Falling Star (11 page)

Monday, June 24, 12:24 PM

Tony leaned over his plate to take a big
messy bite out of his Burrito Grande, the perfect Monday lunch.
Everything at Las Casitas Mexican Grill was
grande
,
everything but the tables and the bill. The former were tiny and
round and red; the latter came in under fifteen bucks for two
people. That was why it was his favorite place to play host.

He looked over the basket of tortilla chips
at today's lucky lady: Bobbi Dominguez, his counterpart at KNBC,
the NBC-owned station in Los Angeles. BD, as she was known, fit in
at Las Casitas. Everything about her was big: her hair, her
caftans, her ambition. At the moment she had her big mouth wrapped
around a chimichanga, which had shut her up temporarily. He glugged
his Coke.
Better enjoy the quiet. It won't last.

"So." BD wiped her mouth, leaving a smear of
bright red lipstick on the paper napkin. "Is it true you guys
dodged a bullet with that car-accident lawsuit?"

"They were never gonna sue," he lied.

"That's not what I heard."

"BD, the grapevine doesn't always get it
right. It's like a wire service reporter."

BD arched her brows but remained silent. They
both bent over their plates at the same moment and nearly conked
heads.

"That Kelly Devlin is a real pistol." BD got
the words out even though her mouth was chock-full of food.

Tony chuckled. Even he had been amazed at her
performance with the Manns. Her going religious on them was
brilliant. "She sure is spunky," he deadpanned.

"Kind of a loose cannon, though."

Tony jabbed a tortilla chip at what was left
of the guacamole. Was Kelly getting a bad rep? Or was BD fishing
because she was interested in hiring Kelly herself? "Who wants shy
reporters?" he asked rhetorically. "Anyway, we consider her a real
up-and-comer." He decided to throw out a flyer. "I'm thinking of
having her host a prime-time special."

"Really?" BD's heavily mascaraed eyes flew
open. "What about Natalie?"

"You know"—Tony leaned forward
conspiratorially—"Natalie's doing a little bit of the prima-donna
thing on me. 'Why do I have to do everything all the time,' blah
blah blah. So I figure, might do her good to see somebody else on
center stage for a change."

Tony watched BD digest that, along with the
half pound of fried pork and tortilla she'd jammed down her gullet.
He knew full well that little tidbit would make the rounds of LA
news directors by dinner. It would help quash any interest any
other station might have in his primary female anchor.

He didn't want Natalie getting rival offers.
If by some chance he decided to keep her, competition would only
drive up the price. And if he let her go, he didn't want viewers
following her like lapdogs to some other station.

Tony gave his mouth one last swipe and tossed
a few bucks on the table. BD clattered out of her chair.

"You know what'd really put Natalie in her
place?" she asked when they emerged onto the street, baking in
Hollywood's summer sun.

"What?" Tony unlocked the passenger door on
his Honda.

"Having to coanchor with Kelly one of these
nights."

Tony laughed out loud. He clapped BD on her
caftaned shoulder. "That's why I like you. You think just like
me."

*

"Goddamn beeper!"

Kelly stood in KXLA's makeup room, blinking
hard from the mascara wand she'd just jabbed in her eye. When she'd
left that stupid mayoral press conference, she'd forgotten to reset
her beeper from buzz to tone. And then when it went off, it totally
freaked her out.

She angled it away from her waistband.
212.555.8697. A New York area code. Who the hell would page her
from New York?

She punched the number into the makeup room
phone. Too bad the makeup girl would get billed for the
long-distance call.

"
Hard Line
," a female straight out of
Brooklyn rasped.

"What?"

"You called me, remember?
Hard
Line
!"

The national tabloid TV show? Kelly's heart
began to pound. "Uh, hello. My name is Kelly Devlin, from KXLA Los
Angeles. I was paged by—"

"Right. Hold on."

Kelly tapped her foot impatiently. Maybe they
wanted to hire her. Her agent could get her out of her KXLA
contract. Maybe ...

"Kelly? Bruce Lightner, senior producer."

"Bruce," she purred. "It's a pleasure to meet
you over the phone."

"Likewise. Listen, we saw the piece you did
on the car accident the night of the quake. Very edgy."

"Thank you." She tried to sound modest but
confident.

"We're doing a spot on killer natural
disasters—you know, freaky shit that happens during twisters and
earthquakes and volcanos and like that—and we might want to use
some of your car-accident video. Can you arrange for us to see more
of it?"

Damn, they didn't want to hire her.

But they had seen her stuff.

And they liked it enough to call her.

But what about the Manns? Kelly hesitated.
She could never win them over a second time. If that video of their
kid aired again they'd be so pissed they'd definitely file
suit.

But, she told herself, the Manns would never
see it. They were too goddamn religious to watch a good show like
Hard Line
.

"I'll FedEx you a dub," she said. The
opportunity to get in with these people was just too good to pass
up.

Kelly got the address, then hung up and
grinned at herself in the mirror. This call was proof positive she
was doing something right. Who else at KXLA had ever gotten beeped
by a national tabloid TV show?

*

Monday night as 10 PM approached, a techie
rapped on the grimy passenger-side window of ENG Truck 2, rousing
Natalie's attention. "We need you out there," he shouted through
the glass.

She looked up from reviewing her script for
the newscast and cranked down the window. A blast of wind whipped
inside, riffling her script pages and hurling dust in her eyes. She
blinked, hard.

"We're about ten minutes back."

"Thanks." She rubbed her right eyelid, trying
to resettle her contact lens without smearing her heavy on-air
makeup. "Charlie, is it? You're the engineer I hired for tonight?"
She didn't say,
The last guy on the list?

The guy nodded. "Yeah, I was lookin' to get
together with the buds, you know, pour a few back, but, hey, duty
called." He cocked his head at the sky. "But the wind's making it
tough to keep up the bird." He made quite a picture: shaggy blond
hair hanging below a Dodgers cap, jeans that looked like they'd
never seen the inside of a washing machine, mustache newly primed
by greasy takeout. He didn't look like much, but then again, the
best techies rarely did.

"Well, I appreciate your help."

"My pleasure, ma'am." He saluted and
sauntered off.

She rolled the window back up and fiddled
with her earpiece for the umpteenth time. She felt fairly calm.
Fairly
calm. But she'd hung this remote on a wing and a
prayer. And anchoring from the field, even under the best of
circumstances, was a thousand times harder than anchoring from the
studio. There were so many variables. Cold. Heat. Wind. Dirt.
Noise. Onlookers. Satellite problems.

And somehow she couldn't forget her recent
flub. The damn thing sat in her memory like footprints in
concrete.

It happened once—it can happen again.

No!
She clamped her eyes shut.
It
happened once in a million times. It's the exception, not the
rule.

Another knock on the window. This time from
the freelance field producer, a young bespectacled woman in jeans
and an oversize flannel shirt whose name Natalie couldn't
remember.

Her pulse sped up. She could delay it no
longer.

She secured her script on a weather-beaten
clipboard and attached a Bic to the metal clasp. With a deep breath
she pushed open the door, the wind gusting around her.

"Here's your mark." The producer girl pointed
to two strips of red duct tape laid out in a stand-here X. Natalie
set herself up, from habit angling her right shoulder toward the
camera. Behind her rose the collapsed hulk of the freeway, now
cordoned off by orange tape. And floodlit courtesy of KXLA.

Dave—big, burly, cheerful Dave, the only
other person besides her who wasn't freelance—was working audio. He
handed her the remote box for her earpiece, and as soon as she
plugged in she heard program, the drama that on Mondays preceded
The KXLA Primetime News
. The bird was up.

"Level okay?" Dave asked.

She nodded.

"I don't want to use a hand mike 'cause of
the wind and 'cause you'll need your hands free." He jerked his
head at her clipboard. "Here."

She strung the lavalier up under her jacket
and attached the mike to her lapel. At least she'd had the good
sense to put on thick black trousers, boots, a cashmere turtleneck,
and a tweed jacket. Even in summer it could be seriously chilly in
LA at night. She stomped her feet, partly to stay warm, partly to
stop the tremors of nervousness that coursed through her.

Dave eyed her closely as he clipped the mike
box to her waistband.

She flushed. Apparently she wasn't the only
one wondering whether Natalie Daniels would mess up again
tonight.

Maybe you've gotten soft from all those years
behind the anchor desk ...

"All set," Dave pronounced. He ambled back
behind the cameraman, a tall African-American Natalie had never
met.

"Ninety seconds back," Dave intoned.

Again Natalie felt her heartbeat ratchet
higher. She held up the clipboard to scan her script. The gusts
were so strong, she had to grasp it with both hands. The producer
girl still hadn't budged from the ENG truck, where she was locked
in conversation with Charlie. He was shaking his head and pointing
at the sky.

Natalie frowned.
Was something
wrong?

"Thirty," Dave announced.

A crowd had gathered. Natalie noticed their
furtive nudges and pointings and whisperings. Was it just the
spectacle of a live news shot? Or were they thinking about her
mistake on the air? A tremor ran through her like a current. She
glanced again at her notes.
I never used to get this
nervous.

You never used to fuck up.

"Ten."

She fixed her gaze on the lens and took a
deep breath.
Forget everything. It's only you and the camera
now.

Seconds later the voice of her coanchor, Ken,
filled her ear. The show had opened. News video appeared on the
monitor set up at the base of the camera. "A chain reaction pile-up
on the 405 in Redondo Beach leaves three dead and six injured."

The wind gusts were now so strong she had to
plant her feet a foot apart on the asphalt just to stay in place.
She clutched the clipboard tighter in her hand.
Steady, steady
...

Again Ken spoke. "U.S. military forces in the
Adriatic Sea are on high alert, reacting to yet another deadly
clash in Montenegro."

She lifted her chin and stared defiantly into
the lens, her eyes stinging from the wind.
I can do
this.

"And one week after a 6 point 2 earthquake
rumbled across the Southland, authorities have substantially raised
their estimate of the damage. Natalie Daniels is live with the
latest."

Deep breath. "Ken, the damage estimate is now
over half a billion dollars, and local authorities tell me—"

"Fuck!"

Natalie ignored the outburst, which had come
from Charlie. "—they're asking for assistance from Sacramento—"

"We lost the bird!"

What?
"—and plan to meet with the
governor—"

"Stop! Stop, Natalie." The producer girl ran
over, arms flailing, eyes panicked behind her lenses. The knot of
onlookers started to chatter. "We lost the bird. Charlie says it's
the wind."

"In the middle of my open?" It was true,
Natalie realized. She was no longer hearing program, just a series
of staccato clicks as Charlie struggled to reconnect with the
satellite.

"Pretty much at the beginning. Wait." The
girl pressed her headset tighter against her ear. "Right." She
looked at Natalie again. "Ken's tossed to the Redondo Beach live
shot. He'll come back to us after that, presuming we're up."

"We'd better be up."

"We're up!" Charlie yelled from the truck,
giving a frenzied hand signal. And then there was program, loud and
clear in her ear.

She got back on her mark.
Easy. Think.
Lose page one
, she told herself and threw it on the ground. It
whipped away in no time, carried off by a gust.

"Okay," the producer girl said. "Ken's
tossing back to us . . . Wait." She paused. "Not the damage
estimate piece, it's not cut yet. Toss to the Cal Tech package,
pageB5."

B5? How the hell could the damage piece not
be cut yet?
Don't think about it. Focus.
She willed her
fingers to stop shaking.
There's A6. Just put it in the bottom
of the script pile and put B5 on top …

"Back in ten," Dave pronounced.

Ten seconds? Where's B5? Is that the one
about the new fault line?
Natalie fumbled with the script, her
fingers cold and damnably slow to cooperate.

"Five," she heard Dave say.

Where the hell is it?
Then there it
was. She ripped it out of the pack.

Ken's voice. "We go back now to Natalie
Daniels, who is—"

And suddenly her fingers slipped, the
clipboard slammed to the ground, and the pages went flying, flying,
like a white rush of birds taking off.

Ignore it. Don't think. Talk. You
practically know the script by heart anyway.
"Ken,
seismologists at Cal Tech are reporting that the fault line which
caused the quake—"