Small town politics-where political science meets the theater of the absurd.
Curtain up. Sheriff Curzon was awaiting my entrance.
We pulled into the rear dock at the station within ten minutes. Despite the lobby’s visual clues to the contrary, WWST was on the cutting edge of the television business in a few significant ways. I’d been pleasantly surprised to discover the remote operations equipment was state of the art.
According to the trades I read, the entire office had been established as an experimental sister station to a downtown Chicago minor network affiliate. It began as a way to divide the grunt work it takes to run a station, while boosting the signal coverage. All the boring, space-consuming aspects of the business-like the video library and the accounting department-were routed to the hinterlands where real estate doesn’t do such a ream-job on the bottom line. Over time, everything but the main news studio and the general manager’s office had been shifted westward.
As far as I was concerned, if they could find a way to lose sales and promotion, it’d be an ideal work environment.
“Barb-A-Ra!”
Ainsley and I could hear the shout all the way at the back of the building. This time it wasn’t Gatt calling her. It wasn’t a voice I recognized.
“Barbara, I need you! Now!”
We came around the corner just as Barbara marched by, fists clenched and sensible shoes clomping across the linoleum like combat boots.
Ainsley blew out a breath and shook his head. “She hates when he does that.”
“Who?”
“Jim, the sales manager. Barb works for Uncle Rich, you know. But Jim’s such an-” Ainsley dropped his voice to a whisper, “-asshole-his secretaries keep quitting. Barb gets stuck helping him out.”
A door slammed, muffling the roar of battle. Ainsley grimaced.
Up and down the hall, a flurry of action ensued. Somebody called, “I’m on the phone, people.” Another door- slam echoed. Another shout of “Keep it down.” Then, from behind us, the deepest voice yet called, “Quit slamming the fucking doors!”
One big, happy family, as they say, just living the dream.
“That last guy you heard was Mick, one of the engineers.” Ainsley threw a thumb over his shoulder pointing down the hall that led to the edit bays. “I’ll introduce you later. You’ll like him. Maybe we should go in the back way, to be safe?”
“Sounds good.”
We entered Gatt’s office through a back hall door. Gatt was seated in the same position I’d first found him in yesterday-phone against his ear, slouching deep in the chair behind his desk. “Tell him to kiss my hairy butt and call my lawyer. No way am I giving him two runs in prime.” He looked up and saw us in the doorway. “Gotta go. Call me if you hear any more.”
“We’re here. Where’s Curzon?” I asked.
“In my lobby.” Gatt’s phone rang again almost the instant he hung up. “Go talk to him. Be diplomatic.” He snatched up the receiver and growled, “Hold on-I’m in the middle of something here,” then he called to Ainsley, “Go with. Watch her. She screws up, come get me.”
Diplomacy at its finest.
Sheriff Curzon almost seemed at home in WWST’s retro-tacky lobby. Except for the fact that his suit was too fine-a dark summer-weight wool, lightly breaking cuffs, crisp white shirt, dark narrow tie-he looked like a cover model for an old
Unfortunately, I hadn’t worn anything particularly outrageous today, just my usual jeans and a nice, black T- shirt. I’d thrown a blazer on over the shirt because it was cold and I knew I’d be interviewing Farmer Lowe outdoors. With a touch of evil glee, I slipped off the jacket and tossed it over the back of the receptionist’s empty chair.
Did I mention I don’t usually wear a bra?
As my daddy used to say, when dealing with a hard-ass, the best defense is hard offense. I think my nipples qualified.
“Sheriff, what a surprise.” I stepped out around the counter. “I’d have been happy to come get that press release, you know.”
He snapped his phone shut. His eyes flicked down, no more than a quarter second, but I counted a double blink and two-Mississippis of silence.
“I want the rest of the pictures,” Curzon announced.
“What pictures?” See how diplomatic I can be?
“You were not authorized to take photos at my crime scene.”
“From a public road?” I grabbed the plastic badge that hung around my neck and flipped it so the sheriff could read the large black type: PRESS. I smiled some more.
He took two steps toward me and bent at the waist so his face was level with mine. In a quiet voice he asked, “Where’s that badge going to get you if the police department shuts you out, Ms. O’Hara? Zero cooperation from now on.”
“And your cooperation’s been such a big help to me so far, Sheriff Curzon.”
“It can get a lot worse.”
I spread my hands wide, palms up, innocence incarnate. “I do maybe two, three, stories a month for the next year, Sheriff, then-poof-I’m gone. I think I can stay out of trouble that long.”
“Nothing but business to you, isn’t it?” he asked, the words crisp with bitterness. “You don’t care who gets hurt in the process.”
All of a sudden, it clicked. “But you do.” I lowered my voice. “Who? Who are you protecting?”
He jerked back before he could stop himself, and then popped out in those little jaw-knuckles men get when they clench their teeth.
“We got off on the wrong foot here.” I was suddenly sorry I’d baited him. Sincere-yet-pert is a tough look to pull off. He was worried about somebody and I’d never figure out whom while I had him at DEFCON 1. “Look, I’m not out to get anyone here. I only want to know what happened.” I’ve heard the public ranks journalists right up there with plumbers and lawyers these days, but some of us do try. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, dropped my voice to something soft and private. “Can you help me?”
For a long moment, Curzon hesitated. Cynicism eventually bubbled to the surface of his expression, spoiling my view of his pretty eyes. “Anymore of those pictures turn up in the paper, I know where to come looking, Ms. O’Hara.”
“Happy thought, Sheriff. Any idea when you’ll have that press release ready?”
He tried the death-ray look on me again.
That’s when I noticed Ainsley creeping up behind me; I could feel him twitching.
I walked to the door and held it open. “Have yourself a great day, Sheriff,” I said as Curzon stomped past me. “Come back anytime.”
Good manners are the bedrock of diplomacy.
“Yeah, I heard you. Auto sex-something-sounds good. Sounds great,” Gatt mumbled between calls. “Call the county hospital. They must have some of those head shrinkers. See if you can get someone to expert witness on this. Somebody credible. And make ’em say it a couple times, so we get a decent promo. What is it, again?”
“Autoerotic asphyxiation,” Ainsley offered helpfully.
Gatt looked pained. “Don’t tell your mother I taught you that.”
Ainsley rolled his eyes, one shoulder slouched against the wall. I couldn’t figure out whether he was doing the brooding, James Dean thing for his uncle’s benefit or just avoiding sitting down ’cause it might wrinkle his
