red light above the Number One camera winked out, he threw his script on the desk and leaned back with a sigh, fishing for a cigarette. One of the cameramen looked at him and made a gun-at-the-head motion with his finger.
A moment later, a technician stuck his head out of the control booth and asked, “You sure you know what you’re doing, Jeff?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been.”
“It was a sensational bit but . .
Quantrell smiled. “i’ll drink to that. How about joining me for a quickie, or are you on duty?”
“Got time for a short one; Reynolds can handle the movie.”
They ducked out for half an hour, Quantrell’s favored procedure immediately following a show. The chill air cleared his head and the two drinks gave him time to do some subconscious thinking about the eleven-o’clock follow-up, which was usually laced with viewer response from the first show, letting him editorialize more than he normally could on the earlier slot.
After coming back, he started to jot down some notes for Sandy to transcribe. Once the broadcast was over, he thought, he’d take her out to the Stationbreak for drinks and a steak and then it’d be her place or his. His good deed for the’day, he thought to himself.
“Do you have time to talk now, Mr. Quantrell?” The note of formality in Bridgeport’s voice caught Quantrell off guard and he glanced up sharply. Trouble, he thought.
Bridgeport was too poker-faced; ordinarily his chubby features were a blackboard on which were written the woes of the world, or at least of the station.
“Can’t it wait until morning. I’ve got to shape up the eleven-o’clock show.”
“I didn’t mean with me,” Bridgeport said with mock deprecation, a hint of a triumphant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I meant with Mr. Clairmont. You remember; he’s the station manager.”
Quantrell stared at him for a moment. The Old Man’s nephew had inherited the station manager spot after graduating from college and spending a year holding down various secondary positions. Everything that could be said against nepotism applied to Victor Clairmont except for the single important fact that he was a man of some intelligence.
Quantrell knew that Clairmont didn’t like him, but it was the Old Man who had given him carte blanche and young Clairmont had gone along.
He jammed his notes in his pocket and stood up. “Where’S he at?”
“In his office.” Again, the hint of a malicious smile “He’s been waiting for you ever since the end of the show.”
“Too bad I didn’t know sooner; we could have had a drink together.”
Quantrell unfolded from the chair and followed Bridgeport as he waddled down the hall. There wasn’t much doubt that Bridgeport was pleased at the Turn of events, Quantrell thought, but he doubted that the news director was behind it. It wasn’t like him to invite a head-on confrontation … he was more the weasel type. He’d sweat and worry and wring his hands but he wouldn’t do anything-that is, until somebody higher up had expressed his displeasure and then Bridgeport would dart in for the kill. So if it hadn’t been Bridgeport, then it had to be somebody else. In the organization itself? Not likely, he thought, nobody had that kind of authority.
More likely it was pressure from the outside, and if that were the case, then the source was obvious.
Clairmont’s spacious office was paneled in mahogany with signed photographs of celebrities lining the walls and a huge globe set in a floor frame for those moments when Clairmont might want to spin it and play God.
Victor Clairmont was sitting behind his pool-table-sized desk, a neatly tailored twenty-five with a carefully trimmed mustache that worked valiantly but in vain at trying to make him appear older.
“Please sit down, Jeff.”
“Thank you, Victor.” There was one chair near the desk and Quantrell made himself comfortable in it, leaning back in the deep cushions, well aware that he looked every inch the experienced telecaster. He had the appearance and the voice and he knew how to use both. There was no other chair nearby and Bridgeport stood nervously by the desk, trying to make up his mind what facial expression might be the most appropriate. Quantrell smiled to himself.
“Jeff, I won’t beat around the bush; this isn’t going to be a friendly conference. I’ve never liked your series about the Glass House and Wyndom Leroux. After tonight’s show, I like it even less.”
Quantrell nodded. “You’ve always been frank in that respect. My carte blanche for the series came from your uncle. He said I could do as I wished and I took him at his word.”
“I never agreed with him,” Clairmont continued, his face serious.
“I never thought it was good for a reporter to be completely independent of management. Basically, your idea was viable-an expose series to improve the slipping news rating of the station.” He glanced at Bridgeport who flushed and looked like he was sorry he had stayed for the meeting . “Unfortunately, I now think a personal element has crept into your series, I think you’ve turned your carte blanche into a vendetta.”
“There’s nothing personal about any series on Leroux,” Quantrell said easily. “The facts are as I’ve stated them; they’re easily documented.”
Clairmont’s voice sharpened. “Are they? A few broadcasts back you mentioned that the floors and walls of the Glass House had been breached by the utilities people, making it easy for smoke to spread throughout the building in case of fire.”
“That’s right. The phone people have breached walls and floors to run their lines through. The same is true of the firm that installed the security TV system. Even the hVAC-heating, ventilating, and air-conditioning-people have broken through the floors and walls. You can go over there and see for yourself.”
“I’ve done that. One of Leroux’s assistants took me on a complete tour. Granted that the fire walls were broken through at one time, since then they’ve been completely resealed.”
“Not in every case. In any event, plaster is about as useful in preventing the spread of -fire as wrapping paper.”
Clairmont stared at him for a long moment. “I’ve talked to different contractors throughout the city, Jeff.
It may not be a good practice but it’s a common one.
Why crucify Leroux for it?”
“I wasn’t aware that I had,” Quantrell said coldly. “I can’t cover every building in the city; the Glass House is one of the newest and biggest, it makes a good example.”
Clairmont seemed about to say something more, then apparently changed his mind. “I assume you’ve got good sources for what you’ve had to say.”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind telling Me who they are?”
Quantrell laughed. “You’re not a congressional committee, Mr. Clairmont-Even if you were, I’d rather go to jail than tell my sources.
Other newsmen have, I’m no different in that respect.”
“Then we have to take the accuracy of what you say on good faith?”
“If you don’t want to, then you should never have hired me.
Presumably you took me on because of my reputation as a good newsman; you were willing to pay the salary I asked for because you wanted to improve your ratings. I’ve succeeded in doing that; in return, I have every right to believe I have the backing of management.”
Clairmont looked uneasy. “Look, Jeff, let’s quit fencing. I’ve got a problem … the station has a problem.
And because of that, you’ve got a problem.”
“I’m dying to hear what it is.
“For openers, a multimillion-dollar libel suit. That’s why I asked about your sources. If they’re not top notch …” He shrugged. “We couldn’t afford the beating we’d take.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Quantrell said, beginning to relax. “My sources are the best.”
“But you won’t tell me who they are?”
Quantrell hesitated and decided to make a concession.
“Not just yet; perhaps later.”
Clairmont didn’t look impressed and Quantrell felt genuinely worried for the first time. There was something else.
