Blackmail Earth

by Bill Evans

  She swiped her ID card and looked into a screen that read her eyes. Dafoe slid his driver’s license through a narrow slot, then watched Santoro study the license, type on a keyboard, and stare at a computer’s screen, waiting to see if a crime report started flashing. Seconds later he announced, “He’s clean.”

  The other Joe handed Dafoe a clip-on badge, warning him not to take it off in a heavy, put-on New York accent. “Someone, he sees ya widout it, youse goin’ down for a cavity check, and I don’t mean youse teef.” The two Joes laughed.

  “Real jokers,” Dafoe said to Jenna as they hurried to the elevator along with other new arrivals.

  “I don’t know about that. They’ve given me three cavity searches so far. They keep saying it’s for security purposes, but I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Laughing quietly, they walked past the show’s glassed-in, street-level studio, where fans could watch the proceedings from outside. The glass was deceptively thick—seven inches that could stop bullets and bomb fragments—and extended all the way up through the third-floor set. Television in the age of terror.

  Jenna led Dafoe into an elevator with the same two-story metal doors. Massive, especially by the claustrophobic standards of the city. They stepped off on the third floor, bearing left to go through another standard-issue metal door that took them into a long hallway.

  “We’re entering the brain trust,” Jenna joked.

  “Meaning?” Dafoe still walked with a big smile.

  “This is the floor with the greenroom and all the offices for everyone on the show.”

  “And there you are,” Dafoe said, pointing to her photograph, one of the many familiar faces that lined both sides of the hallway.

  “How was the drive down?”

  “No problem. I even found a parking spot on the street for Bessie.” His ridiculous name for his old International Harvester pickup. “I doubt anyone’s going to want to steal her.”

  “You never know,” she said cheerily, smitten not by the prospect of the truck’s theft, of course, but by her own feelings for the vehicle: She liked the musty smell of old hay, and the memory of Dafoe’s arm around her shoulders when she cuddled up to him on the bench seat.

  They came to yet another set of metal doors that led them past the third-floor studio, even larger than the one below. Jenna’s weather set was in view, but they hurried past the studio almost as quickly as the grips and stagehands and gaffers who raced to ready the sets. Four of them darted past the couple and ducked into the greenroom, where food for staff and guests was provided. The buffet was delicious and included something for every taste.

  “You can help yourself whenever you want to,” she told him as they moved on. “Your little badge gets you in there, too.”

  The really big names were never taken to that greenroom. VIPs, like Brad or Angelina, or the president, were hustled directly to a special, exclusive greenroom.

  The Morning Show had more than fifty staffers, and the bustle at this hour equaled the energy of any other busy studio at midday. Jenna noticed the looks that she and Dafoe were garnering, even a few hellos from staffers generally more taciturn, and knew that she’d be prime gossip on the network grapevine. Comes with the territory, she reminded herself.

  Her office was at the end of the hall. As they approached, Nicci called out, “It’s a fatty,” and thrust a thick packet of papers into Jenna’s hands—a set of computer modeling data on worldwide weather. The report was generated by the show’s assistant meteorologist, who worked the overnight shift and was often gone by the time Jenna came in. Years of experience let Jenna usually guess the report’s length within a few pages. Seventy-two, she figured, then looked: seventy. Not bad.

  “I remember you,” Nicci said to Dafoe, offering him a smile that seemed to expand her size-two proportions. “Our helicopter almost hit you.”

  “Yes, that would be me, the helipad.”

  Nicci turned her barely bundled energy on Jenna: “Weather girl, I’m having problems getting video of a huge tornado down in Arkansas. I’m on my way to pound some heads and find out why.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me it’s not more trailer park footage.”

  “No, that’s what’s so great,” Nicci exclaimed. “It’s a gated community.”

  “Yes!”

  The two women high-fived.

  “We’re so tired of seeing trailer park video,” Jenna explained to Dafoe, “that sometimes it’s nice to be reminded that weather is a great equalizer.”

  “Tell me about it,” Dafoe said sympathetically.

  “I talked to the affiliate,” Nicci said. “Supposedly you can see the actual gate sticking out of the roof of a McMansion. Oh, and a flyaway mattress the size of Manhattan jammed into a bay window. Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Any interviews?” Jenna asked, already flipping through the weather data.

  “With the owner of that house, who—get this—is the conductor of the Little Rock Symphony. But the affiliate says she sounds like she’s straight out of Bah-stuhn.” Working the Kennedy accent.

  “Why can’t people fulfill their cultural stereotypes? Is that asking too much?” Jenna pleaded playfully. “It would make our jobs so much easier. Do we have anyone who actually sounds like they’re from Little Rock?”

  “I’ll check on that, too.” Nicci rushed off.

  Jenna was about to get serious with the weather packet when she realized that an important and highly appealing task had yet to be undertaken. She closed the door, walked to Dafoe, and kissed him. “Good morning.” She clasped her hands around his head. “You look great.”

  “You really do.”

  “Well, get a gander now because they’ll be putting me through makeup in a little bit.”

  Another quick peck and she planted herself back at her desk, scrolling through a list of video on her three large computer screens—the two on the sides angled slightly, like a three-way dressing room mirror. As she shifted the cursor over each listing, weather video from around the world came to life on the screen to her right, just enough to give her a flavor of the disasters of the day. She had three minutes and fifty seconds to fill in each of her four Morning Show appearances, and each had to be packaged differently to keep viewers watching, even though they would contain the same key information.

  She explained to Dafoe what she was doing. “If this is putting you to sleep, you can go hit the buffet. The food really is good.”

  “No worries. It’s just good to see you.”

  “Back at you. I’m looking forward to the end of this show.”

  She returned her attention to the videos, then reviewed the rest of the world’s weather. She checked the Maldives, as she did most days of late, thankful that there were no tsunamis or bulletins about anything turbulent—meteorologically speaking, anyway—taking place. Rick Birk, the network’s crusty old investigative reporter, was nosing around the capital city, no doubt in search of Rafan or anyone else he thought could give him a lead on the Islamists terrorizing the country. At least Birk had given up badgering Jenna for contacts.

  She heard a knock and looked up, instantly charmed by the appearance of Kato, a sable German shepherd bomb-sniffing dog, and his handler, Geoff Parks.

  “May I?” Jenna always checked with Geoff, who nodded. “Kato, come,” she called.

  The dog walked over to Jenna and looked at her with what Jenna always felt was a smile. “Kato, sit,” she said.

  The shepherd snapped to and waited, ears rotating like radar dishes, always on alert. “Kato, shake.” The dog extended his right paw. This was no sloppy stab at a handshake—Kato had a king’s dignity.

  She held his thickly padded paw. “You’re a sweetie.” Glancing at Geoff, she said, “Dafoe here has an amazing border collie on his dairy farm. Totally trained for herding.”

  “Really?” The two dog fanciers started talking. Jenna patted Kato’s head—their daily ritual—and turned b
ack to her work. Kato and his master exited moments later.

  “You’ve got more security than the airports,” Dafoe said.

  “Hmmm. I wonder who’s doing it right,” Jenna answered over her shoulder. “Them or us? Nobody’s blowing up our sets. Of course, we get a lot fewer people coming through here, and most of them aren’t looking to hijack the network.”

  A stylishly coiffed dark-haired woman poked her head in the door. “Are you reh-dee?” she asked in a distinctively French accent.

  “Be right there,” Jenna said and the woman walked away. “Hair and makeup,” she explained to Dafoe. “I’ll look a little different when you see me next.”

  A quick stroll across the hall landed her in Chantal’s hands. The woman exclaimed, as she did most days, “You ’ave zee most boo-tee-full ’air.” Jenna sat in one of five chairs before a mirror that extended across the entire wall. She still had the packet of worldwide weather in her hands. Her attention was quickly captured by data about thunderstorms. These could be real beauties, she thought, spotting a temperature difference of almost one hundred twenty degrees from the minus forty degree top of the sixty-thousand-foot-high system to the ground. That could produce awesome T-storm activity.

  She’d have to keep an eye on this one. The jet stream, cruising at 175 miles an hour, could help pull the budding storm right into the troposphere. Or, to put it another way, right smack into the face of every New Yorker. A funnel cloud—aka tornado—could follow. One of the interim signs she’d be looking for would be hail the size of baseballs. The Razorback State didn’t have a monopoly on twisters.

  Nicci popped into hair and makeup. “I’ve got Cindy”—as in Clark, chief of the National Weather Service—“for a quick Q and A on the storms.”

  “I was just reading about the biggie heading this way.”

  “Not to mention Florida, Texas, and California.”

  “Really? I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

  “You want to do a minute with Cindy?”

  “Sure. Let’s ask her to talk about protecting yourself from electrical storms. We haven’t done that in a while.”

  “I’ll prime her.” Nicci pivoted to leave, then spun back. “Dafoe? He’s a lot cuter without the gun.”

  Chantal finished Jenna’s hair and makeup and stood back to admire her handiwork. “Boo-tee-full, boo-tee-full,” trailed Jenna to wardrobe, where she donned an Anna Sui dress with a hint of red, a color that always looked stunning with her white-blond hair. This completed her transformation from an attractive businesswoman to a Morning Show superstar. A few moments later, in her office, she watched the makeover register on Dafoe’s face—and wished she hadn’t. His lips tightened, and he actually pulled his head back a couple of inches, as if he feared touching her now. She hated having that effect on people but it was a fact of television life: every hair in place; lips reddened; eyelashes curled; and her cheeks, chin, nose, and brow powdered precisely. A friend once said Jenna looked so perfect going on the air that she appeared untouchable and not quite real. “Like a porcelain doll.”

  “I’m still me,” she said to Dafoe softly, “the woman who was kissing you just a little bit ago. It’s just that you can’t kiss this me because it would smudge my makeup.”

  “I know what you mean. I run into that every day with the cows.”

  She laughed, loving the fact that he could make a joke of it so quickly. She settled at her computer and saw a message from Nicci saying that she’d finally run down the tornado video.

  Then Jenna realized that she could be sitting front and center for New York City’s own tornado. Better check the roof cam.

  It was hard to see much in the dim early daylight but she definitely spied clouds massing to the northeast.

  Nicci buzzed her that the morning meeting was about to start.

  Every day at 5:45 A.M., they convened in executive producer Marv Balen’s office. The twit would offer a show overview that Jenna could listen to with one ear: Her role was so defined that on most days she could keep paging through updated weather summaries while he yammered. She’d been blessed with a photographic memory for weather charts, and had been studying them for so long that she could spot a troublesome trend in a nanosecond.

  Jenna discreetly slipped her earpiece into place. Her long hair made its presence nearly undetectable. On set, Marv, Nicci, and James Kanter, the wiry director, used the earpiece system to talk to her and the other on-air staff. Marv just barked, a one-note dog; Kanter almost always remained collected; and Nicci said only what was necessary. During the morning meeting, the earpiece allowed Nicci to dart away to monitor weather news and relay anything important to Jenna.

  Marv’s big announcement was that they’d landed presidential candidate Roger Lilton as the show’s first featured interview. “He’s going to talk about his relationship with that GreenSpirit witch and his campaign manager told me a few minutes ago that Lilton’s going to denounce her as a ‘freak.’ Quite a coup, folks.”

  No kidding, Jenna thought. The only thing better would be to have GreenSpirit walk onto the set in the middle of Lilton’s interview.

  While Marv briskly laid out the show’s flow, periodically verifying details with the weary overnight staff, Geoff and Kato passed through the room, the shepherd sniffing everywhere. Jenna patted him as he passed; he gave her a wag.

  After the meeting, Jenna found Dafoe sitting on the couch in her office, texting. He looked up, consternation spelled out on his wrinkled brow.

  “I can’t reach Forensia. We text all the time, even when I’m there. It’s a big farm, and it beats shouting. But it’s like she’s disappeared.”

  “She’s there. She’s got to be. You said she’s incredibly reliable.”

  “She is. Or was, till the other day. But she’s not responding, and I’m worried. It’s not just about her: Those cows have to be milked.” He put away his phone. “Sorry, I know you’ve got your show to think about. You doing okay?”

  “Great.” Shorthand for nervous. She always felt nervous going on air, but more than usual this morning because Dafoe was there. Don’t start dwelling on that. “Guess who’s going to be on the show?” He raised his eyebrow. “Lilton. To denounce GreenSpirit.”

  “Forensia’s going to be heartbroken. She actually sent him money.”

  “If he’s going to have a prayer of winning, he’s got to cut his losses,” Jenna said, which was more generous than she felt: She hadn’t gotten over Lilton’s “dog-and-pony show” comment about the task force.

  “I guess nobody loses with honor anymore.”

  “Not when you’re within striking distance.”

  “So how’s the weather doing?”

  “Oh, that,” she joked. “Big thunderstorms. Wait. Hold on.” Nicci’s voice had come alive in her ear. “You hear what’s going on outside?” her producer asked. Jenna paused, nodded to herself: the proverbial bricks tumbling in the sky, getting ready to stone the city.

  Seconds later Nicci flew through the doorway. Before she could say a word, Jenna blurted out, “Do they want me on the roof?” She hated going up there. The only time Marv ever wanted her by the roof cam was in a storm. She strongly suspected that he found her instant transformation from staid perfection to total dishevelment—hair flying, hem, too—to be a ratings booster. One of these days, Jenna worried that a powerful gust would pluck her up and throw her down sixty stories, into the maw of Manhattan. Dying with her dainties on full display. And she’d be hard to miss in these red shoes—to highlight the red note in her dress. The guy in wardrobe loved to dress her; Jenna was his Barbie and her outfits were carefully color-coordinated.

  “No, not the roof. Even Marv doesn’t want you zapped live.”

  “I’m not sure of that.”

  Nicci leaned over Jenna’s shoulder and clicked on the camera icon on her computer. Big thunderheads, but still on the horizon. “Time to go. They want you on set. And you, Helipad,” Nicci waved Dafoe up from the couch, “come with us. I�
�ll park you by Zack.” Head of set security.

  Nicci, you’re so trusting, Jenna thought as she followed her producer. Dafoe trailed them down the hall.

  Andrea Hanson was already ensconced on the main set, where she would spend the first hour of the broadcast. The chestnut-haired anchor deemphasized her pregnancy as much as she could in autumn’s darker hues. Her face, a little fuller than it had been a few months ago, beamed as beautifully as ever. She had ideal features for morning television: not too sharp, not too bland. Easy on the eyes, in short. For the second hour—the lighter half of the show—Andrea would migrate downstairs to the public studio, where audiences smiled and waved for the cameras through the seven-inch-thick security glass.

  Theme music thumped throughout the studio and Jenna watched Andrea come alive, giving the camera her most engaging smile. In minutes, Jenna was chortling with the host. Jenna kept it light, airy as an orchard, before turning to the camera to give an overview of the nation’s weather, gesturing to a blank blue screen as she talked. Viewers at home saw Jenna’s hand heading toward Arizona.

  “And it’s scorching in the desert Southwest where temperatures in Phoenix set a new October record of one hundred fifteen degrees. The average high for them this month used to be eighty-eight.”

  She was determined not to say “hot and dry” one more time this year, but it slipped out as she spoke over video of the city’s numerous—and long-drained—fountains. Though she cursed herself mentally, Jenna’s voice never faltered as she took viewers on a snappy tour of the West, still moving her hand over the blue screen, before video of the tornado damage in Arkansas appeared, along with Nicci in her ear: “You’ve got Cindy Clark now.”

  Jenna chatted about the damage in Little Rock, noting the huge, ungainly looking gate protruding from a roof. As she talked, Nicci told her the mattress was coming up in “Five, four, three…” Jenna timed it perfectly: “And as you can see here, someone’s boudoir is missing a Beautyrest; but as tornado damage goes, this wasn’t too bad, was it, Cindy?”