Star Time (67 page)

"And real life isn't like that. Is that what you're saying?"

"Real life is messy and incomplete. It never turns out as you hoped it would." He shrugged in resignation. "You always end up losing something. There’s always a price to pay."

On a Friday afternoon in the beginning of November in a midtown skyscraper,
Ev
Carver sat alone in his cavernous office at the end of a corridor along which scurried the several employees hired for his
Evcar
Communications.
Laid
out for his inspection were several weeks' ratings, including the most recent. The first of the four sweeps weeks had just concluded. He was evaluating not merely the raw figures, but trying to discern the underlying trends.

A week earlier, he would not have given ten cents for the lineup's chances, but the trends were clear: a strengthening all along FBS's schedule. Annette Valletta's recovery from illness had drawn sympathy and viewers, lifting
Loving
Luba
into third in the overall ratings, even though she had made only a cameo appearance that had been inserted at the last minute in a show about her cousin. The new show
Scum
had come up an astounding eleventh, just ahead of what he still thought of as that weird sci-fi comedy that followed it in the schedule. But just as significantly, in several other time slots in which FBS had run a poor last the previous year, the network was now nearing or tying for second. Because the spring upfront buying by advertisers left a lot of scatter-sale spots available, those avails—and the holdbacks to cover possible ratings' guarantees—could be sold at higher rates.

The most glaring exception to the network's upward direction was its nightly news broadcast. Despite having caught the Defense secretary in a massive lie and smear campaign, Chris
Paskins's
rating since coming back on the air had not resumed its prior level. The bloom was off the rose,
Ev
deduced. She was no longer the nation's sweetheart—the girl next door had been caught in a vice scandal and the viewers, disillusioned, were reproachful.

Projecting out the network's numbers for next year, he could calculate that losses would turn to profits. Not vast profits yet, but certainly respectable and indicating an upturn and better years ahead. Not too long from now, the financial community would discern to what was happening, and the stock's price would climb.

Armed with his figures,
Ev
took the elevator up one flight to Basil Markham's office. Markham had proven to be an excellent partner, a bit cautious perhaps, but that was understandable—the man had provided the $100 million with which
Evcar
had quietly been purchasing FBS
stock in recent weeks. Buying had stopped just before the point at which the law would have required
Evcar
to disclose the size of its stake.

"I agree," Markham said when
Ev
finished analyzing the latest ratings for him. "The value is there and building."

"I think we ought to make a bid for the company in the next few days. But we should do it privately and get the directors to back our offer."

Markham's bushy, graying eyebrows lifted. Born of middle-class English parents, his boarding-school education had formed a patina of upper-class manners over his fierce aspirations.

"One of the directors is a friend,"
Ev
explained. "He's always felt I could do better than present management to maximize earnings."

Markham's expression remained impassive. He took it for granted that the director in question would expect some sort of favor after the takeover. "But I gather he isn't your only ally."

Ev
smiled in a way that reminded Markham of a lizard about to flick its tongue at a fly.

"Greg
Lyall
,"
Ev
said, and leaned forward.

"Maybe I'm wrong, but I had the distinct impression that you and this
Lyall
chap didn't get along well."

Ev's
features fleetingly disclosed hatred so ardent that Markham perceived it might well have been a form of love. "But we understand each other. I can read
Lyall's
mind as if I had the top of his skull off. He's got to be worried right now. He dumped Roderick's daughter and made a spectacle of himself with the anchorwoman. The old man is raving mad. He wants
Lyall
fired and is moving heaven and earth to do it."

"Does he have the votes?"

"Probably.
Everything depends on whether
Lyall's
contract gets renewed."

"And you don't think that seems likely."

"Roderick is God in that company. What I propose is that I make our buy-out offer Monday morning directly to
Lyall
. I lay out the offer and promise him a sweet severance package, two million outright and five years of salary, if he takes our side with the directors.
Eight million dollars, maybe more if that's what it takes.
That gives
Lyall
a soft cushion when he's fired—and us an ally at the top for our offer."

"And if he turns you down?"

"By law he still has to bring the offer to the directors, where we'll have support. But if they don't buy our deal, we play hardball and go directly to the stockholders."

"How much a share do you want to offer?"

"Thirty-three dollars.
It's selling at twenty-seven and change right now on the stock exchange. That’s a twenty percent premium."

"The company's worth?"

"Maybe fifty in a year.
Sixty in two."

"Is all the financing in place?"

"The last of the banks came aboard this morning,"
Ev
confirmed.

"Get hold of
Lyall
and make the offer."

Mickey Blinder was walking on air these days.
Scum
looked like the year's big winner, worth hundreds of millions to Monumental.

"Of all the shows to make it!" he said to himself with a disbelief he could still not quite shake.

"Mr. Small wants to see you as soon as you come in," his assistant told him as he strolled into his office.

She handed him the message. Mickey lifted it in a carefree salute and reversed direction.

Tiny Small was the big guy, the CEO, the force at Monumental. Until lately Mickey had dreaded this summons; now he was delighted. He had sent
Scum
's
sunny projections and all the backup material to
Tiny's
office yesterday. Now, he was being summoned to be praised, rewarded, and stroked. There would be just a thin edge of fear in the big guy's voice, the fear that Mickey might not be happy enough with the largesse showered over him to stay at Monumental.

Mickey ignored the elevator and took the stairs to the next floor two at a time. Only slightly out of breath, he entered the CEO's office.

Just over five feet tall, Richard Small had chosen to be called Tiny, rather than Dick Small, for obvious reasons. In all other respects, he reveled in his difference from other men and considered himself blessed by his conspicuously diminutive size.

"All a man needs in life is to be noticed," he occasionally pointed out in his near soprano. "Once he's noticed, it's up to him to show what he can do. I showed '
em
."

"You sure did," several vice presidents in earshot would usually manage to chime in unison.

None were in
Tiny's
office as Mickey entered. The CEO was sitting high atop his elevated desk chair perusing some papers.

"That my report on
Scum
?" Mickey asked ebulliently.

Tiny nodded.

"Like what you see?"

"The board is insisting I take an extra half-million-dollar bonus this year and another block of stock options because of how well it worked out with Annette and of course, with
Scum
doing so well."

"That's really great,
Tiny
." Mickey immediately doubled in his mind the figures that Monumental would bestow on him.

"I wish you could hear for yourself how happy the directors are with the show, Mickey, but you won't be with us that long."

"I won't."

"You're fired."

Mickey's knees buckled. He grabbed the arm of a nearby chair to keep from collapsing.

Tiny pitched his voice all the way down to alto to show his concern. "Actually, I signed the memo half an hour ago."

"Why?" Mickey whimpered. "We have the most successful new show in years."

Tiny stood up, which actually lowered his height somewhat, and scampered around the desk to emphasize just how compassionate he felt about Mickey's plight.

"You don't know how this hurts, Mickey. You
can't
possibly know."

"Trust me, I know. But just tell me why?"

"Well, it was the success of that new show which forced my hand. If you hadn't had a good year, I still intended to give you another year to prove yourself. But how can I ignore the man who's really responsible for the most successful new show in television?"

"The man responsible?"
Mickey was floored. Who the hell was he talking about?
That dizzy
Stew
Graushner
? "Look, you don't know him like I do."

"Don't know him? I've known him fifteen years. Everybody in the business knows him. He's an outstanding talent. Frankly, I was wondering how you came up with a show as imaginative as
Scum.
It's so different from your usual predictable style. But then, last night at home, when I was reading all the financial material on the show and came across his name as executive producer, I understood in a flash
who
was really the creative force behind developing the show."

"You can't be serious."

"Raoul
Clampton
, of course."

"Raoul
Clampton
?"

"Frankly, I couldn't understand why he gave up his job as head of FBS Programming, but last night, when I discovered he was executive producer of
Scum
, I understood."

"Executive producer?
Look, that was all—"

"You have to admire a guy who believes so much in a show that he'd give up a network job to make sure it succeeds. I checked with our payroll people, and sure enough, we've been paying the guy a bundle to be executive producer on the show."

Mickey started to protest that Tiny misunderstood. Paying Raoul
Clampton
as executive producer on
Scum
was just a way to cover up a little under-the-table deal the two had been caught at. But Mickey could not reveal his complicity in a scheme that could have landed him in jail.

Tiny was striding back and forth in front of Mickey now, his hand waving grandly. Ankle deep in the plush carpet, he appeared to be slogging through a bog.

"When I realized that we had a talent like Raoul
Clampton
in-house, I moved immediately. No grass grows under these little feet, you know. I went right up to his office myself."

"All the way up to the top of sound stage A?"
Mickey inquired weakly.

"The very top.
Once I got up there, I could instantly tell the man was a genius. No phones."

The guy had no one to call, Mickey grumbled inwardly.

"No flunkies running in and out to disturb him," Tiny continued.

Mickey wanted to scream.

Tiny jabbed at his temple.
"Just intense thought."

Mickey could conceal his scorn no longer. "They call him the Phantom of the Upper A."

"Perfect name for him.
A kind of sublime wizard who can see farther than other men.
And
we
have him."

Tiny reached up and pumped Mickey's hand good-bye. "Don't
worry,
you'll get the usual two weeks and the year-end bonus. This year it will be a Christmas
chicken
— you
know,
the new cost-cutting program. Be careful not to slam the door on your way out."

The rest of the morning the executive suite of the Television Division of Monumental Entertainment busied itself with Mickey's departure and Raoul's installation. He consulted with interior decorators, who promised to have his office completely redone by Monday. By then lunchtime had rolled around.

As Raoul stepped out of the building, consumed by his elation over the turn of events, he ran right into Sally Foster. Effusively apologetic, he helped her up from the sidewalk. Actually, Sally had been waiting there quite a while in the hope that Raoul
Clampton
would run into her.