Prime Time (8 page)

M

I recognize this as Franklin’s shorthand for “I just printed something interesting and since you’re out there, go pick it up.” This definitely trumps the phone, the beeper and the twins.

I turn to retrieve Franklin’s stuff, but the interns are faster.

“We’re here to get the list of your sweeps story ideas,” says the one in the lavender angora. She runs a tiny hand through her strawberry-blond mop, flipping her too-long bangs briefly out of her face.

I notice the pink peek of skin between the sweater and her low-rider cargoes and wonder if she has a full-length mirror in her dorm room. Her sidekick is resplendent in pale blue nail polish, and with an equally dress-for-access tummy. They’re both wearing sandals. In October.

“They told us to come pick it up?” she puts in. “That, like, you’d have it for us? It was due, like, today?” She looks at me as if I’m supposed to know what she’s talking about.

The energy of the room suddenly goes dark, and I see the twins scoot closer together, huddling like delicate forest creatures sensing danger. Franklin looks up, questioning. And then, without a sound, Angela appears in our office.

“I’ve come from the meeting,” she says quietly. She says it like “THE MEETING.” The forest creatures cringe farther into the corner.

“We’re all wondering,” she goes on, her voice brittle with power, “about your sweeps story ideas.” She looks down at her clipboard, apparently ticking off some list. “Healthcast sent in their proposals, so did Sports, Envirobeat and Dollarwise. But we can’t plan our ratings book schedule until we hear from you, Charlie. I paged you. I called you. Is there—a problem?”

She looks as if she hopes there is.

“I, um, we’re…” I know I can finish this sentence. I just have to decide on my tactics. And fast.

Thank goodness Franklin is faster.

“Printer,” he says again.

“As I was going to say,” I continue, praying I understand Franklin’s shorthand, “we’ve just finished with the story list, and it’s on the printer.”

“Ten copies,” Franklin adds.

The news bunnies perk back into life, puffing up their angora and tossing their hair.

“We’ll—” one chirps.

“Get them,” says the other.

They’re gone, leaving only the faint scent of some trendy perfume behind.

Angela’s curls briefly turn to serpents, just long enough for me to notice, then back to her ordinary tangle.

“Thanks, Charlie,” she says. “I’ll let you know what we decide.” She turns to go, then turns back, with what apparently is supposed to be a smile.

“We’re counting on you, you know,” she says. “If your stories are good enough, we could have a solid win this time. No pressure, ha-ha.” Angela waves her clipboard and gives her patented exit line. “Ciao, newsies.”

I flop into my chair and deflate in frustration.
My
stories? They’re making
me
responsible for the ratings of the entire TV station?

“Wow, Franko,” I say, remembering my manners. “Great move.”

“No problem,” he says, waving me off. “My job.”

“But listen,” I say. “What did you put on that list, anyway? Stories we can actually do?”

“Definitely,” Franklin replies. “You had most of the ideas, as usual. Trucking safety, off-campus housing, those newsbreak stories you were talking about the other morning, remember?”

“Good work,” I tell him. “Did you include the whistle-blower story?”

Periwinkle Toes is back at our door. She’s carrying a piece of paper, looking back and forth between me and Franklin.

“Like, um, here’s some other stuff that was on the printer? For you guys?”

“I’ll take it,” Franklin says, holding out a hand. He glances at the paper and smiles. “This is what I was trying to tell you before storylist-gate. I think there may be something going on at Aztratech. Something Brad Foreman may have latched onto.”

“What? How? How do you know? Can I see? Show me the…” I begin. Then there’s a little tap on our open door.

“Um, Miss McNally?” The intern is still hovering. “I’m Hayley Coffman, I’m a senior at BU?”

Of course you are, dear. Majoring in what, Abs 101?

“Yes?” is what I actually say, looking up at her. Ten seconds, she’s got ten seconds.

“I hope I’m not taking up too much of your time, but I was wondering if I might interview you. For a paper I’m doing on how successful women journalists began their careers? Like what obstacles they had to overcome, that kind of thing. You’re so—like, I mean, I’ve watched you ever since I was little. Professor Shaplen shows your tapes in class all the time.” She gives a little gulp. “And I want to be just like you.”

Franklin swivels out of the conversation, and I feel my eyes—and my heart—go a little soft.

Hayley wants to hear about obstacles. She doesn’t know it, but she just encountered her first. And I’m responsible for it. I’d written her off, based only on her toes and her tummy.

She’s certainly intelligent enough, confident enough, to ask for advice. I’ve been whining about how unfair it is that your TV face dictates your TV future. So what do I do? The same thing in reverse. If I can do it to her, why am I surprised when they do it to me? What’s even more disconcerting—have I become what I fear?

“Of course I’ll do an interview,” I tell her. “I’m flattered and honored you would think of me.” This rings disarmingly true, and somehow bittersweet. “Here’s my direct phone number,” I say, handing my card to the younger generation. “I’m happy to help.” This is true, too.

With a shy smile, Hayley tucks my card into her jeans and skitters away into her world full of possibilities. If she’s TV’s future, does that make me its past? Shouldn’t there be room for both of us?

“She was kind of adorable, really, wasn’t she, Franklin?” I say, getting up to watch her go. I turn back to face him. “And, you know, so earnest and eager? Like me, kind of, back in the day.”

Franklin logs off his computer, glances at me sideways. “I’d have loved to see you in that getup, if that’s true,” he says.

“That’s not what I mean, you—”

Franklin goes on talking. “If you’re finished with the Charlie fan club meeting,” he says, “we need more info on the ownership of the
Miranda.
” He tucks a piece of paper in his back pocket. “And here’s how we’re going to get it.”

“Boat ownership, sure,” I reply, cutting him off. “Coast Guard. But aren’t those records in D.C.? Or Annapolis, or someplace like that?”

“Not anymore,” Franklin says with a raised finger. He makes a mark in the air. “Score one for the producer kid. And as a result, you’re gonna have to get your coat—and trust me.”

“Miss?” A gray-uniformed officer points me to the metal detector, gesturing me to put my purse on the conveyor. When Franklin announced we were researching the
Miranda’s
ownership at the Coast Guard’s waterfront headquarters, I forgot we’d be X-rayed and patted down.

I do a warp-speed inventory of what’s in my bag, in case there’s anything embarrassing (feminine hygiene), or illegal (my contraband pepper spray) or both (the Oxycet I hoarded after my last bout with the periodontist). I glance at the young sailor, doing a warp-speed inventory of his
bodybuilder shoulders, steely eyes and white-gloved hands. Wonder if he does the patting?

“You’re fine, ma’am,” the officer says. You are, too, I don’t say back, even though in a nanosecond I’ve somehow aged from
Miss
to
Ma’am
.

Once the armed services are satisfied we’re not out to bring down the government, Franklin and I push though the brass-eagled handles of the double glass doors, past a series of oil paintings showing stern-faced officers in fancy dress uniforms, and follow a red-white-and-blue arrow down the stairway marked Records. We’re headed underground, I can tell, as the musty smell of basement overtakes the salt air of the high-windowed harborside reception area upstairs.

A line of olive drab doors stretches out in front of us. Franklin walks determinedly ahead, double-checks the directions, then turns into an open doorway.

Behind a dingy Formica counter, a uniformed officer, this one looking more like someone’s seafaring grandfather than the movie-star material manning the metal detector, adjusts his glasses and peers at me. His face crinkles into a beaming smile and he gives a little salute.

“Charlie McNally,” he says. “I watch you every day. Your assistant told me you’d be with him, but I just didn’t believe it.”

I can almost hear Franklin wince at the
A
word, but he keeps quiet. No one outside the biz really understands what producers do.

“Hello, sir,” I say, coming toward the counter. “You’re…”

“Chief Petty Officer Paul T. Rabb,” he answers, standing at attention and saluting again. “Retired. You did that investigation on port security—got us lots of good new re
sources. When your assistant called, I thought the least I could do is grease a few skids. You could get this paperwork anyway, eventually, but the red tape’d choke you first.”

Franklin holds out a hand. “I’m Franklin Parrish,” he says, “Charlie’s produ—”

Before he can get his title corrected, Rabb hefts a stack of manila file folders into Franklin’s arms.

“Oof,” Franklin grunts, staggering back a step under the weight. The papers inside threaten to slide out, and Franklin pulls a quick juggle maneuver to keep everything together.

I twinkle at my new pal. “He’s up for some weight training, I guess,” I say. Franklin will know I’m teasing. I hope.

“Would you like some coffee while you look at the ownership records?” Rabb offers. “I could show you the officers’ mess.” He’s looking at me, not at Franklin. Of course
he’s
smitten, but not my sailor boy upstairs.

“Oh, no, thanks,” I begin. “I’m—”

“She’d love some coffee,” Franklin says. I get it. Payback for the weight-training crack. “In fact, you two just go have fun, and I’ll look through these.”

“You owe me, Franko.” I’m back with my armed-services coffee and I want information. “What are you…?”

Franklin’s sitting at a government-issue metal table, tucked at the back of the records room; he’s sorting the files as if he’s dealing some oversize game of solitaire. After a moment, he taps the largest pile with his pencil.

“Carlo Bronizetti of Exotel,” he pronounces. Another tap. “A. Grimes Brown, CEO of Rogers Chalmers Enterprises.” Tap. “The Islington brothers, Alexander and Sam.”

He looks up at me. “According to these Coast Guard boat registrations, so kindly provided by your very own
salty dog, they are all co-owners of the sleek sloop
Miranda
. And guess who the other owner is?”

I know the answer, of course. A certain arrogant, golf-playing, double-talking CEO.

“Wes Rasmussen,” I say confidently. “Am I right or what? Wes Rasmussen. Like I said.” I punctuate each word with a little hip-hop dance move, and then try to give Franklin a high-five. He rolls his eyes and ignores me, but he can’t hide his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, pretty cool, huh?” He’s actually rubbing his palms together. “So, turns out our Mr. Rasmussen is very hooked into the big-money fraternity of international yacht racing. And here’s my theory,” Franklin continues. “Tax shelter. Yachts are terrific tax write-offs. Especially if the boats lose races.”

But I’m still staring at the stacks of papers. “Wow,” I whisper, suddenly worried someone will overhear. “Islington brothers. Rogers Chalmers. Exotel.” I pause. “We wondered how the companies in Brad’s files were connected. And now, right here, are four of them. All in Brad’s files, their CEOs owners of the
Miranda
. That cannot be a coincidence.”

“This has got to be the key,” Franklin agrees, his voice low. “We just don’t know to what.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe the officers of the companies in Brad’s files own other stuff together. Other boats. Or, you know, hotels. Shopping malls. Golf courses. Race cars.”

“Charlotte Ann McNally,” he says, grinning. “You deserve a huge latte, girl. Those people who wonder why you win all the Emmys, this is why.”

I’m instantly concerned. “Who wonders why I win all the Emmys?” I demand. “Did someone actually say something about it? Who?”

“I’m never going to compliment you again.” Franklin waves me off. “Nobody’s questioning your Emmys. Jeez. I hope tonight’s your meeting of approval addicts anonymous.”

“You got me,” I admit. “Report-card mentality. Mother’s fault, you know? Still trying for all As.” I secretly think that’s an asset, not a personality flaw, but I know it’s probably a conversation to avoid. “So back to the world of big-money buying. We could do a wider search, couldn’t we? Databases of…car titles. Excise tax. Registration. That sort of thing. See if—”

Franklin puts one hand up to interrupt me. “What I’ll do…” he says slowly, “…is set up an ownership cross-reference from all those sources….”

“Let me ask you this, Charlotte,” Franklin says. Back at the station, we’ve shared some Tu-Your-Door brown-rice sushi and non-fat milk shakes. Blood sugar surging, we’re both feeling more optimistic. “What are the three little words you love to hear the most?”

“What are the three—what?”

“Come on, think about it.” The beginnings of a smile. “This shouldn’t be a toughie.”

What three words? Time for lunch? Angela’s been fired? A potentially delicious thought occurs to me. Message from Josh?

“Are you trying to say you love me?” I ask. “What will your adorable Stephen do?”

Franklin throws a pencil at me, which I know he doesn’t mean to hit because it doesn’t. “Think, Charlotte,” he urges.