“What’s our costume? Carrying pens?” Rob said. “Rubik’s Cube is starting to make sense.”
“Oh, wow! Look at this!” Fatima said, pointing at her laptop. “We just got the early overnights from yesterday. Wow, wow wow! It looks like the seven A.M. was huge!”
Rob sat up. “We had Fluke at the top of the seven.”
“Holy crap!” Fatima said. “It looks like we beat CNN and MSNBC! Oh, my God! We beat Fox! Oh wait, here’s an email from Benji.” She nodded her head while reading. “He says to book Fluke again for tomorrow. And see what days he can do next week, too. He wants Fluke on as often as possible. Topher, get on that!”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Topher said.
“What topic are we booking him on?” I asked, wondering if anybody had any inkling of the story Laurie was sitting on.
“Who cares?” Fatima said. “Just book him. Get him to commit to as many days as possible.”
• • •
I walked out of the Think Tank in search of a phone. Pushing aside an old cookie wrapper, I sat on the edge of a desk in the newsroom, making sure no one was close enough to overhear.
“Hey.” Laurie’s voice was scratchy.
“Shit. Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny that my work day is over before you wake up,” I told her.
“Um-hmm.”
“So what’s the deal? Did you get any more scoop on the housekeeper?”
“Um, yeah. I talked to a gardener guy who thinks he remembers the name of the town where Fluke bought the house. I’m going to try to dig through some property records today.”
“Cool,” I said, “cause my producers are planning a Fluke fest and it would be great if I could confront him with the info you have. I mean, after you break it, of course. Are you getting close?”
There was silence on the other end and I thought Laurie was deep in thought, until I realized she’d fallen asleep.
“Laur!”
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled. “I’m trying. Call me later.”
Chapter 17
Studio M
I couldn’t believe what time it was when I walked through the door of McLoone’s. How could I already have had an hour of hair and makeup, anchored a three-hour show, changed clothes, sat through a pitch meeting, and now be at a bar and it only be 10:15 A.M.? I also couldn’t believe it had been a month since Wake Up, USA! started. In the past month, it felt like I’d covered a lifetime of topics—so many I already couldn’t remember some of them. I knew we’d tackled gun control this morning and Virginia Wynn’s proposal to expand background checks, but I couldn’t tell you who our 7:35 guest had been if there’d been a gun to my head.
It was in this bleary-brained state that I decided it was a good idea to finally go to McLoone’s for drinks with the crew. They’d asked me several times, but mostly I was here because I knew that the only way to be successful on any show is to ingratiate yourself with the guys who mic you, light you, cue you, shoot you, and tell you if your dress is bunching or your underwear is showing. They also pot down your mic when you’re peeing—or they don’t, if you piss them off. Plus I was too tired to navigate the subway and go home. So here I was.
I waited in the doorway for a minute until my eyes adjusted to the dim saloon lighting. The darkness made it easier to pretend this was a perfectly normal time for an after-work drink. McLoone’s smelled like sour beer mixed with Windex, coming from the guy with the mop and bucket over in the corner trying to wipe away last night’s stench.
“Hey, hey, hey!” I heard someone say and saw Panzullo hoist his arm with a beer mug attached. “Look who it is! I told you she’d show, guys! Welcome to Studio M!”
I nodded like, “Yeah, that’s right,” acting like it had been my plan all along to pop over, since they’d clearly been betting against me.
“Gallo in the house!” Jeremy said, with more energy than I’d ever seen him exert behind Camera 1. He was still wearing his baseball cap, but now he was wide awake under it.
“Yup, I’m here,” I said, smiling, trying to match their festivity. “Get the party started.”
“Yay-uh!” Rocco cheered, then hopped off his barstool, presenting it to me as if it were a golden throne. “Have a seat right here, Amanda,” he said, using his hand to dust off imaginary dirt. “What are you drinking, my dear?” In this mode, Rocco didn’t seem so much like a ponytailed ex-hippie as he did one of my uncles on Christmas, making sure I’d had enough to eat.
“Um, well, I guess . . . hmm, what are you guys having?” I looked around for inspiration at the drinks lined up on the bar: mugs of beers, rocks glasses filled with various colored liquids, and empty shot glasses. I bit my lip. I didn’t want a straight cup of booze at this hour . . . or really anything other than my bed.
“How ’bout a Bloody Mary?” I asked, thinking that might at least come with a celery stalk, which could pass for a breakfast item.
“Right away,” Casanova said, stepping up to the bar. “Hey, Lou,” he called to the guy at the other end of the bar. “One of your extra special Bloody Marys, please.”
The guys all stood around smiling at me and I thought, Huh, I guess they’re excited about how well the show is doing, until I realized that I was the only girl in the joint and something more biological was at work here.
“So guys,” I said, looking around, trying to get them to turn their attention from me, “do they have food here?”
“Yes, of course!” Casanova grabbed a plastic menu off the bar and presented it to me.
“Let’s get Amanda whatever she wants,” Larry suggested. “We relish the fact that you mustard the strength to come.”
“Oy, gevalt,” Jeremy said, then slapped the back of Larry’s head.
“We just ordered a whole bunch of apps,” Panzullo told me. “We got mozz sticks and buffalo wings coming. They have nachos. You want nachos?”
I’d been thinking eggs, but I said, “Hell, yeah, I want nachos!” cause I knew they’d like that.
“Yay-uh!” Rocco roared.
“Girl after my own heart,” Panzullo said.
“Time for another round of shots, Lou!” Rocco called down the bar. “Six lemon drops, please!”
“Oh, boy,” I muttered. The last thing I needed was to be drunk by 10:30, hung over by lunchtime, and out cold before the rundown came out.
“You ready for a shot, Amanda?” Casanova asked, holding out a sloppy shot glass, dripping with vodka and sticky sugar.
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Salute!” Rocco said, and we all hoisted our glass and downed the shots.
“You know what Rocco considers a balanced diet?” Jeremy asked me.
“No, what?” I said.
“A drink in each hand.”
“Ay!” Rocco said. “You know what’s wrong with Jeremy?”
“No, what?” I said.
“He’s got too much blood in his alcohol system.”
The guys groaned and Larry stepped up to the circle as if it were open mic night.
“Hey, Amanda, Panzullo here is an alcoholic. You know how you can help?”
“Buy him a drink,” I said.
“Hey!” Larry said. “You knew that one?”
“I’ve seen the T-shirt,” I said.
The guys laughed and Panzullo surprised me by bending over and kissing the top of my head. “See guys, I told you she was cool. Amanda can hang.”
“I knew she was cool from that first chemistry test,” Jeremy said. “You’re so much better than Margot. Oh, Margot,” he said, like the name alone caused him pain. “She’s such a bitch.”
I frowned. “No, she’s not. She’s super sweet.”
“Nope,” Jeremy said. “She pretends to be sweet on air, but off camera she’s a raging bitch. She never talks to us during her show. If
you say hi to her in the hallway, she doesn’t even respond. She just walks right by.”
He was right. Margot never said hello in the hallway. She was always talking into her phone, but not talking to someone—more like dictating thoughts.
“You know she’s writing a book,” Rocco said.
“On what?” I asked.
“Something about female power. You know, women’s lib.”
I chortled at Rocco’s description. “You sure you’re not confusing her with Gloria Steinem?”
“That’s who she thinks she is. But Margot’s a big phony,” Rocco said. “She acts like she loves Victor Fluke when he’s here, and then, when she talks to Wynn, she’s all for women and women’s rights.”
“What do you mean ‘when she talks to Wynn’?” I asked, my throat getting tight.
“Oh, you know, she’s always trying to get an interview with Wynn,” Jeremy said. “Even on the set, Margot’s always calling the press people and begging them. They’re probably sick of her, too.”
The aftertaste of the lemon drop soured in my mouth. Dammit! I’d accepted the bookers’ claims that Wynn had refused to come on our show, probably because we were doing Fluke so much, and I hadn’t even considered trying to get her myself. God, I’m so stupid! Margot was craftier than I’d given her credit for. I felt sick at the prospect of her getting Wynn. I’m such an idiot! Maybe if I call Wynn’s press office today, I can get her to come on our show first. Or maybe Margot’s already annoyed them so much they won’t take any more calls from FAIR.
“I better go soon, guys,” I said.
“It’s only ten thirty,” Panzullo said. “Besides, Rob might show.”
“Nah, he said he had plans,” Larry said, then looked at me. “So, how’s it going with him?”
“Um,” I started, unsure of how honest to be. “I think he can be . . . a little”—I knew this next part was dicey. I didn’t want the crew to turn on me, but I was just buzzed enough to blurt out—“douchey.”
“Hey, now,” Rocco said in a deep voice, like he’d turned into Barry White.
“Don’t worry,” Larry said. “Rob will grow on you.” He paused and I waited. “Like a fungus.”
I nodded and figured I’d probably gone far enough, when Jeremy looked at me and asked, “Have you noticed that Rob says certain things over and over?”
“Yes!” I yelled too enthusiastically.
“It’s almost like he has verbal tics, or something,” Jeremy said.
“Like ‘roger that,’ which he says all the time!” I said.
“Or how about ‘let’s unpack this’?” Jeremy said. “That one kills me.”
“And ‘from the get-go,’” I said.
“Don’t forget ‘touché!’” Rocco added.
“We should turn them into a drinking game,” I suggested.
“There you go,” Jeremy said.
“Every time he says one of them during the show, one of us has to chug our coffee,” I told them.
“Yay-uh!” Rocco said.
“That’s a plan,” Panzullo said.
At that moment, Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” came on the sound system, and Rocco, Panzullo, and Jeremy all started chanting “Ca-sa-no-va, Ca-sa-no-va, Ca-sa-no-va!”
“This is just for you,” Casanova said to me. He jumped up from his stool, went to the middle of the wood floor, and executed a perfect moonwalk. We all clapped.
“Wanna dance, Amanda?” he called.
“I better get going, guys,” I said glumly, as if I were disappointed that I had to be so responsible.
“Come on, just one dance,” Casanova asked.
“You know the Sprinkler,” Jeremy said, demonstrating it to me with one arm in front of him, fake spraying us with water. “Or the Butter Churn,” he said, stirring his hands and giving a circular hip motion.
“I’ve got a better one,” I said, hopping off my barstool and skipping over to Casanova on the floor. I knew this was my finale, so I thrust my left arm in front of me and threw my right one in the air, circling it as if I were a cowgirl with a rope and was about to lasso the crew. I made a giddyup motion with my legs like I was a horse. “You know what I call this move?” I shouted to them. “It’s the Fluke! I’m roping ’em all in.”
The guys cheered and pumped their fists. I took a bow, then sauntered back to my barstool and grabbed my bags. “Okay, guys, on that note: Gallo out!”
Casanova came over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best, Amanda,” he said.
“You, too,” I called over my shoulder, then gave one last victory lasso with my arm and staggered out the door to the bright, sunny street.
PART II
Devil’s Advocate
Chapter 18
Rubik’s Cube
By the fourth month of anchoring the show, I could see an unhealthy pattern emerging in my sleep cycle. After the pitch meetings, I was too tired to begin the trek home. So I’d chug a cup of coffee for energy, then stagger out of the building to the subway. When I got home, I’d be too wired to nap, so I’d take a melatonin to fall asleep. Isn’t this what killed Michael Jackson? Is melatonin a gateway drug to propofol? I wondered as I wandered from the cafeteria, coffee in hand, back to my office.
That’s when I noticed Fatima, Rob, Topher, and Tiffany standing in the hallway, engaged in a peculiar scene. They were surrounded by three PAs holding tape measures and scissors. Fatima was hoisting a three-foot-long bright green cardboard box with smaller orange squares attached to its sides, attempting to lower it over Rob’s head.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Fatima said. “Did you get my email? Production wants us to try on a possible costume for the White House Halloween Party.”
“It’s only August,” I reminded her.
“I know. They think this is the last slow news week we’ll have before the election kicks into overdrive, and they want to get this done.” Fatima stood on her tiptoes, and Rob ducked his head into the box so she could slide it down his torso.
“I thought we’d agreed on Bill and Hillary Clinton,” I said. “I got the perfect pantsuit.”
“Production didn’t like that,” she told me. “They suggested Batman and Robin but Rob won’t wear tights.”
“Violation of man law,” Rob said from inside the box. “Though feel free to wear a leotard, Amanda.”
“So we’re going with a Saturday Night Live theme?” I asked.
“What? No. What do you mean?” Fatima asked, annoyed.
“Oh, sorry, I just figured this was Dick in a Box,” I said before realizing it was outloud.
“Oh, snap!” Fatima snorted. The PAs’ eyes darted from me to the towering case covering Rob.
“Yeah, hysterical,” came the muffled voice from the box. Then suddenly a loud THWOP! as Rob punched through the cardboard with his fist. He worked his hand through the hole and held up his middle finger in my general direction.
“Perfect!” Fatima said. “We needed an arm hole there. Quick, Tiffany, grab the scissors and cut it into a circle.”
“Watch it!” Rob yelled from inside. “That’s my arm!”
“Seriously, what is this?” I asked again.
“It’s Rubik’s Cube,” Fatima explained. “Half the box will fit on Rob and the other half on you, then you two click together. Hopefully. Now, if you could try this other box on, we’ll see if you and Rob fit together.”
“Like oil and water,” I said.
Fatima grabbed my coffee and placed it on a table, then took my waist, pointing me forward, and reached for a big blue and yellow rectangle of cardboard, crisscrossed in black electrical tape in a tic-tac-toe pattern designed to look like individual squares. Fatima positioned the box over my shoulders with suspenders made of duct tape.
>
“Ooh, this looks good,” she said. “It’s working. Now, let me see if Rob can fit into this part of your box.”
“That sounds dirty,” Rob said, peeking through the newly cut armhole.
“My God, you’re a pig,” I said.
“Come on, guys,” Fatima said. “This will only take a minute. Now, Amanda, you stand right here, like so.” She grabbed the cardboard around my waist and moved me into position to Rob’s left. “And Rob, you slide over here,” she said, tugging Rob toward me until the sides of our boxes were flush against each other. “Now, you’ll need to be able to walk around stuck together. Can you walk like that?”
“I doubt it,” I said, trying to stabilize the unwieldy, heavy cardboard weighing down my shoulders.
“This is ridiculous,” Rob announced. “Where’s the hole for my head? Can we be done?”
Rob took a step to the left and began trying to wriggle out of his box just as I took a step to my right to see if I was mobile. Our thick cardboard shells bounced off each other, sending us teetering precariously. For two long seconds, Rob looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Then, in slow motion, he lost his footing and toppled toward me. Like dominoes, we fell to the ground, Rob’s box on top of mine.
“Oh, my God,” Fatima shrieked, half laughing. “Are you guys okay?”
I couldn’t speak, the weight of Rob and the boxes knocking the wind out of me.
“Holy crap, Topher, help me get their boxes off!” Fatima yelled. Topher yanked Rob’s box over his head, allowing Rob to regain use of his arms. I felt Rob’s legs pressing on mine, trying to untangle our limbs, then Topher tore the box off me.
“God, I’m sorry Amanda,” Rob said. “Are you all right?”
“Um, I think so,” I mustered.
“Jesus, guys.” Rob kneeled, then put his arms around me and pulled me up to a sitting position. “You turned Amanda and me into a human pretzel.” Keeping his arms tight around my body, Rob used both hands to hoist me to a standing position alongside him, our bodies still pressed together.
“Oh, thanks,” I said, dazed. I must have been knocked in the head, because for a fleeting moment it seemed like Rob looked at me sweetly, like he was worried about me, then he took his hands off me.
Amanda Wakes Up Page 17
