the Plan (1995) Read online

"All we need to do in Iowa," Malcolm said, "is get twenty percent of the vote and run a strong second to Skatina. If we do that, we're gonna look like we're taking off like a rocket. Everything, every bit of our effort, the whole banana goes into Iowa."

  "What about New Hampshire?" Susan Winter asked.

  "Without Iowa, there won't be a New Hampshire,"

  Malcolm said. "Right now, Iowa is the whole ball game." When the meeting broke up, Vidal came over to Ryan. "Do you know anyone over at UBC?" he asked. "Cole Harris was married to a friend of mine."

  "Cole Harris is dust. They axed him two months ago.

  He was doing an underworld crime series that was killed by the news committee. He accused Steve Israel of collusion and they sacked him the next day."

  "Really?" Ryan said, surprised, remembering the intense black-haired newsman who had been in L. A. for a while. "I also know the political editor for Steve Israel on the Rim in New York."

  The Rim was a room on the twenty-third floor at the black tower on lower Broadway that housed UBC. It got its name because of its circular shape; news staffers and segment producers had desks looking out toward the floor. The center was the set for the nightly news with Brenton Spencer.

  "Good. You check out your contact. I'll call Brenton Spencer," Vidal said.

  Brenton Spencer was the star anchor and executive producer for the UBC nightly news. His ratings had been falling for almost six months. What Brenton didn't know was that he was destined to become the campaign's first big pony.

  Chapter 14.

  A COME-TO-JESUS MEETING

  BRENTON SPENCER WAS SCARED TO DEATH. THE COLD January wind was tugging at the corners of his cashmere overcoat, chilling his legs, freezing his balls. He stood i n f ront of his Fifth Avenue apartment building, waiting fo r t he UBC limo.

  The man he'd been summoned to meet was short and repulsive and didn't give a shit about news. C. Wallace Litman owned the network and he wanted happy talk. Just yesterday, they'd been fed a segment about whale pups being born at Marineland, California--Shama and Heidi. The network satellited the footage from the West Coast at five thousand dollars per minute, and they'd rolled off two and a half minutes of whales and their trainer. Steve Israel had put in some jokes, and Brenton had to turn to his co-anchor, Shannon Wilkerson, and say, "There's a whale of a tale, Shannon," and she said, "Oh, Brenton . . . that's very fishy. . . ." All of this while homeless people were freezing to death in Central Park and the Middle East was teetering on the edge of destruction. When he complained, they pulled out the November sweeps book, which showed a 10-percent erosion in the nightly news ratings, and Brenton had to swallow hard and hope to hell they weren't going to drop his option.

  He had a contract coming up for renewal and the business affairs department at UBC hadn't even opened negotiations yet. A very, very bad sign.

  Brenton dreaded the meeting with C. Wallace Litman. He knew if he lost the anchor job on the heels of this last rating book, he would be on the plane back to Cleveland and his old job at WUBY-TV, if he could even get it.

  The limo finally arrived and took him to Litman Tower. The billionaire financier had the entire top floor.

  On the way up in the private elevator, Brenton looked at his reflection in the antique mirror. He had a square jaw that jutted slightly, even white teeth, black hair graying at the temples. At sixty, he had that elder statesman look that should make viewers want to believe him, but somehow they were deserting him.

  Now there's a whale of a tale, he thought to himself in abstract panic. The door opened onto a marble entry hall that was decorated with original artwork from world renowned masters.

  A butler was waiting to take his coat as C. Wallace Litman moved briskly into the foyer.

  C. Wallace Litman was always dressed for work--even in the evening or on Sunday he wore a three-piece suit and tie. He never removed his jacket. He had ramrod posture that held up his little frame to the very last millimeter of his five-foot, six-inch height.

  "Nice you could come," Litman said as if the invitation had been open to refusal.

  "I always love our visits, Wallace," Brenton said, realizing that he had started out with a wheedling lie.

  "Haveyou seen this new art we just bought? Sally and I have been working through a broker in midtown." He strolled down the hall where paintings of various sizes hung in ornate frames under spotlights. "That's a. Remin on," he said. "That one there is a Renoir."

  He reeled off the famous names but never looked at the art. Brenton realized that the paintings weren't there to enjoy; they were there to impress.

  They moved into the den and Wallace sat down. Brenton noticed that his expensive suit didn't wrinkle or ride up on his shoulders as he settled back in the red leather armchair. His eyes finally came up and fixed on the frightened anchorman.

  "Brenton, we have a problem."

  "Most problems can be solved."

  "Maybe not."

  Brenton's heart did a two-and-a-half gainer and flopped against his diaphragm. He held his face steady, years of on-camera training working the miracle.

  "I don't pretend to know what makes people watch TV," Wallace continued. "Since I bought United Broadcasting, I've been shocked at what the public tunes into. But we're in an advertiser-driven medium. If we don't sell aspirin, we've gotta take it 'cause we're gonna have headaches."

  "You don't want to take the November ratings too seriously, Wallace. You know we were facing football movers on ABC on the West Coast on weekends and Monday, and our local lead-in in New York and L. A . is that dreadful syndicated Animal World program. It skews young and we're not getting a good flow into news. . . . Those two markets are ten percent of the country. That really hurts." Brenton had gotten the research department to knock together this argument for him and he had the demographic research in his pocket. He started to pull it out, but Wallace stopped him.

  "Brenton, I don't want to see research, I want to see ratings. The cold, hard fact is, you're trending down. How do I see my way clear to renew a two-million-dollar-a-year player who has suffered a rating decline of ten percent in six months? That's my problem, Brent." Litman rubbed his chin in theatrical thought.

  "Where's this leading us, Wallace?" Brenton finally asked, dreading the answer, beginning to get one of his headaches.

  "We're losing money on the news. The news is supposed to be a profit center. I'm in business to make profits."

  "Then don't cover the Iowa convention. We're going to send two SNG satellite trucks and a sixteen-wheel control room out there. We're the only network sending live coverage. It's crazy. Whoever decided to do that should get his IQ checked." Brenton suspected Steve Israel had made that call.

  "I think Iowa is important. It was my decision," Wallace said, "and I think my IQ may be at least as high as yours."

  This fucking meeting could not be going worse, Brenton thought. I'm about to get sacked. Then the little financier got to his feet, moved over to the anchorman and put a fatherly hand on' his shoulder.

  "How would you like me to renew your existing contract?"

  "Huh?" Brenton said, his accustomed elegance disappearing.

  "Whatta you say we sign you up for two more years at the same salary with a ten-percent bump in the second year. That would take fiscal '98 up to two-point-two. Let's say you retain your executive producer and anchor status, and we put a new magazine show in work for you. I've asked Steve Israel to start developing it. I want to call it Above the Fold--that's an old newspaper term for important stories carried above the fold of the paper."

  Brenton had been in news half his life. To have this rich asshole explain that to him was mildly irksome, but he let it fly past, his mind locking on the lifeline that seemed to have been thrown out to him.

  "I think the show should be you and maybe five young on-air reporters, all of them sort of looking to you for advice on angles for the stories. It could be sort of a cross between Sixty Minutes and West Fifty-seventh."

  Br
enton had been working on a hard-news magazine format he was calling The Spencer Report. He started to say something but Wallace waved him off. "If I'm going to do all of this for you, especially in the face of your slipping ratings, I'm going to need you to do something for me, and the favor I am going to ask might impugn your journalistic integrity."

  "Integrity is simply a line that gets moved around to fit events," he said lightly, wondering what the billionaire had in mind.

  "Have you heard that Haze Richards is going to run for President of the United States?"

  "The governor of New Hampshire?" Brenton said, grasping for the right state.

  "Rhode Island."

  "He's got no national Q. He'd be a hopeless long shot."

  "I want to get him elected. So you go on television the day after he announces, which will be tomorrow. I want you to start attacking him. Israel will give you the copy."

  "I attack him and that gets him elected?" Brenton was smiling.

  "I want you to be all over him. Beat him up . . . for two or three days. You ask America, What do we know about Haze Richards? What qualifies this man to be President? And we'll give you some negative facts about his tenure as governor. They're going to be slanted facts and very unfair to him. Really pile it on."

  "If you're trying to get him elected, why would I attack him?"

  "I've arranged for you to be the moderator of the Iowa Register-Guard debate from the floor of the Pacific Convention Center. We carry it live, and we'll script it for you to ask him something unfair and absurd like what qualifies him to run for the highest office in the land? How could he think he had the 'stuff' to run the country? Then he is going to come back with a demand that you apologize not only to him, but to the other candidates on the stage, for your attack. And then you're going to lose it--you're going to walk off the stage, right there, in the middle of the debate, outgunned by this little governor. It's going t o m ake every local news break, every network lead story, it's going to put him in the race."

  "But Mr. Litman . . . Wallace . . . You can't ask me to humiliate myself on TV. If I lose respect on television, I'll have no constituency. I can't do this. It's out of the question."

  "In that case, it's been nice having you at UBC. I'm sorry we won't be able to continue our relationship." C. Wallace Litman went to the door and opened it. "Good night, Brenton."

  Brenton didn't move. "I'm an asset to the network. You don't want to destroy an asset."

  "You'll have two years to recover from one night and a prime-time magazine show to help you do it. The public forgets. By next Christmas, most people won't be able to recall exactly what happened and you'll still be in charge of the nightly news. All you have to do is have one bad moment, one public failure. Bush did it to Rather and he's still on the air. Only difference is, we're going to script it.

  "Please, Wallace . . . don't make me do this."

  "This is not a negotiation. You make this deal now, or I replace you." He looked at Brenton sadly as if he were calling up the memory of a dead friend. "I'd still rather have you, Brenton."

  Wallace led him out into the entry hall, where they waited for the elevator. Wallace looked past the anchor to the elevator door as it opened.

  "I need an answer, Brenton."

  When Brenton finally spoke, his voice sounded as if he were on life support. "Can we call the new show The Spencer Report?" he asked, weakly.

  C. Wallace Litmanpatted him on the shoulder but didn't answer the question. "Nice having you up. I'll have Business Affairs pick up the two-year option. Give my best to Sandy." And he reached in and pushed the down button.

  As the door closed, Brenton looked at himself again in the antique mirror.

  He looked older.

  Chapter 15.

  SOLOMON'S JOURNEY

  SOLOMON KAZOROWSKI HAD BEEN IN NEW JERSEY FOR two days. He'd been sleeping in a down sleeping bag in his Budget rental car which he couldn't afford.

  On Saturday, he'd found a good place in the woods above the Alo house. He'd had to cut down a few medium-size trees with a handsaw he'd bought, in order to get the small Chevy Nova up a hill to a place where he could park it and watch the house from inside the car. It was too cold to keep getting out and taking pictures with the starscope camera he'd borrowed from an old pal who was still working for the Vegas "Eye." The agent had also loaned Kaz five hundred and told him to please not get his ass shot off spying on the Alos. Kaz was determined to accept this advice.

  From this spot, he could look down over the driveway and entry of the Alos' castle-style house. He figured unless somebody down there was really looking hard, they wouldn't see him. He'd gotten some good shots of a tall, blond, very handsome man who arrived on Sunday night with Mickey's sister. He didn't know who he was. He looked like an aging surfer.

  On Monday morning, Mickey Alo arrived home. He went directly to his father's room. Kaz could see him through the starscope moving excitedly back and forth in front of the window. He was wondering what was going on.

  Mickey was in his father's bedroom when the doctor left, having given Joseph a shot. Joseph was breathing in labored gasps. "Who's downstairs?" he finally asked.

  "It's Ryan. He came down from Princeton for the night. He's in the living room with Lucinda."

  His father grunted. Mickey had begun to regret having let Ryan and Lucinda fly east together. They had obviously started something up. Mickey had never dreamed Lucinda could get interested in Ryan.

  Mickey had always been fascinated by Ryan. He never viewed him as a friend, because Mickey had no use for friends. Ryan played a different role in Mickey's life. Ryan was handsome and athletic--everything Americans worshiped, but Mickey had found that he could dominate him. As a boy, that had intrigued and entertained Mickey, made him know he was stronger, better. Now all these years later, that hadn't changed. Ryan's friends were a bunch of dipshits whose brains ran out their noses. It proved to Mickey he had been right to have no friends. He cared about no one.

  At Harvard, he had learned that he was a clinical sociopath. The instructor had outlined the condition smugly before an abnormal psychology class. Sociopaths were highly intelligent psychopaths who felt nothing--not love, hate, gratitude, or jealousy. All his early life, Mickey had wondered, when his friends spoke of their emotions, what they were talking about. He had never felt anything. To cover, he had become an exquisite actor, learning to mimic emotions he didn't feel. Once, to test the depth of his hollowness, he had fantasized about killing his mother. Could he look her in the eye and blow her head off? Could he watch her brains and blood splatter on her upholstered headboard while she slept, or listen to her beg and plead for her lif e a nd still pull the trigger? He realized that he could easily perform the act. Except for a mild sense of gratitude, he had no feelings for her.

  Lucinda came the closest to provoking any emotion. Lucinda was special to him, but he doubted if it was love as much as pride. She was his sister and she was beautiful. He took a perverse pleasure in that, as if she was the receptacle for all the beauty that had escaped him. He would not have his sister involved with somebody like Ryan Bolt.

  Joseph was asleep now, and the phone rang in the bedroom. Mickey picked it up. A. J. Teagarden was calling from Providence.

  "Everything's set for tomorrow," the wonk said. And then he went on to fill Mickey in on the status of the campaign.

  Downstairs, Ryan and Lucinda were sitting in the living room. They had been talking about Ryan's first day in Princeton. He was trying to explain how exciting it was. There was the feeling of something about to happen. He liked the youth and enthusiasm.

  "I still don't quite know what I'm doing there," he admitted, "but I'm hiring a crew to film the announcement tomorrow." He glanced at his watch. "The Film Commission said I should call back at six to get a confirmation."

  "You can use the phone in Middy's office."

  Ryan moved out of the living room into the darkened hall.

  Joseph Alo's office was next
to the den, but Mickey had been using it for almost a month. Ryan moved to the desk and picked up the phone. He heard a strange hissing sound through the receiver. He tried to punch up a line but couldn't, and saw that the phone was attached to a large, black box labeled "TelaCenturia." There was a button on the box. He reached down, pushed it and immediately heard A. J. Teagarden speaking. The voice had a strange, tinny resonance.

  ".... money coming in fast from the Bahamas. We're going to use it to buy TV spots in Iowa."

  "Just a minute," he heard Mickey say. And then there was a click on the line. Ryan tried to get another line. This time he got a dial tone.

  Seconds later, the door of the den exploded open and Mickey was standing there.

  "What the fuck you think you're doing?" he said, spitting the words at Ryan.

  "I'm calling this guy about confirming my film crew for tomorrow."

  Mickey moved across the office, grabbed the phone, and smashed it down in the cradle. "You were listening in on my conversation."

  "Calm down, will you?"

  "This is my fucking office!" Mickey's voice was now controlled, but his demeanor was deadly. Ryan felt a strange energy coming off of Mickey, almost a kind of heat.

  "Lucinda said I could use the phone in here." "You were on that line. What'd you hear?"

  "Nothing. Just A. J. talking about the Bahamas or something. What's wrong with you?"

  Mickey moved around the desk and got close to Ryan. When he spoke now, his voice was a deadly hiss. "You're a guest here. Okay? You're in my house. You stay outta my office. You don't listen in on my calls."

  "Mickey, I wasn't listening in. I was just trying to get a line."

  There was a long moment while they stood facing each other, and then Ryan put his hand on Mickey's chest and pushed him back gently. "What the hell's wrong with you? You act like something's going on here."

  "Just don't spy on me."

  "What's this thing . . . some kinda scrambler?"

  "I do a lot of sensitive transactions. We've had some business espionage, Pop had that installed." Mickey tried to evaluate Ryan. Then his expression softened.