Talk (28 page)

“Jules, I really just need you to call MML&J about the complaint. I don't think it warrants a trip to New York City,” I said.

“Stan, put that out of your head. You're the hottest commodity in AM radio right now. You think those guys are going to fuck with you for saying fuck? Stop beating yourself up. The good book they care most about is the ledger! I need you up here in two days. We can talk about it then.”

“Can't we do whatever you need to do by conference call?”

“Stan, are you fucking kidding me? It's all happening. Chuck Schwartz will be in my office on Friday afternoon at 2 p.m. to meet you. Fly up here on Friday after you get off the air, or better yet, take the day off, you've earned it. Schwartz wants to eyeball you before we do a deal.”

Chuck Schwartz was a self-made guy who'd started with one station back in the days before syndication kicked in and the conglomerates gobbled up everything. He'd built a radio network one station at a time and was now the president of one of the three biggest radio syndicators in the country. There were more, but only three that mattered. And he was among the most influential in the entire talk business. He had a stable
that included some of the best-known names, all of whom (of course) were very conservative and likely Phil protegés. Jules went on to say that Schwartz was deep with talent in all day-parts except mornings. That was by design. Radio stations across the nation tend to offer local news and traffic in the morning and then rely upon syndicated talent from mid-morning until afternoon drive. This was partly because, as with WRGT, the local advertisers who want that hometown product during morning drive are their bread and butter. Which has always made syndicating any morning program a challenge—but that seemed about to change.

“He's willing to take the risk and roll you out in mornings, Stan. WRGT will be your flagship, but I think he has another major market, with a 50,000-watt clear channel signal, in his hip pocket. That'd be a great base on which to build.”

This was the call I'd been waiting for. All those mornings—nights actually—of getting of up early and delivering four hours of talk had been with the dream of this in mind. But now that it was happening, it didn't feel like I'd imagined. I should have been fist pumping the sky and reaching for champagne. I wasn't. But I told Jules I'd be there nonetheless.

No sooner had I hung up than I took a call from the Turd of Taos. All my demons, it seemed, were coming home to roost at once.

“This thing has really broken your way, Stan,” Phil crowed.

“How so?”

“You got the Republican candidate eating out of your hand and you own the Democrat in his own backyard. I've got a lot of guys who'd give their left nut to be you right now.”

Phil made me wonder why it's always the left nut that people refer to. I felt like asking him how many guys would give their right nut, but my head hurt too much to even razz him.

“It's time to plan for the convention, Stan. You're going to have a shot on national TV, with the world watching, to say something about Tobias and it's got to be right. It's got to be strong. It's got to be a knockout.”

“They haven't formally asked me.”

“Well, Haskel told you they would. It'll happen soon.”

Phil seemed certain that Margaret Haskel's people were about to call regarding my representing the state of Florida in the roll call vote at the convention, but I hadn't heard another word in the month since the debate at the Reagan Library.

“They can't win without Florida, and you have as much clout as any statewide officeholder. And Stan, unlike them, you can be counted on to do what is necessary when that spotlight hits you.”

That was the other part. In the eyes of Molly Hatchet, I was someone who'd be willing to play dirty if need be, as I had done with Wynne James. No one else could fill both roles.

My knowledge of the roll call process was limited to what I remembered from watching conventions with my parents when I was a kid. I had a vision in my head of somebody standing up on the floor wearing a donkey or elephant hat and a chest full of campaign buttons, and saying something like: “Madam Chairwoman, I'm pleased to report that Florida, the home of Mickey Mouse, the Miami Dolphins and Tropicana Orange Juice, commits all of its delegates to the future president of the United States….”

But I was absolutely sure that
wasn't
what they had in mind for me.

Debbie would have loved it if that was all it was going to be. I had told her there was something in the works. But even though I hadn't told her where the Wynne James wife-swap question had come from, she predicted things would get even nastier.

“They're using you, Stan. You are their lackey.”

She'd always predicted that whoring my way to the top would get me in trouble, and now it looked like it just might. Margaret Haskel was a boob who I'd have definitely voted for as Miss America a few decades prior, but who was ill-equipped to run the country. Wynne James seemed like he possessed the type of level head best suited to run the nation, but I'd ruined any chance he had to win California and hence, the nomination. Not that I was so keen on the Democrats either. Bob Tobias seemed like a decent guy, and I couldn't give a shit where he prayed, but now it seemed like there might be some truth to this Scientology thing. I was increasingly put off by the idea that the guy with his finger on the nuclear button would be someone who thought there had once been life on the prison planet of Teegeeack! And beyond the religion question, part of me thought I was being manipulated by both him and his wife.

My reunion with Susan Miller hadn't lived up to the fantasies. It wasn't quite the length of “Stairway to Heaven” (8:02), nor was it “Good Times Bad Times” (2:48). When it ended, the extent of our conversation had been reminiscent of the way we'd often parted on those nights at Shooter's. We both got dressed and left after a few words of small talk. Frankly, the whole encounter hadn't felt much different than that night at Delrios. I didn't show her the audit or tell her that the Haskel campaign was hell-bent on making her husband's faith, or lack of it, the mainstay of their fall campaign. She already knew that. Nor did she ask me to do anything specifically to help her husband's campaign, although maybe that was implied by her behavior. Walking out of the hotel, I had no more of an idea of the purpose of the tryst than when I'd walked in, but the fact that it had all happened after she took a call made me wonder if she'd been following instructions.

But it turned out that Susan wasn't done with me yet.

We hadn't spoken or seen each other since the Hilton. Then, the day after I spoke with Jules, just as soon as the “on air” light dimmed, Alex came into the studio and handed me another phone message from Wilma Blake.

“It's your lady friend,” she said this time, once again watching me for a reaction. I tried to offer none, but Alex was intuitive and had probably figured out by now that this was more than a random listener. Whether she'd figured out that it was the Florida first lady I had no idea, but I suddenly remembered that when Susan and Tobias had come into the studio all those months prior, Alex had shot me a look of warning. Did she know or suspect something? I couldn't be sure. But I put it out of my mind for the moment.

I returned Susan's call as soon as I cleared our office tower.

She picked up after one ring. “Hi, Stan.” Whatever she said these days, I found myself wondering who was really doing the talking—Susan or Tobias.

“Susan.”

“How is the man with all the
Morning Power
?”

“Just doing my job.”

“This thing is about to heat up, Stan. We'll be in New Orleans soon. Then it's showtime for you folks.”

Referencing the RNC like it was my gathering sounded like the set-up for a fishing trip. I sensed she was looking for any informational crumb I might be willing to share. I still hadn't heard from the Haskel campaign so for the moment was just going about my day-to-day routine of hosting the program and taking what was offered in cable TV hits. Both were keeping me busy at a time of year when I usually sought an escape from Florida's summer heat. The midsummer polls were showing the race deadlocked between Haskel and Tobias, and it was hard to
discern who was undecided. Both bases were solid and energized. The left viewed Haskel as a Lone Star version of Sarah Palin with similar deficiencies on the issues. To the right, Bob Tobias was a heathen, something other than Christian, what exactly no one knew. A former jock who'd gone soft after marrying a commie who insisted on keeping her maiden name. So divided was the electorate, that by mid-July, pollsters were admitting that they were having trouble assessing the size and leanings of any undecided voters. For that, we could thank our polarized media, myself included, who were busy whipping both ends of the spectrum into a lather and ignoring the middle in the process.

“Is there a reason you called me?” I asked.

“Well, I was thinking that maybe we could get together before I head for the Big Easy. I'll be in touch.”

Click.

•  •  •

On Friday morning I flew north and took a cab from Newark Airport to Midtown Manhattan. Jules' office was located high in a building on East 57
^th
Street. The waiting area had three flat screens each tuned to a different cable television news channel, an enormous window with a commanding view of Central Park, and on the adjacent walls, framed notices of big deals that had been negotiated for the firm's clients from all the major trade publications. I scanned the clips and realized that every A-list host and anchor was represented by Jules or one of his partners. It made me wonder how his firm could represent all of them at the same time without any conflicts. Surely they were competing for the same slots? This was a visual reminder that despite my ascending star, I remained one of the smallest fish in this particular pond. But hopefully that was about to change.

“Stan Powers, meet Chuck Schwartz,” Jules said after Philippe had ushered me into a mammoth conference room where there was a tray parked with coffee and sandwiches. I wished I'd worn a tie as I stood shaking hands with an immaculately dressed man who was the boss of some of the biggest names in radio.

“Jules has been speaking highly of you for quite some time, Stan, and of course, I've been following your career. I'm pleased we are finally able to meet.”

We shot the shit for a couple of minutes. Schwartz was anxious to hear my assessment of the presidential race, and in particular whether Susan Miller would be Tobias' Achilles' heel. He'd have been shocked to know I'd been chatting with her the previous day. As the conversation flowed, we seemed to hit it off. He did express to me the concern that syndicating a morning program was difficult for the reasons I had discussed with Jules.

“Mornings are tough for terrestrial radio, Stan. Stern was an exception before he jumped to Sirius. These local affiliates, they need a local guy who can tell them about school closings and read live spots from the local car dealers.”

I didn't interrupt. Jules had anticipated this concern but said Schwartz was willing to move forward despite his worry about the time slot.

“Stan, there is one thing I'd rather address than leave unsaid.”

Oh shit. I felt like Pandora's box was about to open. Here it comes, I thought. I could only imagine what he was about to say.

“We understand you're a pothead, Stan.”

“We heard you fucked the next first lady.”

“Our spies tell us that you get pretty hammered every Tuesday night in a dive bar.”

“We heard you asked a dirty question at the GOP debate that was given to you by one of the other candidates.”

“We hear you are willing to take a perfunctory moment at the convention and use it to advance a presidential candidate and your own personal ambitions.”

“We have reason to suspect you don't believe half the shit you say on radio.”

But it was none of those.

Instead he said: “Vernon Chinkles from MML&J is an old friend. He told me there is a possible indecency complaint pending against you with the FCC.”

I looked at Jules. Dammit. I'd told him to get the suits in Atlanta to back off. Jules started to speak to deflect the issue, but I interrupted him.

“Well, Mr. Schwartz, I don't blame you for being concerned. That utterance was unfortunate and inexcusable. I don't know where it came from, and I am embarrassed that it came out of my mouth.”

Jules cracked a slight smile.

“My own mother would have washed my mouth out with soap had she heard it,” I added, hoping I wasn't pushing my luck.

Somewhere Debbie puked. But Schwartz acted like I'd said what he'd hoped.

“Well, I'm glad to hear that, Stan. Good luck when the convention comes to Tampa. We will be watching how you handle all that company in town. I don't have to tell you the stakes in this election. It's probably the most important election in my lifetime. Jules and I will talk further.”

I took that as my cue to leave.

Schwartz's having told me this was the most significant election left no mystery as to his vote. Surely he didn't mean, “If we
don't elect Bob Tobias and that wife of his the country is headed down the crapper.” And something else occurred to me as I sat cramped in back of a New York City taxi. Two things actually: First, who the fuck designs these cabs? Second, how many times can people say this is the most important election of their lifetime? That was a Phil line which had permeated every level of American consciousness.

“You gotta tell them that it's the most important election of their lifetime, and repeat it every day. Always add in that their children's future hangs in the balance. And then, when the election is over, even if your guy wins, start planting the seeds as to why the next election is even more important still.”