Hard News (2 page)

Rune shut the monitor off and joined the Model at his cluttered desk. “I think I want to see her.” “Her? Who?” “You know who I mean.” The Model’s face broke into a wrinkleless smile. “Not Her, capital H?” “Yeah.” The Model laughed. “Why?”

Rune had learned one thing about TV news: Keep your back covered and your ideas to yourself- unless the station pays you to come up with ideas, which in her case they didn’t. So she said, “Career development.”

The Model was at the door. “You miss this assignment, you won’t have any career to develop. It’s ammonia. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Ammonia,” Rune repeated. She wound a paisley elastic silkie around her ponytail then pulled on a black leather jacket. The rest of her outfit was a black T-shirt, yellow stretch pants and cowboy boots. “Just give me ten minutes with capital H Her.”

He took her by the arm, aimed her toward the door. “You think you’re just going to walk into Piper Sutton’s office?” “I’d knock first.” “Uh-uh. Let’s go, sweetheart. Double time. You can visit the lion’s den after we get back and wrap the edits.”

A figure stepped out of the corridor, a young man in jeans and an expensive black shirt. He wore his hair long and floppy. Bradford Simpson was an intern, a JournalismSchool senior at Columbia, who’d started out in the mailroom his freshman year and was by now doing slightly more glamorous jobs around the station - like fetching coffee, handling deliveries of tapes and occasionally actually assisting a cameraman or sound crew. He was one of those madly ambitious sorts - Rune could identify with
that
part of him - but his ambition was clearly to get his degree, don a Brooks Brothers suit and plunge into the ranks of corporate journalism. Sincere and well liked around the O&O and the Network, Bradford (“Don’t really care for ‘Brad’”) was also cute as hell - in a preppy, Connecticut way. Rune had been shocked when he had actually asked her out a few days ago.

But while she appreciated the offer, Rune had found she didn’t do well dating people like Mr Dockers TopSider and, instead of his offer for dinner at the Yale Club, she’d opted to go film a fire in lower Manhattan for the
Live at Eleven
newscast. Still, she wondered if he’d ask her out again. No invitations were forthcoming at the moment, however, and he now merely looked at the screen, saw Randy Boggs’s lean face on the monitor andasked, “Who’s that?” “He’s in jail,” Rune explained. “But I think he’s innocent.” Bradford asked, “How come?” “Just a feeling.” Rune,” said the Model. “We don’t have time. Let’s go” She said to them, “That’d be a pretty good story - getting an innocent man out of

jail.” The young man nodded and said, “Journalists doing good deeds - that’s what it’s all

about.” But the Model wasn’t interested in good deeds; he was interested in ammonia.

“Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Rune,” he said like an impatient professor. “Now.” “Oh, the tanker truck,” Bradford said. “See?” the Model said to Rune.
“Everybody
knows about it. Let’s
move.”
“It’s a goddamn traffic accident,” Rune protested. “I’m talking about an innocent

man in jail for murder.” Bradford said. “There
is
something about him . . .” Nodding at the screen. “He looks

more like a victim than a killer, if you ask me.” But before she could agree, the Model took Rune’s arm and led her firmly to the elevator. They descended to the ground floor of the four-story building that occupied a whole square block on the Upper West Side. The building had been an armory at one time then had been bought by the Network, gutted and rebuilt. Outside it was scabby and dark and looked like it ought to be housing a thousand homeless people; inside was a half-billion dollars’ worth of electronic equipment and TV celebrities. A lot of the space was leased to the local O&O station but most of it was for the Network, which recorded a couple of soap operas here, some talk shows, several sitcoms and, of course, Network News.

In the equipment room beside the parking garage Rune checked out an Ikegami video camera with an Ampex deck and a battery pack. Rune and the Model climbed into an Econoline van. She grabbed the lip of the doorway and swung up and in, the way she liked to do, feeling like a pilot about to take off on a mission. The driver, a scrawny young man with a long thin braid of blond hair, gave a thumbs-up to Rune and started the van. Explosive strains of Black Sabbath filled the van.

“Shut that crap off!” the Model shouted. “Then let’s move - we’ve got ammonia on the BQE! Go, go, go!”

Which the kid did, turning down the tape player and then squealing into the street hostilely, as if he was striking a blow for classic rock music.

As they drove through Manhattan Rune looked absently out the window at the people on the street as they in turn watched the van, with its sci-fi transmission dish on top and the call letters of the TV station on the side, stenciled at an angle. People always paused and watched these vans drive past, probably wondering if it was going to stop nearby, if something newsworthy was happening, if they themselves might even get to appear in the background of a news report. Sometimes Rune would wave at them. But today she was distracted. She kept hearing Randy Boggs’s voice. The first thing you think is Hell, I’m still here . . . I’m still here . . . I’m still here.

“So, why can’t I just walk into her office and talk to her?” The Model snapped, “Because she’s the anchor.” As if nothing more need be said.

Rune trudged beside him through the scuffed corridor that led from the elevator back to the newsroom. The worn carpet was sea-blue, the parent company’s corporate color. “So what if she’s an anchorwoman. She’s not going to fire me for talking to her.”

“Well, why don’t you quit talking about it and make an appointment.” The Model was in a bad mood because, yes, it had been an ammonia truck and, yes, it had tipped over but no one had told the station that the truck was empty. So, no spill. It had even had the courtesy to roll over onto the shoulder so that rush-hour traffic wasn’t disrupted much at all.

They arrived in the studio and Rune replayed the tape she’d shot of the truck. The Model looked at the footage and seemed to be trying to think of something unpleasantly critical to say about her work.

She said enthusiastically, “Look, I got the sunset. There on the side of the truck. That ridge of red, see-“ “I see it.” “Do you like it?” “I like it.” “Do you mean it?” “Rune.” As the tape was rewinding Rune said, “But Piper’s like ultimately my boss, isn’t

she?” “Well, in a way. She works for the Network; you work for the local owned-and

operated station. It’s a strange relationship.” “I’m a single woman living in Manhattan. I’m used to strange relationships.” “Look,” he said patiently. “The President of the United States is in charge of the

Army and Navy, okay? But do you see him talking to every PFC’s got a problem?” “This isn’t a problem. It’s an opportunity.” “Uh-huh. Piper Sutton doesn’t care diddly-squat for your opportunities, sweetheart.

You have an idea, you should talk to Stan.” “He’s head of local news. This is national.” “Nothing personal but you
are
just a camera girl.” “Girl?” “Cameraperson. You’re a
technician.”
Rune continued cheerfully. “What do you know about her?” “Her with a capital H again?” The Model looked at Rune for a moment in silence. Rune smiled coyly. “Come on, please?”

He said, “Piper Sutton started out where I am, right here - a reporter for the local O&O in New York. She went to the University of Missouri Journalism School. Anyway, she did beat reporting, then she moved up in the ranks and became head of radio news, then executive producer for radio. Then she got tapped as a reporter for the Network.

“She was overseas a lot, I know. She was in the Mideast and she got an award for covering the Sadat assassination. Then she came back here and anchored the weekend program then moved on to
Wake Up With the News.
Finally they tried to move her into the parent. They offered her something pretty big, like executive VP in charge of O&Os. But she didn’t want a desk job. She wanted to be on camera. She finagled her way into
Current Events.
And there she is. She makes a million dollars a year. Lives on Park Avenue. That lady is ground zero in the world of broadcast journalism and ain’t gonna want to spend time having a confab with the likes of you.” “She hasn’t met me yet,” Rune said. “And she devoutly wants to keep it that way. Believe me.” “How come everybody talks about her like she’s some kind of dragon lady?” The Model exhaled a sharp laugh through his nose. “I like you, Rune, which is why I’m not going to ruin your evening by telling you anything more about Piper Sutton.”

3 “What do you want?” The woman’s raspy alto V V voice barked. “Who
are
you?” She was in her early forties, with a handsome, broad, stern face. Her skin was dry and she wore subtle,

powdery makeup. Eyes: deep gray-blue. Her hair was mostly blonde though it was masterfully highlighted with silver streaks. The strands were frozen in place with spray. Rune walked up to the desk and crossed her arms. “I-The phone rang and Piper Sutton turned away, snagged the receiver. She listened,

frowning. “No,” she said emphatically. Listened a moment more. Uttered a more ominous

“No.” Rune glanced at her cream-colored suit and burgundy silk blouse. Her shoes were

black and glistening. Names like Bergdorf, Bendel and Ferragamo came to mind but Rune had no idea which name went with which article of clothing. The woman sat behind a large antique desk, under a wall filled with blotched and squiggly modern paintings and framed photos of her shaking hands with or embracing a couple of presidents and some other distinguished, gray-haired men.

The phone conversation continued and Rune was completely ignored. She looked around.

Two of the walls in the office were floor-to-ceiling windows, looking west and south. It was on the forty-fifth floor of the Network’s parent company building, a block away from the studio. Rune stared at a distant horizon that might have been Pennsylvania. Across from the desk was a bank of five 27-inch NEC monitors, each one tuned to a different network station. Though the volume was down, their busy screens fired an electronic hum into the air. “Then do it,” the woman snapped and dropped the phone into the cradle. She looked back at Rune, cocked an eyebrow. “Okay. What it is is this: I’m a cameraman for the local station and I-“ Sutton’s voice rose with gritty irritation. “Why are you here? How did you get in?”

Questions delivered so fast it was clear she had a lot more where they came from. Rune could have told her she snuck in after Sutton’s secretary went into the corridor to buy tea from the ten A.M. coffee service cart. But all she said was “There was nobody outside and I - “

Sutton waved a hand to silence her. She grabbed the telephone receiver and stabbed the intercom button. There was a faint buzz from the outer office. No one answered. She hung up the phone. Rune said, “Anyway, I - “ Sutton said, “Anyway, nothing. Leave.” She looked down at the sheet of paper she’d been reading, brows narrowing in concentration. After a moment she looked up again, genuinely surprised Rune was still there.

“Miss Sutton . . .
Ms.
Sutton,” Rune began. “I’ve got this, like, idea - “ “A
like
idea? What is a
like
idea?” Rune felt a blush crawl across her face. “I have an idea for a story I’d like to do. For your show. I - “ “Wait.” Sutton slapped her Mont Blanc pen onto the desk. “I don’t understand what

you’re doing here. I don’t know you.” Rune said, “Just give me a minute, please.” “I don’t have time for this. I don’t care if you work here or not. You want me to call

security?” The phone rose once more. Rune paused a moment. Took a figurative breath. Okay, she told herself, do it. She said quickly,
“Current Events
came in at number nine in nationwide viewership according to the CBS/TIME poll last week.” She struggled to keep her voice from quavering. “Three months ago it was rated five in the same poll. That’s quite a drop.”

Sutton’s unreadable eyes bore into Rune’s. Oh, Christ, am I really saying these things? But there was nothing to do but keep going. “I can turn those ratings in the other direction.”

Sutton looked at Rune’s necklace ID badge. Oh, brother. I’m going to get fired. (Rune got fired with great regularity. Usually her reaction was to say, “Them’s the breaks,” and head off to Unemployment. Today she prayed none of this would happen.) The telephone went back into the cradle. Sutton said, “You’ve got three minutes.” Thank you thank you thank you . . . “Okay, what it is, I want to do a story about-“ “What do you mean
you
want to do a story? You said you’re a cameraman. Give the

idea to a producer.” “I want to produce it myself.” Sutton’s eyes swept over her again, this time not recording her name for referral to the Termination Division of the Human Resources Department but examining her closely, studying the young, makeupless face, her black T-shirt, black spandex miniskirt, blue tights and fringy red cowboy boots. Dangling from her lobes were earrings in the shape of sushi. On her left wrist were three wristwatches with battered leather straps, painted gold and silver. On her right were two bracelets - one silver in the shape of two hands gripped together, the other a string friendship bracelet. From her shoulder dangled a leopard-skin bag; out of one cracked corner it bled an ink-stained Kleenex. “You don’t look like a producer.” “I’ve already produced one film. A documentary. It was on PBS last year.” “So do a lot of film students. The lucky ones. Maybe you were lucky.” “Why don’t you like me?” “You’re assuming I don’t.” “Well, do you?” Rune asked. Sutton considered. Whatever the conclusion was she kept it to herself. “You’ve got to understand. This . . .” She waved her hand vaguely toward Rune. “... is deja vu. It happens all the time. Somebody blusters their way in- usually after hiding by the filing cabinet until Sandy goes to get coffee.” Sutton lifted an eyebrow. “And says, Oh, I’ve got this
like
idea for a great new news program or game show or special or God knows. And of course the idea is very, very
boring.
Because young, enthusiastic people are very, very
boring.
And nine times out ten - no, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, their great idea has been thought of and discarded by people who really work in the business. You think hundreds of people just like you haven’t come in here and said exactly the same thing to me? Oh, note the proper use of the word ‘like.’ As a preposition. Not an adjective or adverb.”