12: THE SQUEEZE PLAY
Gregory Earnest’s home was a modest ranch house in one of the new developments between Badger Studio and the busy Toronto International Jetport. Although nearly half the expense to the house had gone into insulation—thermal and acoustic—the entire place still rumbled and shivered with the infrasonic, barely audible vibrations of the big jets screaming by just over the roof.
The living quarters were actually underground, in what was originally the basement level. Earnest had spent many weekends digging, cementing, enlarging the underground portion of the house, until now—after five years’ occupancy—he had a network of bunkers that would have made Adolf Hitler feel homesick. His wife made all her neighbors envious with tales of Gregory’s single-minded handiness and devotion to home improvement. While she turned the neighborhood women green and they nagged their husbands, Earnest dug with the dedication of a prisoner of war, happily alone and free of his wife and their two milk-spilling, runny-nosed, grammar-school children.
Les Montpelier was a little puzzled when he first rang Earnest’s doorbell. It was Sunday, the studio was still closed for repairs. Ron Gabriel had left the hospital with two black eyes and several painfully cracked ribs, but no broken bones. Francois Dulaq had a bruised hand and some interesting bite marks on his upper torso. Rita Yearling was doing television talk shows all weekend, back in the States. Mitch Westerly had disappeared under a cloud of marijuana smoke.
Montpelier was not in the jauntiest of moods. “The Starcrossed” was a dead duck, he knew, even before the second day of shooting in the studio. It was hopeless. Yet Gregory Earnest obviously had something optimistic in mind when he had called Montpelier at the hotel.
So, puzzled and depressed, with a microfilm copy of the
The door opened and he was greeted by a smiling Eskimo. At least, she looked like an Eskimo. Her round face was framed by a furry hood. Her coat was trimmed with antlered designs from the far north. She smiled and moved her mouth, but Montpelier couldn’t hear a word over the rumbling whine of the dwindling jet.
“Can’t hear you,” he said and found that he couldn’t even hear himself.
They stood in the doorway smiling awkwardly at each other for a few minutes as the jet flew off into the distance.
“You must be Mr. Montpelier,” said the round-faced woman. Her accent was more Oxford than igloo and Montpelier realized that her face really had none of the oriental flatness of an Eskimo’s.
“I’m Gwendoline Earnest, Gregory’s wife. I was just taking Gulliver and Gertrude to the skating rink…”
Two more Eskimos appeared. Little ones, round and furry in their plastiskin parkas. It wasn’t that cold outside, Monteplier realized.
Gwendoline Earnest shooed her two little ones out and down the driveway. “Greg’s down in the study, waiting for you,” she said, squeezing past Montpelier at the doorway. She started down the driveway toward the minibus parked at the curb. “And thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “for taking him away from his eternal digging for one Sunday! It’s such a pleasure not to hear the pounding and the swearing!”
She waved a cheery “Ta-ta!” and pushed the kids into the yawning side door of the minibus.
With a bewildered shake of his head, Montpelier stepped inside what he thought would be the house’s living room. It looked more like an attic. There were bicycles, toys, crates, suitcases, piles of books and spools of videotape. Another jetliner roared overhead; even with the front door closed, the ear-splitting sound made Montpelier’s teeth ache.
He threaded his way through the maze of junk, looking for a living area. The entire house seemed to be cluttered with storage materials.
It took ten minutes of shouting back and forth before Montpelier tumbled to the fact that Earnest—and the real living quarters—were downstairs in the erstwhile basement. Another few minutes to find the right door and the stairs leading down, then the usual meaningless words of greeting, and Montpelier found himself sitting in a comfortable panelled den, in a large overstuffed chair, with a beer in his hand.
Gregory Earnest sat across the corner from him, equally at ease with a beer mug in one hand. It had an old corporation logo on it: GE.
In the opposite corner of the den, the three-dee set was tuned to the National Football League’s game of the week. Montpelier couldn’t tell who was playing: all he saw was a miniature set of armored players tumbling and grunting across the other side of Earnest’s den, like Lilliputian buffoons who’d been hired to entertain a sadistic king. Only the scintillations and shimmerings of the imperfect threedee projection betrayed the fact that they were watching holographic images, rather than real, solid, miniature figures.
Earnest touched a button in the keyboard that was set into the arm of his recliner chair and the sound of pain and cheering disappeared. But the game went on.
“Imagine how terrific the games will look,” Earnest said in his nasal, oily way of speaking, “when Oxnard’s new system is used. Then you can buy giant-sized three-dee tubes. It’ll look like you’re right there on the field with them.”
Montpelier nodded. There was something about Earnest that always disturbed him. The man was too sly, too roundabout. He’d fit in well at Titanic.
Earnest was wearing a pullover sweater and an ancient pair of patched jeans. He seemed utterly at ease, smiling. Montpelier was reminded of the cobra and the mongoose, but he didn’t know who was supposed to be which.
“You look relaxed and happy,” Montpelier said.
Earnest’s smile showed more teeth. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
After a sip of beer, Montpelier said, “If I were the producer of a show that started off as disastrously as ‘The Starcrossed’ did last week…”
“Oh that.” Earnest made a nonchalant gesture. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“No?”
“Why worry? Is B.F. worried?”
“He sure is,” Montpelier said. “He almost went into shock when I told him what happened in the studio.”
“Really?”
Earnest’s voice got so arch that Montpelier found himself getting angry, something he never did with a potential ally. Or enemy. It was a luxury you couldn’t afford in this business. Not if you wanted to survive.
“What are you driving at?” Montpelier asked, trying to keep his voice level.
Earnest nodded toward the three-dee game that still rolled and thudded across the far side of the den.
“The Pineapples,” he said. “They’re winning.”
“So?”
“So long as they keep winning, B.F.’s money is safe. Right?”
Montpelier fought down a gnawing panic. Either Earnest had completely flipped, which was not too unlikely, and was now certifiably insane—or he knew something that he himself didn’t know, which was a very dangerous position for Montpelier to be in.
“Are, ah… you betting on the Pineapples?” he fished. “Sure I am. Especially since I found out that B.F. is sinking almost all his cash into them. When they win the title, we can forget about ‘The Starcrossed.’ Won’t matter if the show never goes beyond the first seven weeks.”
Slowly, without revealing how little he actually knew, Montpelier coaxed the story out of Earnest. It wasn’t difficult. The Canadian was very proud of himself. He had some friends in the local phone company tap all the special three-dee phones that Finger had installed in the various hotel suites. Montpelier was suddenly grateful that he didn’t rank high enough for such luxury. Only Westerly, Gabriel and Yearling had them. And Gabriel got one
