Falling Star (25 page)

"No, Rico," she declared into her cell phone.
"For the last time, no! That's a lowball offer from Tony and you
must think I have shit for brains to take it."

"Kelly, it's 75 percent more than you're
making now."

"That's because I'm making diddly now." She
settled deeper into the hot water, her wet skin squeaking against
the porcelain, observing how her breasts still jutted straight out
even though she was lying almost flat. That was the beauty of
implants for you.

"I tell you, we're not gonna get more than
this!" Rico bellowed.

Now he was p.o.'ed. Kelly rolled her eyes.
She was the one who should be p.o.'ed. She had an agent who didn't
know jackshit about negotiating.

"I'm telling you, Kelly," Rico went on,
"don't fuck this up by getting greedy. Sure, I'd like more, too,
but that'll come when you've got a track record. Do you know how
amazing it is that you're even
getting
this offer?"

Amazing to him, maybe. Not to her. She
snorted and stared out the massive window of Miles's Japanese-style
bathroom. The bottom of the window was level with the top of the
Jacuzzi tub, and on the other side of the window, level with the
black-bottomed lap pool. Beyond that was sand, then ocean. She let
rip another snort. All these men—Miles, Scoppio, now Rico—they
shoveled so much shit.

"Listen, Rico," she snarled, "don't give me a
line about a track record. Scoppio's trading in somebody with a
hundred years of track record for me, so don't try to tell me it
matters. I ain't buyin'."

He shut up for a while. "One more thing," he
said finally.

She slapped her open hand down on the water.
"What now?"

"Scoppio says, and it's true, you gotta be
more careful about what you say on air. It matters, Kelly. You're
playing at a higher level now. You—"

She cut him off. "I know, I know, I know!
Just make Scoppio pay." She pulled the cell phone away from her ear
and stared at it a second before putting it back. "And that's
final!" She slapped the cell phone shut with a satisfying
smack.

It was pathetic. She tossed the phone on the
slate floor, where it skittered a few feet, then slid to a stop by
the ficus. What did Natalie make, like seven hundred fifty grand a
year? And they wanted her to take one thirty!

Forget it. She rose abruptly and stepped out
of the tub, wrapping a thick black towel around her body and
reaching for the cigarettes she'd left by the sink. She'd just bide
her time and watch the ratings rise. And when they did, Tony would
jump all over himself to sweeten the deal. She knew that, even if
the agent she paid fifteen percent of her gross was too goddamn
stupid to.

*

Across town, Natalie shifted uncomfortably on
News Van 10's cracked blue Naugahyde passenger seat, blazing hot
from the late-afternoon sun. For two hours she'd waited for the
mayor to get his behind back to City Hall so she could grab a sound
bite for her package about his Safe Streets campaign. Now her
sweaty legs stuck to the Naugahyde and she had a serious need to
pee and her script was going nowhere fast. And she had only one
person to thank for sticking her back in the hellhole of
reporting.

Not true
, she reminded herself.
I
have myself to thank, because I could quit. If I were a quitter. If
I were willing to let Scoppio win.

"I saw the mayor's limo." Her cameraman Julio
appeared at her window. "I'm pretty sure he was inside."

"I'll bet he was. Let's make another run by
his office." She grabbed her cell phone to check in with the Desk.
Julio took a swig from what by now had to be a lukewarm Diet
Coke.

A female intern answered. "Assignment
Desk."

"Natalie Daniels. Any new Safe Streets stuff
on the wires?"

"A few new quotes. A pissed-off Watts
resident, a cop from the gang unit—"

Nothing earth-shattering. She cut the intern
off. "Fine. The mayor's back, so we'll go nab him."

"You heard about the aftershock?"

"What aftershock?"

"A 3 point 5. Not that big but people called
in. So Tony bumped you to the second block."

Natalie clutched the cell phone.
Again?

"And you've got a minute forty-five," the
intern reported blithely.

"A minute forty-five? Last I heard I had two
fifteen!"

"You haven't had two fifteen since the
three-thirty." The midafternoon rundown meeting for
The KXLA
Primetime News
. "Wait, I gotta put you on hold."

Natalie clenched her jaw. She used to get an
hour of airtime a night and now she was down to one minute
forty-five seconds. And even that was a battle. The last three days
were reminding her just how frustrating TV reporting could be: your
story got bumped, or cut, and you ran around town often not knowing
till the eleventh hour what piece you would actually file. Or if
you would make air at all. The intern came back, sounding seriously
uncomfortable. "Uh, bad news. Your story's been cut again."

Silence. Natalie had a very bad feeling. "If
it's been cut again," she said slowly, "that probably means it's
become a v/o."

The intern hesitated. "It has become a v/o."
A voice-over, video over which the anchor would read. Over which
Kelly would read.

This has Tony Scoppio written all over
it.
Natalie hung up on the intern and turned to Julio. He was
still standing outside the van. "We're going back," she told
him.

His eyes flew open. "What?"

"We're going back. Pronto."
As Tony would
say
, she added silently.
We're having it out. He's not
dodging me today, too.

For a fat man Scoppio was surprisingly
nimble. Not once since she'd been back from Monaco and off the
anchor desk had she been able to catch him alone. But by God, this
afternoon she would.

Julio sped the van back to the station
without her saying another word. She hopped out before he could
park and raced inside through the loading dock.

Not in his office.

Not at the Assignment Desk.

Not in the lunchroom, or editing, or
Satellite Operations. Where the hell was he?

Then inspiration struck.

Tony Scoppio was just wiping his hands on a
towel when she burst into the men's room.

I wish I had a camera to record the look
on his face
, she thought with satisfaction.
For once
he's
on the receiving end of a shock.

She let the door slam shut behind her. "You
having a good time watching me run ragged through the streets of
Los Angeles?"

He smiled. He looked so damn arrogant. "Beats
professional bowling."

"All week you've been sending me on
wild-goose chases."

"Hey, reporters get reassigned all the time."
His voice was casual. "It's the crush of events. You've just been
off the streets so long you've forgotten."

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

"You're trying to tell me this is just
happenstance?" She advanced a step and set her hands on her hips,
her stance aggressive. "I don't see any other reporter getting
chopped every night of the week."

"That's because you're not aware of anybody
but yourself." He tossed his towel and turned away from her to face
the mirror, smoothing back what hair he still had. "Look at it this
way, Daniels. It'll do you good. Remind you how people work in the
real world."

Then Howard walked inside the men's room. His
eyes behind his tortoiseshell frames went wide when he saw her.

"Out, Bjorkman," she ordered. He backed
through the door and she slammed it shut behind him, whirling again
to face Tony. "What is this 'real world' crap? What I asked you is
what other reporter hasn't made air this week? You tell me!"

His jaw set. She took grim pleasure in
finally making him mad. "I don't have to tell you a damn thing." He
pushed past her.

"You are just reveling in your power over me,
aren't you?" She spoke to his back, so angry herself she could
barely speak. "Even after all the publicity I got for this station
in Monaco. Even—"

"Give me a break." He drew out each word.
"You don't give a good goddamn about the so-called 'publicity you
got this station.' " He turned and raised his hands to write big
quotation marks in the air, his voice mocking. "You're just pissed
off that now you've got to do some real work."

She was flabbergasted. "You don't think
anchoring's real work? Who's kidding who here? Performing live five
nights a week—"

"If that's real work then sign me up."

"I just don't get you." She shook her head.
"I honestly don't get what you have against me."

"You wanna know what it is, Daniels? You
really wanna know?" He advanced toward her and she retreated with
the force of what she saw in his eyes. Contempt. Sheer contempt.
"You don't want to get down in the muck. You don't want to get your
hands dirty. You want to waltz in here at six in your high heels
and your silk suit and work in fucking ease for five hours. Pulling
down seven hundred fifty thou a year."

She shook her head. "That is simply not true.
I am one of the few anchors who does report. I—"

"When you
choose
to. When some story
gets you all hot and bothered you get off your pampered butt for an
afternoon. I got news for you. That's not how it works. Not in my
shop." He turned his back to her and pulled open the door. "Divas,
every last one of you," he muttered as he walked out, "whether
you're in LA or Lone Pine."

*

Geoff stood just off the eighteenth green of
the Adobe Course at the Arizona Biltmore Hotel, watching Rhett
Pemberley prepare to pitch up from about 75 yards out. Pemberley
took a single practice swing, then hit an easy wedge, though the
ball flew over the flag and rolled to a stop a testy twenty feet
past the pin.

Clearly annoyed at himself, Pemberley smacked
the wedge into the fairway. Then a moment later he bent to repair
both the new mark and the divot.
He's basically a good guy,
Geoff thought.
A tad cocksure, but that usually comes with
success and wealth
. Both of which Pemberley had in spades as
chairman of Sunshine Broadcasting, which owned ten television and
radio properties in seven states.

Geoff mopped his forehead with an already
damp handkerchief, though he couldn't do much about the sweat
trickling down his back beneath his polo shirt and sports jacket.
Noon and it was a hundred ten degrees in the shade. That was why in
Scottsdale in late July only stalwart locals like Pemberley who'd
snagged early morning tee times could be found on the links. Geoff
was already looking forward to his shuttle flight back to LA,
though his stomach clenched when he thought of the upcoming
weekend. Of course he would see Janet. And of course he would "pop
the question" this time.

He mopped his brow again, and this time not
from the heat.

Pemberley closed his round with a tap-in
second putt, then said his good-byes to his playing partners,
clearly a regular foursome.

"Nice par," Geoff told Pemberley as the older
man ambled up.

They shook hands. Geoff assessed Pemberley,
who as ever looked the picture of affluent good health.
Mid-fifties, tanned and fit, his hair white but thick, he looked
like a poster boy for "The Good Life," corporate American
style.

"Not a bad round." Geoff caught a glimpse of
the scorecard: five over. "Care for an early lunch at the hotel?"
Pemberley suggested. "Should be tolerably cool on the patio."

"Sounds great."

Pemberley stowed his clubs and the men made
their way toward the Biltmore, a set of striking, low-slung
buildings designed by a Frank Lloyd Wright disciple. They settled
at a well-shaded patio table, waiters scurrying to procure drinks
and menus for Mr. Pemberley and His Guest.

"Come here often?" Geoff grinned as two water
boys almost collided in their haste.

Pemberley smiled easily. "You could say so. I
like the courses, especially Adobe."

"That's saying a lot, given the options. TPC
Scottsdale, of course, and isn't Troon North just up the road?"

Pemberley nodded. "Troon is outstanding." He
patted his washboard-flat abdomen. "And they let you walk the
course so you can actually get some exercise."

"You like the Weiskopf design?" Geoff asked.
He didn't golf but could talk the talk, and he wanted Pemberley
warmed up. He kept up the links chatter long enough for their steak
sandwiches to show up.

"Geoff, I know you're not here on a social
call," Pemberley observed as the waiters scuttled off.

"Correct. I'm here to talk about Natalie
Daniels."

Pemberley narrowed his eyes. "Shouldn't you
be talking to Tony Scoppio about Natalie Daniels?"

"I already have. Which is why I'm here
talking to you. Are you aware that he's replaced Natalie at the
anchor desk with Kelly Devlin?"

"I am."

Geoff had expected that. Scoppio was too
shrewd an operator to make that bold a move without alerting his
higher-ups. Especially higher-ups whose pens were hovering over
mammoth bonus checks.

Pemberley went on. "And though I'll tell you
I'm surprised, I don't interfere in my stations except in
exceptional circumstances."

Geoff leaned forward, elbows on the small
table. "That's what I consider this to be, Rhett. This decision
takes the cake for ill-advised."

Pemberley shrugged. "Who's to know? I'm not
there on the ground."

Geoff launched into his analysis, how Scoppio
was gunning for Natalie for age and money reasons, followed by a
litany of Natalie's achievements. Pemberley listened but offered
little. Geoff persisted though he feared much of the information
was neither new nor, to Pemberley's mind, relevant.

The sandwich plates were cleared away. Both
men ordered new beers.