.
With the coffee, Gregory went into his life story. He told Robin about IBC. How he had created it. His early struggles building a new network. Robin listened attentively, asking an intelligent question now and then. And when Gregory complimented Robin on the Pulitzer Prize and even quoted from some of his past columns, Dan was properly impressed. The old man must think a lot of Robin Stone to do all this homework.
When Gregory put the unlit cigarette between his teeth, Dan sensed the real purpose of the lunch was about to begin.
“Robin has some pretty exciting ideas,” Gregory said expansively. “It would come under network programming—that’s why I invited you here today, Dan.” Then he looked at Robin almost paternally.
Robin leaned across the table. His eyes met Dan’s. His voice was direct. “I want to do a show called In Depth”
Dan reached for his cigarette case. The tone of Robin’s voice had held no request. It was an announcement. He tapped the cigarette. So that was it. Gregory had already given Robin the go-ahead. This was just protocol, pretending to allow him to make the decision. He was supposed to nod and say fine! Well, fuck them—he wasn’t going to make it that easy. He lit his cigarette and took a deep draw. As he exhaled, his smile was intact. “Good title,” he said easily. “What would it be? A fifteen-minute news show?”
“A half-hour. Slated for Monday night at ten,” Robin answered.
(The sons of bitches even had the time picked out!) Dan kept his voice even. “I think we have the new Western scheduled for that spot.” He looked at Gregory.
Robin cut in like a knife. “Mr. Austin feels the In Depth show should go in there. It would prove IBC had integrity—expanding the news media to prime time, plus doing a new kind of news show. The Western can always go to another slot.”
“Do you realize the money we’d lose? We have a chance to sell a cheap game show right after the Western. We’d have to give away the time following your kind of show.” Dan was addressing Robin, but he was talking for Gregory’s benefit.
“If the In Depth show comes off, you’ll still get your prime time rate,” Robin answered.
“Not on your life,” Dan said coldly. “We also won’t be able to get a sponsor interested in a half-hour news show.” (He wondered why Gregory was just sitting there, letting him battle out this cockeyed idea with this egghead!)
Robin looked bored. “I know nothing about network sales. You can take that up with the sales department. My function at IBC is to bring some excitement and expansion into News programming, and I think this will be an exciting show. I intend to travel, to bring In Depth interviews to IBC about current world news. I might do some live shows out of New York or Los Angeles. I promise you this—I’ll deliver a damn good news show that will be entertaining as well.”
Dan couldn’t believe what was happening. He looked at Gregory for support. Gregory smiled evasively.
“When would you put this show on?” Dan asked. It was too incredible to be true.
“October,” Robin answered.
“Then you don’t intend to go on camera before then?” Dan asked. “No seven o’clock news? No special coverage?”
“I intend to cover the conventions this summer.”
“I assume you’ll take Jim Bolt along. His face is well known, and he did a great job in fifty-six.”
“He did a lousy job,” Robin answered, with no change of emotion. “Jim is good with the seven o’clock news. But he shoots no juice or excitement at convention coverage. I’m forming my own team.”
“Any ideas, or is this going to be another surprise?” Dan asked.
“I’ve got it fairly well planned in my own mind.” Robin turned to Gregory Austin. “I’ll take a team of four. The team will consist of Scott Henderson, Andy Parino, John Stevens from Washington and myself.”
This time Gregory spoke up. “Why Andy Parino? He’s not politically oriented. I like him coming in from Miami, but for a convention—?”
“Especially for the convention,” Robin answered. “Andy went to college with Bob Kennedy.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Dan asked.
“I think Jack Kennedy will be the Democratic candidate. Andy’s friendship with the Kennedys might enable him to get us some back-door muscle.”
Dan laughed. “I don’t think Kennedy has a chance. He made his bid for Vice-President in fifty-six and lost. Stevenson will be the candidate.”
Robin stared at him. “Stick to time costs and ratings, Dan. You know that scene. Politics and news are my bag. Stevenson is a good man, but he’s going to be the bridesmaid at this convention.”
Gregory cut in. “Dan—I’m for giving him a shot with this In Depth show. Ratings may be the name of the game, but we need some prestige. If Robin makes a name for himself with the convention coverage, the In Depth show might turn out to be a commercial hit as well.”
“You think you can buck Cronkite, Huntley and Brinkley, men like that, at a convention?” Dan
couldn’t keep the sneer from his voice.
“I’ll do my damnedest. With Andy Parino along, I might get to tape an interview with Jack Kennedy. If he is nominated, it will make an excellent In Depth opening show. Then you can bet that Mr. Nixon will be delighted to give me an interview, for equal time.”
“Okay,” Dan growled. “So you land yourself the candidates—that’s two shows. What else do you plan to do? As I see it, so far it’s just a platform for political candidates.”
Robin’s smile was easy. “I plan to go to London and do an interview with some of the top British stars—like Paul Scofield, Laurence Olivier. Then do one with an American star of equal stature and compare the different attitudes. In May, Princess Margaret will wed Tony Armstrong-Jones. I have a friend with UPI who’s a close friend of Tony’s. I’ll shoot for an interview with him. I’m planning on leaving next week for San Quentin to try and tape an interview with Caryl Chessman. His latest execution date is scheduled for May second.”
“He’ll be granted another stay,” Dan snapped.
“I don’t think so,” Robin answered. “And there’s such a mounting feeling against capital punishment that it’s important to do a show on the subject.”
“I think it’s a little too controversial,” Dan argued. “I think all the subjects you’ve picked are too far out. The public won’t go for this egghead crap!”
Robin grinned, but Dan noticed the coldness in his eyes. “I think you underestimate the public.”
Dan smothered his anger. He went for the cigarette case again. By the time he lit one he was able to get the right note of condescension in his voice. “I think these ideas of yours are gallant and crusading. But while you’re off knocking down windmills, I have to fight sponsors, juggle programs and worry about ratings. Before you take off on this safari, I think we should feel out some sponsors—after all, a network is team play. You can’t grab the ball and run off like a steamroller and expect me to hold the line without knowing the signals. I like your spirit, your enthusiasm, but have you seen the schedule of NBC, CBS and ABC? We need variety shows to compete with them.”