“Helluva night, isn’t it, Mr. Quantrell?” Frank, the ancient newsboy just inside the entrance, had his paper ready for him.
Quantrell grabbed it, tucked it under his arm, and flipped him a quarter. “Yeah, it sure is,” he said and ran for the express elevator, pushing the button repeatedly with his thumb. He could probably run up the stairs faster. he thought. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at his glasses, only succeeding in smearing them by the time the elevator doors opened.
The studios of K.Y.S-TV occupied the thirtieth floor, with the affiliated AM and Fill stations taking up the floor below. The Clairmont Towers itself was forty stories high, with the penthouse the private warren of William Glade Clairmont, the elderly millionaire who owned both the building and the stations, as well as a dozen other enterprises throughout the state.
Quantrell left the elevator and plunged down the hall toward the newsroom, ignoring, the greetings from the people he passed. He was in no mood to be sociable, particularly with fellow workers who, he knew, had no special love for him anyway. Well, you never got ahead by playing nice guy, he thought. Success bred its resentments; the supporting cast almost always resented the star.
The newsroom was the typical bull-pen madhouse of jammed-together desks, a dozen typewriters chattering away, a few monitor screens mounted halfway up the wall, and little cubicles off to one side for the anchormen and a few top investigative reporters like himself. That had been the first battle he had won at K.Y.S. To him, covering the news meant more than filling out a film information sheet and then having some editor/producer write his story and an anchorman do the wrap-around while he himself might appear on screen for all of thirty seconds.. He had won a position as an investigative reporter and the minor skirmishes fought since had established the relative freedom with which he could work.
He had won all his battles, he thought proudly, dating back to the days when he had worked for the local station in Tuscaloosa, covering Governor Wallace barring the doors of the university during the early days of integration.
Christ, there had been casualties along the way, he reflected. He was now one of the most hated-and respected-men in the business. But this time he wasn’t fighting a battle; he was fighting a war. When it was over, he would have bested one of the largest businessmen in the city, built up the ratings of the station until they topped anyone else’s in the state, and put himself in line for a network anchorman spot.
He took off his hat and shook the ice and water off on the floor, then unbelted his coat and hung it on the hook that was reserved for him only-the sole fringe benefit that K.Y.S offered.
“Hey, Quantrell, if you want to play the abominable snowman, why don’t you go back outside? How would you like it if I clouded up and rained all over your copy?”
He deliberately gave his coat an extra shake, murmured, “Sorry, Ed,” and sauntered over to the small, glassed-in office with the news tickers. Outside of the weather, there was no major story on the wires, which meant that his series might be allotted even more time than usual. Fine, he certainly had enough to fill it.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, tasted it and found it bitter, then added a heavy helping of cream, despite what it might mean in the long run to his lean and hungry image on camera. He was staring moodily into his cup and mentally rearranging his thoughts for the program, when Sandy came in with the script that he had ,dictated earlier over the phone.
“all through,” she said brightly. “Should I give a copy to Bridgeport?”
“Sandy,” he said quietly, “executive producers have no authority to censor my scripts. Since they don’t have the authority, there’s not much sense in showing them a copy, is there?” She had a date for tonight, he thought; she had ladled on the eyeshadow like mustard on a bun.
“Going out?” he asked softly.
She hesitated at the door, looking at him with the same combination of attraction and revulsion that he imagined a bird felt for a snake.
“I had sort of a tentative date after the eleven-o’clock news,” she admitted nervously.
It wasn’t that he found her attractive, . Quantrell thought.
Like most small women in their late twenties she had already acquired a slight double chin that would broaden in another few years to give her a baby-doll look.
But she was infatuated with him and he knew she hated and despised herself because she couldn’t help it. In any event, she was much too valuable for him to let her go so easily. “That’s too bad, Sandy, I was hoping we might have a bite together after the broadcast.” He shrugged. “If it’s important, please keep it; I don’t want to be accused of being a Cupid killer.”
She fought with herself for a long moment and he watched the struggle with clinical interest. Finally she said in a low voice, “I could probably get out of it, have a headache … something like that.”
He looked grateful but not too much so. “Thanks a lot, Sandy, I really appreciate it.” He resolved to pay more attention to her in the future. It was always useful to have a personal hold on his female assistants, and Sandy was certainly one of the more efficient ones he’d had in the past few years. She heard all the rumors practically before they started and several times in, the past he had managed to head off political brouhahas with the staff simply because of her advance knowledge of what was happening. He hoped the date hadn’t been serious; now was no time to lose his Girl Friday in a hearts-and-flowers routine.
“Did Infantino call?” he asked.
She looked surprised. “Did you expect him to?”
“Yes,” ‘ he said thoughtfully, “I did.” He had phoned earlier for some information on the fire codes and had expected Infantino to call back.
“I can get him at home. He’s off shift now.”
“Don’t bother. With his kids whooping it up in the background, it’d be like trying to discuss existential philosophy in a boiler room.”
Besides, he thought, for what he had in mind, it would be just as effective if First Assistant Chief Mario Infantino could not be reached for comment.
He glanced quickly through the script, made a few notations on it, then pulled a sheaf of notes from, his pocket, and-handed them to her.
“Those are last-minute inserts; you ant to type me up a clean copy?
I’ll need the final in half an hour.”
She ruffled through the notes. “That’s quite a bit.”
“Sandy, when have you ever let me down?” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
She started to leave, then suddenly turned. “Oh-Mr. Bridgeport is looking for you.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Quantrell murmured. Herb Bridgeport was the station’s news editor as well as the executive producer of Quantrell’s show, a soft, pudgy man who lived in mortal terror of a frown from the station manager or a bolt of lightning from the Olympian heights of W. G. Clairmont’s penthouse. A frightened man, Quantrell thought with contempt, which was the whole problem with television news these days. Too many so-called reporters who were satisfied to be collectors of handouts and press releases, commentators on second-hand information. Very few newsmen conceived of their jobs in terms of investigative reporting. Which was where he was unique. He had seen the need for it within the framework of television news coverage and had managed to outline his ideas to old man Clairmont himself.
Clairmont had been intrigued, and Quantrell had been assigned a small staff and budget and given carte blanche to roam the city and dig up stories. It was paying off for the station now -and, in particular, it was paying off for him. The dailies had even dubbed his small group of legmen “Quantrell’s Raiders.” Catchy phrase, he could do a lot with it at some future date.
He glanced at his watch. Time to make-up and shave before he went on the air. He took the electric razor from the bottom drawer of his desk and headed for the washroom. His beard was heavy and he always liked to shave just before a broadcast. If he didn’t, the slight shadow of beard gave his thin features a sinister and devious look.
He glided the buzzing head-of the shaver over his jowls and quickly reviewed the more important points of his evening broadcast, occasionally making subvocal sounds as he turned a particularly pleasing phrase. It was the right profession for him, that was certain, Quantrell thought. Possessed of a deep, resonant voice and a wry humor to his delivery, he also had the knack for ferreting out the people who always seemed to know where the bodies were buried. In the case of the Glass House, it was Will Shavelson, the former construction foreman who had been
