“You should tell them how valuable you are,” Mary Jo told him. “Tell them you deserve more money.”
God knows they were going to need it with a new baby coming. They had a right, didn’t they, to two children and their two-bedroom house on the west side of town.
“We don’t have it,” Jim Brown said as they faced each other across the dark wood desk. “I’d do it if I could, but we don’t have it.”
“Ah, come on, Jim,” Chuck snorted. “You know I’m worth more and I’m only talking about thirty or forty dollars a week. If I was working by the hour, I’d be making more than that in overtime.”
“We don’t have it,” Brown said again, and shook his head slowly. “You know we get this budget from Back East and we have to stick to it. You’re already at the top for your job.”
“I’m doing other things,” Chuck argued. “I’ve been working with the series.”
Brown shrugged.
“Is there something else I can do to make more?” Chuck asked. “Give me something. I’ve got a baby coming.”
“You know I would if I could, but it’s not up to me.”
“Then who? Carter? Who? I’ll go talk to them.”
Brown smiled. “The guys Back East. You know that. It’s their station.”
He mimicked the hopelessness of the situation by opening his arms wide, palms up.
“Tell them not to buy another microphone and give me the money instead,” Chuck said.
“Wish it were that simple. I really wish it were.”
Chuck sat back. Jim was telling him the truth. He didn’t have control over the money. He would give him a raise if he could. He was a fair man. You could see he cared. It was written all over his face.
“We’ll figure out something, guy. We will,” Brown promised.
“I guess Mary Jo and I have made it before,” Chuck tried to reassure him. “Like you say, Jim, piece of cake.”
Brown smiled. He did say that.
“Piece of cake,” he would tell the guys Back East who called with a suggestion, a request, a demand. He said it with a smile in his voice.
“Sure, piece of cake.”
They loved hearing it. They would carry that “piece of cake” to the men above them and on it would move, through the planning meetings and the luncheons and the after-work drinks.
“Brown said it’s a piece of cake,” they would say. The others would smile. It was good knowing Brown would come through.
He also said, “No problem,” and he meant it. He had no problems in his newsroom, no changes that could not be made, no advice that would not be taken.
Brown offered the guys Back East no opinion other than the one he thought they wanted to hear. He never offered information that did not support their beliefs. He never disagreed with them unless he knew that’s what they wanted. After all, as he told himself and his people, they owned the candy store.
“They want us to do what?” the cry would go up at the weekly newsroom meetings.
He’d shrug and shake his head. It was a silent statement of, “Hey, that’s the way it is. What can you do?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” they would shout. “Are they nuts?”
The people Back East were a combination of other stations and newspapers and charcoal gray suits carrying attaché cases filled with consultants’ reports and rating books.
“Who are they?” Debbie asked the other heads that languidly turned toward the gray parade on one of their sporadic visits.
A pursed mouth, a lifted eyebrow would be her answer. “Who cares?” the movements said.
“Who exactly do we work for?” she asked Chuck Farrell.
“Some guys in Philadelphia who’ll probably sell the place in two years.”
Those people Back East did not think long and hard about the station as long as it worked. The ratings were high, the budget tight. As long as everything but the budget numbers stayed high, everything was fine. As the number two station in the twenty-fifth market, it made the obscene profit that kept even those Back East moderately content until someone felt the need to make his mark by making the station even more profitable.
“Does the local news make money?” Debbie asked Brown.
He smiled and then laughed. It was an open, full, deep laugh. Strange for Brown.
“We are the station,” he said. “We make the money.”
“But we spend it too.”
“Doesn’t matter.” he said. “We make money.”
Which, of course, meant he had been lying to Chuck Farrell. They had plenty of money. They had money for a helicopter, for trips covering stories around the state, for Jean Ann’s hairdresser and wardrobe. They had money for state-of-the-art equipment and a fleet of vans and company cars. They definitely had money for that.
Farrell would get his bonus at Christmas. They all would. The bonuses came in a block and Brown and Carter would divvy it up. Most of them would get about the same amount. Someone would get a little more. One person might only get a token. The message was clear. Time to move on. A good a way as any, Brown thought, for letting them know.
Like he said, no problem. No problem but one. He had wrestled with it for ten years. Carter was the one problem he couldn’t knock loose and he wasn’t sure he should. Carter made his people unhappy but he was also the perfect fall guy. He could be blamed for everything that went wrong in the newsroom.
“What can you do?” Brown’s soft smile would say. “What can any of us do?”
No matter how insipid his comments, how ridiculous his demands, Carter pulled in the ratings and kept them in that solid contender spot. Sometimes he even took them into first place. Happened a few times and it would happen again.
Tom Carter was top dog even if his title of news manager put him one rung below Brown in the
