Authors: Joseph Amiel
Danny would have arrived earlier, but he got lost again trying to find Biff Stanfield’s address. When at last he did turn into the right block, the only parking place was near the corner.
Danny recognized one of the blacks standing against the building, the transvestite he had dealt with last time he was here. The other men were dressed normally.
"Hey, it's my main man, the stud," the queen greeted him.
"Looking to get some blow?"
He found the double entendre funny and began chuckling. None of the others did. One of them asked, "He a buyer?"
"Got a roll could choke a whore." The queen found that even funnier.
The other man became interested. "You like some stuff?"
"How much you got?"
The speaker's eyes narrowed greedily.
"Whatever you can afford."
"You
ain't
got—" the queen started to say to his companion, but
was cut off by a sharp elbow.
"Got some great stuff."
"How much can a couple of thousand buy me?" Danny asked.
"You're in luck. We're having a bargain sale today."
"Let me see it," Danny said.
"Not out here. You want to get us all busted?" He motioned toward an alley separating this corner building from the next.
Biff returned to the window after getting himself a cup of coffee from the kitchen. Danny was still not in sight, but he noticed a new car parked near the corner that was out of character with the neighborhood and had to be Danny's, a Rolls convertible. When no one rang up after a few minutes, Biff became worried.
"Something's wrong," he told Lily. "I'm going to go down and look around."
"Not alone, you're not," she asserted.
No one was around the Rolls, and they began to widen their search.
At first they did not pay attention to the mound in the shadows at the end of the alley between two houses. But as they turned away, Biff decided the form was too long to be a garbage bag. He moved into the alley to investigate.
"Oh, Jesus, it's him! He's dead!"
A pool of blood had formed under Danny's head.
"You're sure?"
"I don't want to touch him and find out."
Lily bent down and placed her hand against the side of Danny's neck. She could feel no pulse. He was already growing cold.
"He's dead all right," she confirmed.
"Look at his hand."
In Danny's fist was a package of white powder. Lily felt in Danny's pockets. They were empty.
Biff was bitter. "I'm waiting upstairs for my big break and this son of a bitch gets suckered for his roll trying to buy coke."
"We'd better phone the police," she suggested.
"And be tied up for a month answering questions? All I know is that Vickers had an appointment at a network tomorrow to sell my show, and I'll be damned if I'll miss that shot."
"But you don't know which network or who with?"
"Maybe he has an appointment book on him."
"Nothing.
I already went through his pockets."
"The car?"
After a quick check to make sure no one was watching, they rushed out of the alley. The Rolls was locked, but nothing lay on its seats.
They hurried back to the apartment. Biff phoned Danny's office, silently praying for someone to answer.
"Vickers Productions," sounded the young assistant's voice.
"You're still there."
She recognized Biff’s voice. They had spoken several times. "I was just waiting for Mr. Vickers. He was going to come in later to sign a couple of letters."
"He and I have a meeting tomorrow at a TV network. Do you happen to know which one?"
"No, he took his appointment book home to Malibu this weekend."
"Well, maybe it's in the files. He and I were working on a series idea together."
"If it's a new series, those files are at his home, too. That's what he was working on this weekend." The professional tone crumbled a bit. "Actually I thought Mr. Vickers would be here already. You don't suppose something is wrong, do you?"
"No," Biff exclaimed "What makes you think I know something?"
"I just asked what you thought."
"I'm looking for him myself. Remember, I said I was looking for him, too."
Biff regained control. The young woman gave him Danny's Malibu address and phone number. He hung up.
"I'm going out to Malibu."
"I'm going with you," Lily declared.
"I don't want you in any deeper than you are now," he said.
"The way your luck's running, you may need a lawyer before the
night's
over."
Chris stumbled twice over words in the first feed, which was not like her. She would have to redo those segments to get them right for later viewers.
She had so much roiling her mind. The two hours making love to Greg yesterday had been rapturous, but the rest of the day had been disorienting. She had expected to feel mortified in front of Ken and Diane, but she had not. She had felt euphoric and grandiose, as if nothing could ever again harm her. Life was rich and full and gratifying. Bountiful love cascaded over her. Last night, back in their own apartment, she had even made love to Ken and enjoyed it enormously. For a while she had thought of Greg as she made love, but then had thought of no one, only how good her body felt and how remarkably Greg had reawakened it.
This morning, however, the troubling thoughts had again assailed her. She had tried to compartmentalize her mind, but she was all of one piece, she knew, for better or worse. All day she had finally sagged with guilt and worry and shame.
After the second feed, she met with Hugo and Alan Howe to go over for the final time the list of those to be fired in the second round of cuts. Greg had held off completing the News Division’s reorganization until the new team could evaluate people's capabilities. Now, as managing editor she had to participate in the wrenching consequence of taking on that role: deciding which of the nightly news’s staff were to be laid off when the next
round of "outplacements," as they were euphemistically termed, were
announced.
One more news producer had to be cut. Hugo insisted that it be Gerry
Torborg
. Chris argued vehemently that she and the broadcast needed him.
"He takes twice as long to get out a piece as anyone else," Hugo maintained, "and agonizes over every cut as if he were supervising the Crucifixion. The other night a late story had to be inserted into the lineup. I told him he had to cut his piece by thirty seconds, and he just about refused to do it. I finally ordered one of the editors to do it without him. We haven't got the budget for that kind of producing anymore."
"You don't like the fact that he stands up to you. He's not one of
your
people. But that's why he's important. He has principles we sometimes lose track of."
"I know you're close to him . . ." Hugo began.
"Damn it, he's given twenty loyal years to this company. He's got a sick wife and two daughters in college."
Hugo thrust the list at her. "Who would you fire instead?"
Chris took a long while to peruse the list. Finally, she handed it back to him. "They're all good."
"And they're all turning out twice as much work as
Torborg
."
"Then are we agreed it has to be
Torborg
?" Alan asked, directing the question at Chris. He would not make the decision without her approval. Chris’s position made her far too powerful to risk crossing.
Reluctantly, she nodded. "When the time comes, I think I have to be the one to tell him."
In no mood to return home for a dinner that required her to heat up the meal the housekeeper had prepared and left for them, she phoned Ken, and they met at a restaurant that attracted celebrities. She and Ken would receive fewer stares there. “Hiding in plain sight,” she had termed it.
He was already seated and waiting for her when she arrived. She could tell he had something he wanted to talk about.
"Ken, could we put off bringing up any major new matters tonight?" she asked. "It's been a hellish day."
She ordered a glass of wine and was sure she would want another soon. Ken's animation did not subside.
"This is something good, Chris. I think you'll be happy to discuss it. Trust me on this." He took her hands in his. "Chris, I think it's time we had a child."
After a long beat, she replied, "For a politician, your timing can sometimes be abominable."
"I was sure you'd love the idea. You've always told me you wanted a big family. We've been married two years. It's time."
Chris pulled her hands free and began to straighten the dinner utensils before her. "Ken, I've just taken on a massive responsibility as anchor, and the jury's still out on my performance and will be for a while. When
Pelley
, Sawyer, and Williams are flying into the latest catastrophe, I'll be a balloon. Viewers will be less worried about the victims than my toppling over and rolling away."
Ken was deeply disappointed. "That isn't going to change if we wait, Chris."
"No, but at least I'll be more of a fixture on the air and can take off a month or two without destroying our ratings." She eyed him suddenly. "It just occurred to me. You didn't happen to choose this particular time for me to get pregnant because you have a tough re-election fight coming
up and a pregnant wife would look better than someone from the mistrusted press?"
"Believe me,
Chris, that
had nothing to do with it."
"That upstate Republican who might run against you has a big family, doesn't she?"
"Five children.
But I swear to you that didn't enter into my thinking at all."
"God, you sound so sincere. You always sound so sincere. Why can men sound so sincere when they're being totally devious?"
Ken was genuinely hurt. "Chris, you know how much I want children."
"I know you do. I'm sorry. I've just got a lot on my mind. Right now having children is out of the question."
Ken shrugged. "I understand."
Oh, no, she told herself, please don't. I couldn't bear it right now if you really did understand.
Sally Foster was reading a magazine by a small light in the living room that overlooked the darkened beach. Suddenly, between the periodic
whoosh
of waves, she heard a scraping noise in the far bedroom. For a moment she thought Danny might have forgotten his key, but then realized he knew she was home and would have rung the bell.
She quickly turned off the lamp and went to the desk drawer for his pistol. He had fumed, "Goddamn
schvartzers
are everywhere!" when showing her where he kept it. She had been appalled by his racism, but remembered the pistol. A Southern girl, she had grown up with rifles and shotguns and had learned to handle a pistol when making her cop show.
She checked the barrel in the dim light to make sure it was loaded and then knelt down behind the desk. She could hear someone entering the front bedroom through the window, then some whispering, and then a second person.
"I thought you were bringing the flashlight," she could hear one of them say.
"Well, we're just going to have to turn on a light," a woman's voice whispered back.
"Let's do it in the living room."
Sally heard them enter and stumble around a bit searching for a light switch. The lights went on.
She jumped up. "Don't either of you move."
"Oh, Jesus!"
Biff cried out. "Don't shoot!"
Neither appeared armed.
"I'm calling the police." Sally always thought Danny was paranoid-crazy on the subject of blacks breaking in, but was he ever right!
"Don't do that," Biff implored her. "We're not thieves."
"Sure," Sally scoffed, "you're building inspectors working overtime."
"No, I'm a writer. I'm working on a project with Danny Vickers."
"Who's she," Sally inquired sarcastically, "your agent?"
"No, my lawyer."
Sally's eyes snapped with incredulity. "That's it! I'm calling the police. When Danny finds out, he'll raise such a ruckus, you two will never get out of prison."
Lily's expression became sympathetic. "Are you his wife?"
"Thank God, no. I've been living with him and having my doubts about that."
"Well, I think I've got bad news for you. Danny's dead."
Lily recounted what had occurred that evening.
Sally's face was drawn. "I was pretty disgusted with him, but I didn't want him dead."
"I'm really sorry for you," Biff commiserated.