Killed in the Ratings

by William L. DeAndrea

  “And horses.”

  “He was in a hole.”

  “When he died? Not too bad, a couple of grand. He had a good job at CRI. He was one of the developers of the overnight ratings, you know. Good pay, divorced with no kids or alimony (but you know that), he was in pretty good shape, for him. In fact, he made a payment to his juice man on Monday, probably one of the reasons he was in New York.”

  “What’s so scary about that?” I wanted to know.

  “I’m not finished. About a year ago, according to the word I get on the street, Carlson was down about nineteen grand.”

  I winced. I have pangs over plunging for a dollar for a State Lottery ticket.

  “He paid it back, miraculously enough,” Jack said. “Nobody is sure where he got the money.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You got this from your regular stoolies? Here in town? I would have thought he’d go to the bookies in D.C.”

  “This is the scary part,” Hansen said. “Sure he went to the local boys, but after he started missing payments, the D.C. guys sold him to Herschel Goldfarb.”

  I didn’t quake with fear. I did laugh. “Herschel Goldfarb?” I managed to get out.

  Jack wasn’t laughing. “I was afraid of this,” he said.

  “Matt, listen to me. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you don’t either, not if you can laugh at that.”

  “I’m sorry. But here I am, ready for a plot for world domination, or something, and you give me ‘Herschel Goldfarb.’ ”

  “Shut up and listen,” he snapped. “ ‘Herschel Goldfarb’ is not any funnier than ‘Dutch Schultz,’ or ‘Meyer Lansky.’ Matt, Goldfarb is a genius, possibly crazy. He could buy Central Park and put up condominiums on it, but he lives with his mother in a brownstone in the old neighborhood.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.”

  “Keep it up, Matt, you can be the funniest guy in the morgue.”

  He rubbed his nose. “You know, Matt, a guy doesn’t have to have a scar on his face and run around robbing banks to be a gangster. Goldfarb is a good case in point. Until about ten years ago, he was a professor at the Wharton School, an expert at management techniques and accounting practices.

  “What he’s done is to bring that expertise to organized crime. He’s sold most of them on the idea of improved cash flow and lower overhead. He buys paper from bookies and loan sharks, getting maybe a twenty to thirty percent discount.

  “Brilliant. They do it in legitimate business all the time. The way Goldfarb has it set up, the loan sharks have more money sooner (to put back on the street, or perhaps finance a dope deal), and are also spared the trouble and expense of collecting it.

  “Goldfarb is happy, too. He can work on a larger scale than most loan sharks, so he has a very hefty sum of money coming in weekly.”

  “I’m sorry I laughed,” I said. “I assume he’s got a string of legitimate businesses to launder the money.”

  “Exactly. And he’s a diplomat, too. He’s very unobtrusive. Doesn’t make the Family nervous, never jumps a claim or deals in dope, protection, or vice. Farms out the messy collections to soldiers in the Family. Keeps a small staff, two second-raters for driving and bodyguarding.”

  “And officially?”

  “Not even for jaywalking. IRS has been dying to nail him for tax evasion, but he’s his own accountant, and he’s a genius; files every year, but the money’s spread out into so many real businesses, and he knows so many loopholes, he never pays more than a couple of hundred in taxes every year.

  “This is the person Carlson saw just before he got blown away. You watch your ass, Cobb, you still owe me ten bucks.”

  “I paid you during the Christmas party. I can’t help it if you were drunk.” It was a running dispute we had. “By the way, do the cops know anything about Goldfarb and Carlson?”

  “Of course they do, jerk,” he said. “They’ve probably got Carlson’s movements traced back to the first one he left in his diaper. They’re very good with that.”

  “Well, they were being coy with me then,” I said, mostly to myself.

  I thanked Jack, and left. In the hall, I pulled an about-face and walked right back in.

  “Vern Devlin,” I said.

  He looked quizzical for a second, then said, “Rings a bell.” He consulted his notes. “Here he is. Oh, right, that phone call. D.C. police talked to him this morning at CRI. Not much on him. Number two man to Carlson, probably will move up now. Bachelor, engaged, no money troubles that anybody knows about.

  “Now, before you dash off again, is there anything else you want?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, and left again.

  “When do I get my story?” he called after me.

  I ignored him. I wondered when I would touch bottom with this case. I kept getting sucked in deeper and deeper. Now I had gangsters to deal with. What next, necrophiliacs?

  11

  “... it was my privilege to serve ... one of the world’s richest and most eccentric men ...”

  —Marvin Miller, “The Millionaire” (CBS)

  I DECIDED IT WAS high time I brought my problems before a higher authority, and, with God not posting office hours, I settled for Mr. Hewlen. When the elevator opened on the penthouse, the receptionist was somewhat at a loss, because I wasn’t a senator, or an oil millionaire (foreign or domestic), or any of the other kinds of people that make up the general run of visitors to that office.

  She was too well bred to goggle at me, but she was a second or two late with her superior smile.

  “Matt Cobb, Special Projects,” I told her. “I’d like to see Mr. Hewlen.”

  She was still smiling. With her pale complexion and wide red mouth, she managed to look not unattractively like a circus clown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hewlen is in conference at the moment. Would you like me to make an appointment for you?”

  “No, buzz him and tell him I’m here.”

  She let go a tolerant little laugh. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can. Tell him I twisted your arm. Or better yet, tell him I made indecent advances to you.”

  She gave a horrified gasp and buzzed. “Mr. Cobb wishes to see you, sir.”

  “What?” I heard the intercom say, “Cobb? Send him in, he’s the only one missing.”

  I wondered what he meant by that until I pushed open the black leather swinging doors and walked in. I had a long way to look across the office, but even at this distance, I had no trouble recognizing Mr. Hewlen’s conferees. The stern-faced man in the leather chair was Thomas Falzet, Network President. The red-faced woman looming over the Chairman of the Board was Cynthia Schick.

  They each held position, playing statues while I crossed the office, down the five carpeted steps into the well that held the secretary’s desk, up the seven carpeted steps to the level of Mr. Hewlen’s desk.

  When I was within hailing distance, Mr. Hewlen said, “Were your ears burning, Cobb?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’ve been talking about you. Why have you come upstairs?”

  “I want to ask you a few questions. Mr. Falzet, too.”

  He smiled at me. I would rather see a shark dorsal in my bathtub than that smile.

  “Well, answer one for me first. Why did you tell my daughter Tom Falzet tried to have her husband killed?”

  Fate was throwing me nothing but screwballs. I slew Cynthia Schick with a look and said, “I said no such thing, Mr. Hewlen.”

  “You did too,” she snapped. “You asked me if I thought Tom Falzet was so angry about ‘Harbor Heights’ and not being named President that he would try to have Walter killed!”

  Falzet and Mr. Hewlen were regarding me intently.

  “Well?” the lady demanded, “Do you deny it?”

  “No,” I said. “I asked you that.”

  “I told you, Father!”

  Falzet spoke for the first time. “Ludicrous,” he said.

  “What is the meaning of this, Co
bb?” the Founder demanded.

  “I’ve been quoted out of context. I hope I’m not being out of line when I suggest your daughter is overwrought. What happened was, in connection with a matter Special Projects is looking into, I inquired about the circumstances of Mr. Schick’s accident.”

  “He was murdered!” Mrs. Schick said, again burying her husband prematurely.

  I didn’t feel like arguing the point. “Whatever. Anyway, purely routinely, I asked if the police had ever suspected that everything about the accident wasn’t kosher. She said no. Then I asked if her husband had any enemies, and she brought up Mr. Falzet’s name.

  “Then I asked her if she really believed he had done such a thing. She has probably neglected to tell you I went on to say I didn’t believe it had been a murder attempt, because if it had, either Mrs. Schick or your granddaughter had to be an accomplice.”

  “You pig! Leave Roxanne out of this!” Her eyes were gleaming with hate.

  I shrugged. “I would have, gladly. But if you go around saying I accused my boss of attempted murder, what am I supposed to do? Shut up and get fired? No thanks.”

  “Ludicrous,” Falzet said again.

  The Chairman of the Board said, “I apologize, Cobb.” To his daughter he said, “Cynthia, I’m worried about you. I know you’ve suffered a lot during the last few months. We all have. I’ve allowed for a certain amount of stress and the effect it could have on your behavior. But I can’t permit your emotional problems to cause dissension within the Network.

  “Now, I’m going to have you driven home, and I want you to make an appointment to see a doctor about your nerves.”

  “I don’t need a doctor, Father,” she said, tight and dangerous.

  The old man’s face got as soft as I had ever seen it.

  “All right, Cynthia. Perhaps we can talk about it tomorrow. Maybe you’d like to go on a cruise, show Roxanne the world.”

  “Walter needs me,” she said. We let that one float around the room awhile and settle to the floor. By then, she was back to being her cool, efficient self. That woman was resilient, but you can only bounce back so many times. Finally, she agreed to discuss matters with her father later on. Looking daggers at Falzet, she left the room.

  I looked around at the Modiglianis on Mr. Hewlen’s wall while she was going. They all looked like girl basketball players.

  After the door clicked shut, Falzet said, “Ludicrous,” shaking his head. “Well, Mr. Hewlen,” he said rising, “that’s that. I do think you should insist on that doctor. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  “Just a minute please, Mr. Falzet,” I said. “As long as you’re here, I’d like to get my questions in.”

  He let me have it with his cold grey eyes. I survived. “Not now, Cobb. Who do you think you are? Make an appointment to see me in my office.”

  I was polite. “It would be a lot easier on me if you’d give me a few minutes now, Mr. Falzet.”

  “I’ve got an FCC commissioner waiting for me, Cobb. I could care less about making it easy for you.” I winced. Saying “I could care less” when you mean “I couldn’t care less” is like saying cold when you mean hot.

  I didn’t bother to reply to him, I was afraid he’d say something else to set my teeth on edge. Instead, I took out my wallet and removed a mimeographed message on a Network letterhead.

  “Dated right after you became President of the Network, Mr. Falzet,” I said. “ ‘To: All Corporation personnel. From: TJF. Subject: Department of Special Projects. It has been brought to my attention that certain individuals have been less than cooperative with (it should have been ‘toward,’ I corrected silently) the Department of Special Projects.’ ”

  I nearly gagged over the next phrase, but I got it out. “ ‘At this point in time, I remind you that all Network personnel are required to cooperate fully with this department as regards information concerning the Network and its operations.

  “ ‘Personal questions need not be answered, but failure to comply with DSP on any business matter shall be considered grounds for—’ ”

  I had to stop. Mr. Hewlen was laughing his grey head off.

  “Oh, Thomas,” he wheezed. “You are such a pompous ass, you and your memos. Isn’t he, Cobb?”

  Should I contradict the Chairman of the Board, or call the President an ass? I ducked the question. “Alexandre Dumas the Elder wrote, ‘One should be careful of what one writes, and to whom one gives it,’ ” I lied. It sent Mr. Hewlen off on another wave of laughter, and of course Falzet and I had to join in.

  Falzet knew what side the butter was on. He put a good-old-boy smile on his face and said, “All right, Cobb. As Shakespeare put it, ‘Hoist by my own petard!’ Ask away.”

  I was impressed in spite of myself. People quote Shakespeare all the time, but they rarely are aware of it, so it was doubly surprising to hear it from a man that habitually committed such mayhem on the English language, even if he did quote it wrong.

  So I was less antagonistic when I said, “Just a simple question, Mr. Falzet. Were there any recriminations when ‘Harbor Heights’ was cancelled?”

  Mr. Hewlen butted in. “That memo specifically exempts personal questions, Cobb.” He was enjoying this.

  “Yes, sir. I was asking Mr. Falzet if he noticed ill feeling on the part of anyone in the Network or the production company.”

  “Oh. In that case, all right. You may answer, Thomas,” he said helpfully.

  “Thank you, sir.” Falzet was good at controlling his face. He still had the smile stuck on, but he didn’t like it a tiny little bit. He turned to me. “No, Cobb, no recriminations. ‘Harbor Heights’ was my baby, and of course I was disappointed, but we could all see it was going nowhere, and had to be terminated.”

  “Whose decision was it to yank it?”

  “Well, mine, though Mr. Hewlen, Mr. Schick, and I all consulted together, of course.”

  “So you pulled it after eight weeks.”

  “Yes. Actually, in fact, after the CRIs for the second week came in, and we saw that huge audience drop, I was ready to cancel it immediately. It was dragging down the whole night, and would have begun to cost us money on the rate card. Mr. Schick agreed, but Mr. Hewlen advised us to hang on another month.”

  The old man nodded. “This way, the hyenas couldn’t say we didn’t try. If it didn’t kill us on Friday worse than it did on Sunday, we might have kept it for a full thirteen weeks, like in the old days.”

  That was the first time I ever heard anyone speak nostalgically about the “old days” of audience measurement. Sampling research is a strange and fascinating thing. A constantly rotating sample of twelve hundred TV homes represents, for rating purposes, the entire population of the United States. It’s a scientifically valid sample, mathematically accurate to within a couple of percentage points, yet some people persist in scoffing at the results. Someone once advised people who don’t believe the validity of sampling research: “Next time the doctor wants to make a blood test, don’t let him take just that smear—make him take all of it.”

  Anyway, in the good old days (about four years ago) the ratings were collected by attaching a meter to the set. The meter ran continuously, and recorded, minute by minute, whether the set was on or off and what channel it was tuned to. At the end of the week, the recording cartridge was collected by CRI, or mailed to them by the viewer.

  Then some genius looked at the problem again. He realized that to identify any given show, the only bits of information you needed were the time and the channel. You didn’t have to know that for each and every minute Sunday afternoon the set was tuned to the football game on Channel 2. All you needed to know was when the viewer started watching it, and when he stopped watching it.

  So he got together a bunch of guys (including Carlson, apparently) and hooked up a system that works like this.

  Instead of the old minute-by-minute, you now have attached to the television set a device that consists basically of three things: a clock, a
recorder, and a telephone. When you turn on your set, the recorder takes down coded electronic signals indicating the time and the channel. Then it shuts itself off.

  If you change the station, the recorder kicks to life long enough to make a note of the time and the new channel, then goes back to sleep. When you shut off the set, it records the time.

  Now, you’ve got all this down in coded signals on magnetic tape. Then the telephone comes in. The other end of that telephone component is hooked into the CRI computer in D.C. At a preprogrammed time, the computer automatically places a call to your television set, and sends it a signal that causes it to play back all the information it’s recorded. When the signal comes zipping down the line, the computer decodes it, adds it in with the info from all the other TVs, does the arithmetic, changes it into ink-on-paper so people can understand it, and voilà! ratings.

  Now, the Network assesses its position not every two weeks, but every two days. And when the generals are getting fresh information, it gets hotter for the boys in the trenches. That’s why the prime-time schedule seems at times to change while you blink. All the networks shuffle and reshuffle to get a bigger hunk of the several billion dollars spent on TV advertising annually. A tenth of a percent can be worth millions.

  Falzet asked me, with polite sarcasm, if he could go.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Do you know an individual named Vincent Carlson who worked for CRI?”

  “No. I have never dealt personally with CRI, though I will when it’s time to renew the contract again. At this Network, Cobb, the rating service is hired out of the budget of the Sales Department.”

  Of course, I knew that, as well as I know the color of my own eyes. But you never think about your eye color until somebody brings the subject up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Falzet.”

  He went through the hearty chuckle, punch-on-the-arm routine again, to put the lie to the rumor that we couldn’t get along.

  Mr. Hewlen said, “Don’t forget, Thomas, you and I are working late the rest of the week to discuss those pilots.”

  “Yes, sir.” Falzet put the phony smile on again. “You know, Mr. Hewlen,” he said, “I expect old Matt here is going to give us long and valuable service in Special Projects.” He nodded. “He’s different than McFeeley, but he gets the job done.”