by Ben Bova
Pandemonium raged. The only recognizable sound to come out of the roiling crowd on the set was Westerly, pathetically screaming “Cut! Cut!”
Montpelier and the technicians in the control booth bolted out the door and down the steps to the floor of the studio. Gregory Earnest sat in the darkened booth alone, watching the riot develop, and smiled to himself.
He knew at last how to get rid of Ron Gabriel. And how to cash in on what little money would be made by “The Starcrossed.”
12: THE SQUEEZE PLAY
Gregory Earnest’s home was a modest ranch house in one of the new developments between Badger Studio and the busy Toronto International Jetport. Although nearly half the expense to the house had gone into insulation—thermal and acoustic—the entire place still rumbled and shivered with the infrasonic, barely audible vibrations of the big jets screaming by just over the roof.
The living quarters were actually underground, in what was originally the basement level. Earnest had spent many weekends digging, cementing, enlarging the underground portion of the house, until now—after five years’ occupancy—he had a network of bunkers that would have made Adolf Hitler feel homesick. His wife made all her neighbors envious with tales of Gregory’s single-minded handiness and devotion to home improvement. While she turned the neighborhood women green and they nagged their husbands, Earnest dug with the dedication of a prisoner of war, happily alone and free of his wife and their two milk-spilling, runny-nosed, grammar-school children.
Les Montpelier was a little puzzled when he first rang Earnest’s doorbell. It was Sunday, the studio was still closed for repairs. Ron Gabriel had left the hospital with two black eyes and several painfully cracked ribs, but no broken bones. Francois Dulaq had a bruised hand and some interesting bite marks on his upper torso. Rita Yearling was doing television talk shows all weekend, back in the States. Mitch Westerly had disappeared under a cloud of marijuana smoke.
Montpelier was not in the jauntiest of moods. “The Starcrossed” was a dead duck, he knew, even before the second day of shooting in the studio. It was hopeless. Yet Gregory Earnest obviously had something optimistic in mind when he had called Montpelier at the hotel.
So, puzzled and depressed, with a microfilm copy of the L.A. Free Press-News-Times Sunday help wanted ad section in the pocket of his severely styled mod Edgar Allan Poe business suit, he leaned on the bell button of Earnest’s front door. A jumbo jet came screaming up from what seemed like a few meters away, making the very ground shake with the roar of its mighty engines, and spewing fumes and’excess kerosene in its wake. Montpelier suddenly realized why the lawns looked so greasy. He was glad that his suit was dead black.
The door opened and he was greeted by a smiling Eskimo. At least, she looked like an Eskimo. Her round face was framed by a furry hood. Her coat was trimmed with antlered designs from the far north. She smiled and moved her mouth, but Montpelier couldn’t hear a word over the rumbling whine of the dwindling jet.
“Can’t hear you,” he said and found that he couldn’t even hear himself.
They stood in the doorway smiling awkwardly at each other for a few minutes as the jet flew off into the distance.
“You must be Mr. Montpelier,” said the round-faced woman. Her accent was more Oxford than igloo and Montpelier realized that her face really had none of the oriental flatness of an Eskimo’s.
“I’m Gwendoline Earnest, Gregory’s wife. I was just taking Gulliver and Gertrude to the skating rink…”
Two more Eskimos appeared. Little ones, round and furry in their plastiskin parkas. It wasn’t that cold outside, Monteplier realized. Maybe Eskimo is the next big style trend.
Gwendoline Earnest shooed her two little ones out and down the driveway. “Greg’s down in the study, waiting for you,” she said, squeezing past Montpelier at the doorway. She started down the driveway toward the minibus parked at the curb. “And thank you,” she called over her shoulder, “for taking him away from his eternal digging for one Sunday! It’s such a pleasure not to hear the pounding and the swearing!”
She waved a cheery “Ta-ta!” and pushed the kids into the yawning side door of the minibus.
With a bewildered shake of his head, Montpelier stepped inside what he thought would be the house’s living room. It looked more like an attic. There were bicycles, toys, crates, suitcases, piles of books and spools of videotape. Another jetliner roared overhead; even with the front door closed, the ear-splitting sound made Montpelier’s teeth ache.
He threaded his way through the maze of junk, looking for a living area. The entire house seemed to be cluttered with storage materials.
It took ten minutes of shouting back and forth before Montpelier tumbled to the fact that Earnest—and the real living quarters—were downstairs in the erstwhile basement. Another few minutes to find the right door and the stairs leading down, then the usual meaningless words of greeting, and Montpelier found himself sitting in a comfortable panelled den, in a large overstuffed chair, with a beer in his hand.
Gregory Earnest sat across the corner from him, equally at ease with a beer mug in one hand. It had an old corporation logo on it: GE. Gregory, Gwendoline, Gulliver and Gertrude Earnest, Montpelier reflected. He must’ve bought a case of those mugs when the antitrust boys broke up old GE.
In the opposite corner of the den, the three-dee set was tuned to the National Football League’s game of the week. Montpelier couldn’t tell who was playing: all he saw was a miniature set of armored players tumbling and grunting across the other side of Earnest’s den, like Lilliputian buffoons who’d been hired to entertain a sadistic king. Only the scintillations and shimmerings of the imperfect threedee projection betrayed the fact that they were watching holographic images, rather than real, solid, miniature figures.
Earnest touched a button in the keyboard that was set into the arm of his recliner chair and the sound of pain and cheering disappeared. But the game went on.
“Imagine how terrific the games will look,” Earnest said in his nasal, oily way of speaking, “when Oxnard’s new system is used. Then you can buy giant-sized three-dee tubes. It’ll look like you’re right there on the field with them.”
Montpelier nodded. There was something about Earnest that always disturbed him. The man was too sly, too roundabout. He’d fit in well at Titanic.
Earnest was wearing a pullover sweater and an ancient pair of patched jeans. He seemed utterly at ease, smiling. Montpelier was reminded of the cobra and the mongoose, but he didn’t know who was supposed to be which.
“You look relaxed and happy,” Montpelier said.
Earnest’s smile showed more teeth. “Why shouldn’t I be?”
After a sip of beer, Montpelier said, “If I were the producer of a show that started off as disastrously as ‘The Starcrossed’ did last week…”
“Oh that.” Earnest made a nonchalant gesture. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“No?”
“Why worry? Is B.F. worried?”
“He sure is,” Montpelier said. “He almost went into shock when I told him what happened in the studio.”
“Really?”
Earnest’s voice got so arch that Montpelier found himself getting angry, something he never did with a potential ally. Or enemy. It was a luxury you couldn’t afford in this business. Not if you wanted to survive.
“What are you driving at?” Montpelier asked, trying to keep his voice level.
Earnest nodded toward the three-dee game that still rolled and thudded across the far side of the den.
“The Pineapples,” he said. “They’re winning.”
“So?”
“So long as they keep winning, B.F.’s money is safe. Right?”
Montpelier fought down a gnawing panic. Either Earnest had completely flipped, which was not too unlikely, and was now certifiably insane—or he knew something that he himself didn’t know, which was a very dangerous position for Montpelier to be in.
“Are, ah… you bet
ting on the Pineapples?” he fished. “Sure I am. Especially since I found out that B.F. is sinking almost all his cash into them. When they win the title, we can forget about ‘The Starcrossed.’ Won’t matter if the show never goes beyond the first seven weeks.”
Slowly, without revealing how little he actually knew, Montpelier coaxed the story out of Earnest. It wasn’t difficult. The Canadian was very proud of himself. He had some friends in the local phone company tap all the special three-dee phones that Finger had installed in the various hotel suites. Montpelier was suddenly grateful that he didn’t rank high enough for such luxury. Only Westerly, Gabriel and Yearling had them. And Gabriel got one only because he screamed and threw tantrums until Brenda put through a call to Finger’s office.
“You should hear the conversations between Rita and B.F.,” Earnest said, licking his chops. “And see the display she puts on for him. In three-dee yet! I’ve got some of them taped, you know.”
Montpelier guided him back to the main subject. “So as long as the Pineapples keep winning their football games, Titanic’s cash is safe.”
“Right,” Earnest answered. “And ‘The Starcrossed’ is just a front operation to keep those New York bankers convinced that B.F. has invested their money in a show.”
“So the show gets as little money as possible…”
“Sure. Just enough to keep it going. Oh, I think B.F. really wants to make Rita into a star… but that doesn’t mean he’s going to spend more than he has to. Just enough to get her on The Tube for a few weeks and see how the public reacts to her.”
“Yeah, that sounds like B.F.’s way of doing business,” Montpelier agreed.
But Earnest had turned his attention to the football game. One of the miniature players was scampering like mad and other players were chasing after him while the background whizzed past. Yet none of them actually moved very far across Earnest’s floor. It was like watching midgets struggling on a treadmill.
“The Pineapples just intercepted another pass!” Earnest was chorting. “I knew those Mexicans couldn’t play our style of football!”
Montpelier leaned over and nudged his shoulder. “I didn’t come here to watch a football game. You said you had something important to tell me.”
Earnest’s smile went nasty. “That’s right. What do you think would happen if those New York bankers found out what B.F.’s doing with their money? Those banks are Mafioso, you know. The mob owns the banks and the WASPS are just front men.”
Montpelier didn’t answer. But he had figured out which of them was the cobra.
“Now, I happen to be smart enough,” Earnest went on, “to understand what’s going on in B.F.’s mind. ‘The Starcrossed’ is supposed to flop. When it does, B.F. will tell his bankers that the show went broke and their investment is down the drain. Maybe they’ll get Rita or some other goods as a booby prize.” He grinned at his feeble pun.
“That’s crazy…”
“Is it?” Earnest shrugged, the scratched at his beard. “Maybe so. But it would make a fun story in New York, don’t you think?”
“If anybody believed you…”
“They would. But why should I cut off the hand that feeds me? Especially when it’s going to feed me so well.”
“You mean blackmail.”
Earnest shook he head. “No, That’s not nice. And it could be risky. No, you just tell B.F. that I understand what he wants and I’m willing to help him. It won’t cost him an extra cent”
“What do you want?’
“Nothing very much. I’ll bet on the Pineapples, too. Maybe he can put me in, touch with his own brokers, so that I can get the same rates he does”
From the inflection in Earnest’s voice, Montpelier knew that there was more.
“And what else?” he asked.
“Oh nothing much, really.” Earnest spread his arms out, expansively. “Just control of the show. I am the Executive Producer, after all. All I want is complete authority. I want to do the hiring and firing. All of it. From here on. With no interference from you or Brenda or anybody at Titantic. “
“Complete authority,” Montpelier echoed.
“Right. I can handle Westerly. He’s through as a director, but he still has a good name. I can keep him supplied with enough cat to make him docile…”
“Cat?” Montpelier’s insides winced, as if they’d been electroshocked.
“Oh, it’s all completely legal,” Earnest assured him. “I have a few friends at the hospital here who’ll make out prescriptions for him. I get a cut of their fees and the pharmacy price, of course; cat’s very expensive stuff, you know. But that’ll keep Westerly happy and under control.” Montpelier found that his hands were shaking.
“And then there’s Gabriel,” Earnest said with relish. “He goes. I’m going to fire his ass right out of here so fast he won’t know what hit him.”
“Now wait… we need him for the scripts. Those high school kids can’t turn out shootable scripts and you know it.”
“I can find a dozen writers who’ll work for free,” Earnest crowed, “just for the glory of getting their names on The Tube. The local science fiction writers’ chapter has plenty of people who’ll gladly fill in.”
“But Gabriel has talent! His scripts are the only decent thing we’ve got going for us!”
“Who cares?” The show’s not supposed to be a hit. Get that through your skull. Think of it as a tax writeoff.”
Montpelier felt his jaw muscles clenching. “But Ron is…”
“Ron Gabriel is out!” Earnest shouted, a vein on his forehead throbbing visibly. “His scripts are out, too. Wait until the network censors see them! There won’t be enough left to wipe your backside with.”
“But the censors have already…”
“No they haven’t,” Earnest said, with the most malicious grin Montpelier had ever seen. “Gabriel was so late turning them in…”
“That’s because he had to work on all the other scripts.”
“…that I let the crew start up production before sending the scripts to the censors. I’ll be meeting with them tomorrow. And with the sponsor’s representatives, too. That will finish Mr. Gabriel and his high-and-mighty scripts!”
“But…”
“And what do you think B.F. is going to say about Gabriel when I tell him how he’s been sacking with Rita all these weeks, behind his back?”
“It hasn’t been exactly behind his back.”
Earnest smiled another chilling smile. “I know that, and you know that, and B.F. knows that. But what will the gossip programs say about it? Eh? Can B.F. afford to have his image belittled in public?”
Calling this character a snake is insulting the snakes, Montpelier told himself. But he said nothing.
“Come on,” Earnest said, suddenly very hearty and full of beery good cheer. “Don’t look so glum. We’re all going to make a good pile of money out of this. So what if the series folds early? We’ll cry all the way to the bank.”
For the first time in many years, Montpelier found himself contradicting one of his primary survival rules. Out of the depth of his guts, he spoke his feelings:
“I’d always heard that the rats were the first to leave a sinking ship. But I never realized that some of the rats are the sonsofbitches that scuttled the ship in the first place.”
13: THE THREE MONKEYS
The restaurant was poised atop Toronto’s tallest office tower, balanced delicately on a well-oiled mechanism that smoothly turned the entire floor around in a full circle once every half hour. It was too slow to be called a merry-go-round, so the restaurant management (it was part of an American owned chain) called it the Roundeley Room.
The building was very solidly constructed, since there were no earthquake fears so close to the Laurentian Shield. Since the worldwide impact of a theater movie a generation earlier, dealing with a fire in a glass tower, there were sprinklers everywhere—in the ceilings, under the tables of the restaurant, in the elevators and rest
rooms and even along the walls, cleverly camouflaged as wrought iron decorations.
The restaurant was up high enough so that on a clear day diners could see the gray-brown smudge across Lake Ontario that marked the slums of Buffalo. To the north, they could watch the city of Toronto peter out into muskeg and dreary housing developments.
The weather had turned cold, with an icy wind howling down from the tundra. But it was a clear, dry cold, the kind of air meteorologists call an Arctic High. Air crisp enough to shatter like crystal.
From his seat in a soundproofed booth, Les Montpelier watched the last rays of the sinking sun turn the city into a vermillion fantasyland. Lights were winking on; automobile traffic made a continuous ribbon of white light on one side of the highways, red on the other. Safely behind the insulated windows, Montpelier could hear the polar wind whispering past. But he felt warm and comfortable. Physically.
“It’s a beautiful view,” said the man across the booth from him.
“That it is,” Montpelier agreed.
The man was Elton Good, who had flown up from New York. He was a tall, spare, almost cadaverous man in that indistinct age category between Saturday afternoon softball games and Saturday afternoon checkers games. His eyes were alive, deep brown, sparkling. He wore an almost perpetual smile, but it looked more like an apology than anything joyful. His clothes were straight Madison Avenue chic—neo-Jesuit, minus the religious icons, of course.
Elton Good worked for the Federal Inter-Network Combine (FINC), the quasipublic, quasigovernmental, quasicorporate overview group that interconnected the rulings of the Federal Communications Commission, the pressures of the Consumer Relations Board, the demands of the national networks, and the letters from various PTA and religious groups. Since network executives usually filled the posts of the FCC and CRB, the job wasn’t as taxing as it might sound to an outsider.
