Cathy was in her late thirties, with thick, chestnut brown hair and a palpable quickness to her aspect, a sparky smartness. She was short and pear-shaped, though not unattractively proportioned. She wore chic, dark green glasses and a communications headset, its thin black tongue snaking around to her mouth from somewhere within that mass of hair. Patrick was tall and rangy, in his mid-twenties with fair, cropped hair. He was a handsome young man, though perhaps a little fine-featured for some, with his long, slim nose, pale-blue eyes, and unusually slender neck; the sort of look that tends to get labeled “pretty”, whether as a compliment or insult or both.
He hoisted the clipboard in his hands and said, “No way.”
Cathy nodded, her abundant waves of hair bobbing gently with the movement. “Uh-huh. He was getting friendly with one of her girlfriends. Mrs. Jonathon caught ’em doing it on the kitchen table, I heard.”
“Get outta here. You heard. You heard where?”
“I heard, okay? Hey, if nothing else it should give them something to talk about at coffee mornings. Aw…here he comes…”
She stiffened, an infinitesimal motion of readiness, as Bailey completed his spiel: “…and Oliver Rusnak will be here with the market prices after these commercials”, then shifted his well-tailored bulk from behind the desk and walked to where Cathy and Patrick stood. Bailey dabbed at his forehead with a tissue, and when he spoke it was in his own, mildly abrasive accent, pure Bronx. This interchange of news-casting voice and real voice never failed to amuse Cathy. And it also made him seem more human and less potent, less the god almighty asshole he pretended to be. It helped her do her job, which partly constituted keeping Bailey happy. She knew how to play him, how to calm him down or massage his colossal ego; sometimes, she even felt strangely fond of him, but quickly dismissed this as irrationality.
“Jesus Christ, Cathy. I told you I wanted the rezoning piece before the item on water tax,” Bailey said. “You think people wanna hear about water tax at this hour of the morning? We need to catch them first, then hold them. Goddamn water tax.”
Cathy said, in her customized pacifying voice, “Sorry, Jonathon. I just thought…”
“And could you turn down the goddamn heating in here, please? I’m baking to death under those lights as it is.”
“Sure, Jonathon. I’ll see to it.”
Bailey turned to Patrick, as if he’d just seen him. “And who the hell are you?”
“This is Patrick Broder,” Cathy said. “He hasn’t been with us long.”
“I asked him. And what do you do around here, Patrick Broder?”
Patrick said, “I’m, uh, I’m in research, Mr. Bailey. I’m a researcher in the news department.”
Bailey handed him a coffee cup, off-white with a section of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers printed on the side.
“No, you’re not. Right now you’re the guy who’s gonna bring me some coffee. Cafeteria down the hall to your right. Black, two sugars. Ask Margaret behind the counter. She knows what I like. Thanks, kid.”
Patrick smiled, a little embarrassed, and left with the cup and a bemused expression. Bailey winced in discomfort.
“Jesus, my… Uuh. My goddamn ulcer,” he said. “I had it, then it left, and now it’s back worse than ever. Do you know how painful an ulcer is?”
“Um, no, but my mother once…”
Bailey ignored her and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Listen, uh, Cathy. There’s something… I need to ask you a favor, but it’s a little…sensitive.”
He smiled, a horrible shark-tooth rictus really, and nodded rapidly. Cathy pretended not to know what he was talking about, frowning in mock concentration; this also amused her greatly.
Bailey continued, “Okay. Um…thing is, Cathy, as you’ve probably heard on the, uh, grapevine around this place… ’Cause I know how rumors spread. I know how people hear things, and then someone else hears something different, and the whole thing just snowballs… Hell, I invented some of those rumors…”
One of the floor staff approached. “There’s a package at reception for you to sign, Mr. Bailey.”
“Yeah, I’ll be right…” Bailey said. “Okay, Cathy. The thing is… I need somewhere to, to, to stay for a little while. ’Cause Karen and me, we’re, uh, we’re having a few difficulties and, uh…”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Jonathon. I hadn’t heard.”
“Yeah, well… She’s kicked me out, and it’s for good this time. I need somewhere to stay, to live, and I’m an old man, Cathy, I haven’t rented an apartment in 35 years and…”
Cathy smiled indulgently. “And you’d like me to help you find somewhere.”
Bailey nodded and said, “Yes. Yes, I need your help. I need… But you gotta keep this quiet, okay? You know what this business is like—one crack in the goddamn happy family façade and suddenly you’re not so suitable as the respectable face of broadcasting, you know what I mean? That’s why I’m asking you. ’Cause I know I can rely on your, ah…discretion.”
“No problem. Leave it with me. I’ll…” She stopped, her eyes up toward some point above their heads, listening as a message came through on her earpiece. “Uh-huh. Okay. Be there in a second.” Cathy looked back at Bailey. “Go get your package, Jonathon. And listen, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Patrick had returned. “There you go, Mr. Bailey. Black, two sugars. And Margaret says to say hi.”
“Thanks, Paul. And thank you, Cathy.”
Cathy nodded, saying, “Sure.”
Bailey left, clutching his cup, wiping sweat from his face, his leathery cheeks. Cathy shook her head. She looked tired suddenly.
“What was all that about?” Patrick said. “I didn’t think the old fart knew the words ‘thank you.’ He couldn’t get my name right for starters.”
“Oh, don’t mind Jonathon. He’s brusque and arrogant, but somewhere underneath that plastic hair and deep tan there’s a decent human being.”
Patrick raised an arch eyebrow. “Really?”
“Well, half-human anyway. Okay—duty calls.”
For such a big concern, the Network 4 reception was surprisingly small. A double outer door, leading in from a small, canopied front area; a gray tiled floor, with a winding stair straight ahead, a large reception desk to the right, and a corridor beyond that leading to elevators and various administration offices. There was also a door to the left, just inside the front entrance, and it occurred to Bailey, as he approached the desk, that he’d never known what lay behind it. He shrugged and let the thought pass—he didn’t care, one way or another. The receptionist, a baby-faced woman of about 30 in too much make-up, was on a telephone call. It sounded personal. Bailey leaned in toward the counter.
“Hi, uuh…” He clocked her nametag. “Jennifer. There’s a package here? For me?”
He drew the outline of a rectangle in the air with his fingers. Jennifer smiled sweetly and pointed to a courier standing by the door, clutching a plain package and a clipboard.
Bailey scowled and said, “Thank you.”
The courier was very tall and well-built, dressed in motorcycle leathers and still wearing his helmet. Bailey could see his own warped reflection in it as he approached. He didn’t like the view—it made his face look fat. He pointed back behind the man’s head, to the entrance doors, saying, “Didn’t you read the sign outside? ‘All couriers must remove helmets on entering building’—something like that. You’re still wearing yours.”
The courier flipped up the visor halfway. Only the lower part of his face was properly visible. He had a discolored tooth on the bottom row and dark stubble across the jaw-line; the sort of man who’d have to shave more than once a day if he worked somewhere like here.
He sighed and said, “Just sign for it, sir, please. I’m on a tight schedule today, you know?”
Bailey grumbled to himself and signed the clapboard. The courier handed him the package, saying, “Feels like a videotape. Enjoy watching it, sir.”
He
turned to leave. Bailey raised a hand after him.
“Hey, hold on there. I’m not sure I like your goddamned attitude. Hold it, mister. I wanna know what company you work for…”
The courier ignored him and walked out the door.
Bailey muttered, “Goddamn disrespectful punk.” He wondered if the dizzy girl on reception had witnessed any of that. A sly glance to his left assured him she hadn’t.
Cathy and Patrick stood outside, leaning against a heavy door, sipping coffees from spongy polystyrene cups, eyes closed, each easing the kinks out of their neck. A pre-recorded insert was going out at that moment; 15 minutes of a break for an overworked floor staff. She lit a cigarette, thanking Christ for the invention of both nicotine and pre-recorded inserts, and offered Patrick the pack.
“You wanna smoke? Oh, no, I remember. You don’t. You’re a regular clean-livin’ guy, huh, Patrick?”
Patrick laughed and said, “I’m a monk, baby. Pure of heart and pure of deed. Nah, I cut it up a little from time to time. I mean, I drink beer, you know, I’ve been known to enjoy the odd joint or two… Just never gotten the taste for tobacco, I guess.”
“You drink beer. Well, that’ll do for now; we can get you hooked on these things further down the line. Hey, why don’t we grab a few tonight? I’m meeting my husband later on. Have you met Philip? We’ll be in Doyle’s around eight. You know it? The Irish pub there on Thirtieth? Near Penn Station.”
“Yeah, I’ve passed by a few times, I know where it is. Sure, why not? Doyle’s at eight. Sounds good.”
Cathy smiled up at him, squinting into the sunshine behind his head. “Well, okay then.”
One of the floor staff opened the door, glanced from side to side and spotted them where they stood. Relief and agitation fought for control of his face as he leaned toward them, out of breath.
“Cathy, you… You gotta see this. It’s Jonathon, he’s got something… This is some strange shit, Cathy. He got a videotape delivered ten minutes ago, and it’s… You gotta come see this.”
Cathy and Patrick look at each other, mystified. He smiled wryly and said, “Not DVD? How retro.”
She said, “Now what the hell’s this all about?”
He shrugged and held out his hand, directing her toward the door.
“Let’s find out. After you.”
Despite the notorious ban on smoking in all public buildings, introduced to New York some years previously, the small screening room was blue with smoke by the time they entered. Cathy smelled it immediately: these were Bailey’s cigars, bloated, disgusting things whose reek hung around for days afterward. (Not too dissimilar to their owner, she joked.) Nobody seemed to mind, strangely; in fact, nobody really seemed to notice at all. Bailey, Cathy presumed, thought of himself as too important a figure to the corporation to worry about a smack on the fingers for breaking the law; besides, he was rich enough to pay the fine without too much anguish. He sat around a console, with George Oliver, the station technical supervisor, and two or three of the floor staff, watching video footage with amazed expressions.
Cathy took a few steps into the room and said, “Jonathon—you’ve got something for me to see.”
Bailey whirled around, eyes and mouth wide open, and pointed back to the screen. For the first time since Cathy had known him, this consummate broadcasting professional genuinely appeared to be dumbfounded.
“This is… I’ve been in this business for almost four decades and I’ve never seen something like this. It’s unbelievable.”
“What is it? What’s unbelievable?”
Bailey gestured to one of the staffers, his waving arm dragging contrails of soot-gray smoke though the glow of the screen. “Rewind the tape. Come on, come on, rewind the tape. Come up here, Cathy.”
Cathy and Patrick moved forward as the video started to play again. It looked, on first glance, to be a fairly professional production—while the camera was handheld, with jerky movements, the cutting was clean and the background music smoothly inserted. Credits zoomed forward in a cartoonish typeface, fat and bright yellow: “Karma TV. A 3W Production.” Then a man’s face appeared on screen—dark hair, flushed complexion. He looked scared, and his hair seemed to be pulling upward from his head. Something odd about this picture.
A voice was heard from off-screen: “‘The sordid confessions of a real man’s man’: take one.” Something odd about the voice, too: mechanized, set to an unusual vibration; inauthentic somehow.
Then the man on screen starting talking, his eyes flitting from the camera to a point behind it. He said, “Um… Ah, my name is, uh, Cliff, Clifford Hudson, and I, uh… My name is Clifford Hudson and I wish to confess my… Oh, God, please… I can’t do this, goddamit…”
He started to sob. The voice from off-screen again: “No, no, no. Hud, please. We’ve been over this. My God, man, you only have three or four lines to say. Can you work with me here? Please? Just remember, this will be going out to a large television audience. Let that be your motivation. The whole city is watching, Hud.”
The video camera swooped back suddenly and turned 180 degrees to reveal this man, Hudson, and another, fair-haired man: both naked but for their boxer shorts, tied together with what looked, oddly, like frilly women’s underwear. They hung upside-down from a rope which, as seen through the lingering, crawling pan of the camera, trailed inside the apartment window across from the cameraman. It was impossible to tell how high it was, though the bodies seemed to be buffeted and jerked every few moments by strong winds.
The camera operator began to speak, a pastiche of the hushed tones of a nature documentary. Again, the voice was strange, a sort of residual buzz beneath the human tones.
“The yuppies often cling to one another for support in times of stress or danger. This species is renowned for its closeness and sense of solidarity. See how the dominant male asserts his authority and takes on the role of ambassador for the entire group…”
Hudson yelled out, “Please, you son of a bitch… Whaddyou want from us? Cut us down, for the love of Christ…”
The first voice, off-screen: “Cut you down? Ooh, I don’t think you’d like that, Hud. That rope is the only thing keeping you alive.” Then a directive, quieter: “Another foot.”
The rope slipped, loosed outward by whoever controlled it inside the building, and the two men dropped like an elevator shaft, snapping to a stop. They screamed in unison and babbled across one another. The video abruptly cut to a man in a balaclava and nondescript charcoal-gray suit and tie, sitting in a very rough mock-up of a TV studio. Cardboard cut-outs behind him, the words “Karma TV” spray-painted in black; a desk made from a slab of pale, coarse wood. An old-style big band microphone, which looked real enough, sat on the desk. He shuffled some papers, rested his hands on the wood, cleared his throat—all the tics and routines of the average newscaster. Cathy, amused despite the gravity of the situation, dared not glance over at Jonathon to see if he recognized himself in any of this.
The man spoke: the voice first heard on the tape.
“Good evening, citizens, and welcome to Karma TV—where what goes around, comes around. And boy, does it come around. I trust we find you well. My name is Wilde and I’m joined tonight by my two companions…” The video cut to a still photo of a large man, in a balaclava and tuxedo, striking a declamatory, theatrical pose. “…Whitman…” Another cut, to a still shot of a smaller man in the same outfit, kneeling with a rose between his teeth and his hand held like an actor addressing Yorick’s skull. “…and Waters.”
It cut back to Wilde in the studio. He said, “Don’t worry if you didn’t catch that; the names are unimportant and, needless to say, not our own. What we’re doing here, on the other hand, is all our own…and very important.” He lifted a finger to the side. “Music, maestro.”
Ladies’ Night by Kool and the Gang began to play, a springy bass line and jaunty keyboards. Cathy caught Patrick’s eye and smiled—half-bewildered but intrigued. Patrick shrugged and shook hi
s head. One of the staffers started to wiggle his shoulders to the music. Bailey shot him a disapproving look.
“What?” the staffer said, as if caught off-guard by his superior’s censure. “It’s a good song.”
The screen was now half-filled with a close-up on Wilde’s masked face, saying, “Tonight was a very special night for one of our number here: Steven Ainsworth, who was celebrating his impending nuptials.” A quick cut to old, black-and-white footage of a sentimental studio audience going “Aaw” in unison, then back to Wilde. “And, yes, there were ladies involved, so the significance of the words to the song is obvious. Two ladies, to be specific: the very lovely Amy and the very lovely, and very young, Dorothy.” He began to sing: “‘This is ladies’ night, and the feeling’s right…’ Unfortunately, the feeling wasn’t quite so right for Amy and Dorothy; in point of fact, they looked quite upset.”
Cut to Waters softly strumming a Spanish guitar: “Traumatized, I would almost say, Wilde.”
And back to Wilde: “Traumatized, yes. Excellent use of vocabulary there. Steven and his best man Hud, who you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting, decided to mark the beautiful occasion that is the union of man and woman by… Well. I don’t want to go into too much detail—there may be children watching—but let’s say their treatment of the lovely Amy and Dorothy was…less than chivalrous. In fact, it was downright nasty, and it makes me mad just thinking about it.” He looked sharply to the side. “Another two feet.”
The film cut to the two bound men as their rope slipped again, that vertiginous jolt. They screamed, together, at a surprisingly high pitch. Then the fair-haired one, Steven, lost control of his bladder; the soft stain of urine bloomed outward on his shorts before trickling down between their bodies.
Waters’ voice was heard off-screen: “Uurgh! That is disgusting. Tsch. Some people…”
Cut back to the studio: “We’ve tried to get Steven and his pal to make amends and confess their sins. They know they’ve done wrong, I like to believe. They want to confess. They want to change.” The masked face faded out, the picture refocusing as a super-fast, almost blurred montage of images: nude women in coy poses, fast sports cars, dollar signs, towering skyscrapers, handsome men maniacally laughing. Wilde continued in voiceover, “They want to leave behind the ignorant, misogynist assholes they once were, and be reborn. Innocent; pure; naked. But we seem to be having a slight problem with the confessions. Every time we ask them to speak, nothing but garbage comes out. Let’s see if our viewers at home can understand.”
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