“I said that was just for openers. Our station license is up for renewal in two months. Ordinarily the FCC would grant such a renewal as a matter of course. This time, we’re being contested on two grounds. One, that we’ve failed to serve the community interest. Two, that we’re an effective monopoly in this area. We own the leading AM and FM radio stations; we publish the largest newspaper circulation-wise, and of course we own K.Y.S.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Quantrell could see Bridgeport leaning forward like some pudgy Roman emperor, anticipating the kill in the arena before him.
“You intend to fight, of course?” Quantrell asked.
“No, we don’t,” Clairmont said quietly. “It’s not worth it when it comes down to dollars and cents.”
“Your opinion or your uncle’s?”
“Both. Anger flooded Quantrell then. “When I came here,” he said, biting off his words, “your news division was at the bottom of the heap in ratings. It wasn’t hard to figure out why-bad management or, more accurately, management meddling in what it knew nothing about.
There’s damned little journalism left in television for the simple reason that the writing and the gathering of news are managed by men who have no background in it. You dictate what we cover and how we present it, but the fact is that you’re salesmen, not newsmen.
Continue to run your station that way and you’ll get exactly what you deserve-you’ll lose your audience because they’ll tune to a station where they do know what they’re doing.”
Clairmont brushed it aside. “Leroux’s one tough cookie, Jeff. He’s threatening the libel action because of the dropoff in rentals at the Glass House. And as you could guess, he’s also behind the formal challenge to the FCC -on both counts.”
“I told him to soft-pedal that story,” Bridgeport suddenly whined, smarting from Quantrell’s attack on station management.
“Herb, for Christ’s sakes, stay out of this,” Clairmont said, annoyed.
“The point, Jeff, is that we find ourselves in serious danger of losing a major investment because of you. And it isn’t worth it.
That’s it, pure and simple.”
“You want me to back off the story?”
“You misunderstand me,” Clairmont said dryly. “We’ve decided ‘ to terminate your contract.”
“It’s still of two years to run,” Quantrell said tightly.
“I’m sure your attorney and the station’s can reach some equitable agreement. In the meantime, I’d suggest an indefinite leave of absence-starting tonight.”
As easy as that, Quantrell thought, stunned. He hadn’t stood a prayer from the moment he had walked in.
“What about the eleven-o’clock slot tonight?”
“I’ve got a story we could substitute,” Bridgeport volunteered.
“One of the regular anchormen could handle it.”
Clairmont hesitated. “If you want to go on tonight, Jeff, that’s up to you. But no coverage on the Glass House.”
“Frankly, I don’t think I could do a stint in front of the cameras tonight,” Quantrell said quietly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“All right, if you want it that way, Jeff. I’ll see that your recommendations are excellent.” He stood up and held out his hand.
Quantrell ignored it. “With your permission, I’ll spend the rest of the night cleaning out my desk.” He turned and strode out, ignoring Bridgeport standing at the door no longer trying to hide his smile of triumph He stalked through the silent newsroom-the word had already spread-and sat at his desk for a long moment before touching Nothing on it. Firing him would be an admission of guilt, he thought slowly; Leroux could go ahead with his libel suit even after he had left the station and his own dismissal would weigh heavily against management.
Surely the Old Man could see that; his newspaper hadn’t won its Pulitzer prizes by running away from stories. The Old man. He buzzed for Sandy and a moment later she appeared in the doorway, looking slightly apprehensive. The expression was mixed with something else, something that he wasn’t sure he could read but something that he didn’t like.
Well, it could wait; he didn’t have the time to figure her out now.
“Sandy, get me Old Man Clairmont, will you?”
Her mouth dropped and then she said quietly, “Yes, sir.” A minute later his intercom buzzed and Sandy said, “It’s Mr. Clairmont on line to.”
He leaned back in his chair, suddenly confident again.
“Mr. Clairmont,” he said into the phone, “this is Jeffrey Quantrell.
I know it’s late and I’ve already talked to Victor but I think you owe me ten minutes of your time.”
The elderly voice at the other end of the line was polite but firm.
“There’s not much to talk about.”
“In all fairness to me, you owe me the time,” Quantrell insisted.
“There are some facts of which you’re unaware, facts that I didn’t tell your nephew. I think you ought to hear them. I have no wish to argue the point, only to present the facts to you as I see them.” He paused for effect. “You owe me the time, sir, as one gentleman to another. It won’t take long.”
There was a short pause. “Very well, come on up.
Ten minutes, though, no more.”
“I’ll be right there.” Quantrell hung up the phone in mild triumph.
He was counting on the elder Clairmont’s newspaper background, something his nephew lacked. He had momentarily forgotten how the Old Man had won his Pulitzer. With good luck, somewhere within -the withered husk there was still the oldtime reporter, the man whose Pulitzer had been based on the exposure and conviction of a politician who had been his best friend.
CHAPTER 15
Lisolette Mueller-she often wrote her last name in the umlauted form as Muller-was delighted. Her evening dinner with Harlee would be the perfect ending for a wonderful day. It had started with a quiet morning during which she had played the “Pastorale” in massive, thundering cadenzas that literally rattled her apartment windows and, finally, in a fit of bittersweet nostalgia, she had played her worn but precious 78 rpm records of Madame Schumann-Heink in a recital of ponderous lieder.
It had been a marvelous way to spend the morning of one’s sixtieth birthday. She had wept a little, too, remembering the old days in St. Louis, the girls she had known in the Turnverein-and the boys, too, many of whom had made charming fools of themselves over her -and the thousands of students who had passed through her gym and history classes at South St. Louis’ Goethe High School. It had been a full life, she thought, rewarding enough so that at sixty she still felt young and a part of the world and the people around her.
Not that he actually looked sixty, she assured herself.
In one sense it made little difference to her if she did or didn’t, but she had a residual pride in her stocky and still athletic figure-with no trace of a double chin, she reminded herself. Her hair had silvered at the temples and there were gray strands mixed with her natural brunette, but the over-all effect was not displeasing to her eye. Or to others, she added mentally, thinking of Harlee Claiborne.
Granted that his attention was compounded of business interests as well as personal ones, but she was quite sure that he found her attractive.
By evening, after a long walk in the park, her mellow mood had developed into a sort of Volksfreude and she felt the urge to visit some of her friends in the building.
She busied herself in the kitchen for a moment and then called into the living room, “Schiller, come here and see what Lisa has for you.” The gray tomcat, whom she kept against all rules of the building, arched his back at the mention of his name, purred, and sauntered into the kitchen. “Isn’t that splendid? See the kidneys that Lisa has chopped up so nicely for you?” The Harrises were still home, she thought, and she had promised to look in at the Albrechts before going to dinner. “Schiller, we aren’t going to be able to use our extra ticket for the Leningrad-
