For the love of God, Bitya, stay away from Bullseye
As I said, it was postmarked with a later date. The “Bitya” at the end of the note caused me to notice a tickle in my brain that had been bothering me for months. Was she screwing her broker, too? The potential chain reaction of my thoughts from that point, I knew, would have led to complete mental paralysis or insanity, so I set both letters on the counter and drank the other half of my beer.
Then I called Asa.
“Hey, you sound a little crazy today, friend.”
“I am a little bit crazy, Asa … Barb is …” I don’t know why I couldn’t tell him.
“Max?” he said. “Max, you told me already? Are you having a stroke?”
“Not a stroke. Not what I told you. Max, Barb’s in real big trouble …” It was hard for me to tell if I was being melodramatic or if I was actually overcome. Asa waited. “Asa, Barb’s in big, big, serious trouble, legal trouble. I went through her mail—”
“Max, that’s a federal offense.”
“Not if you’re married. But listen, I’m serious. I think the SEC is looking at her for trading violations.”
“Then we shouldn’t be talking on the phone,” Asa said, alarmed. “Hang up.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said, looking at the receiver to see if it looked like somebody had tampered with it. “So what do we do now. I mean, if they’re listening?”
“Hang up. I’m going to hang up.”
“Okay, but won’t that be suspicious? If we just hang up, I mean, then it’ll be obvious.”
“What’ll be obvious?”
“I don’t know—that we had a conversation. Don’t you think it’ll seem like we’re having a conversation?”
“We are having a conversation. If we’re cooked, we’re cooked.”
“Couldn’t we claim privilege? I saw a Law & Order once where they couldn’t use this guy’s confession because he gave it to his rabbi.”
“Max, I’m not a rabbi. I’m a puppeteer.”
“Well, you talk like a rabbi,” I said, ashamed now for what must have surely seemed like hysteria to Asa.
“Let’s talk about this later, my friend. You going to the office tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get a slice.”
“That’ll be good. Probably no bugs at Ray’s.”
Asa rage-sighed. “There will be.”
“They don’t know which Ray’s is our Ray’s.”
“Max, it’s time for you to shut up. And if you’ve got a sleeping pill or something, you should take it. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t do anything. Please.”
I DIDN’T TAKE THE SLEEPING pill. Instead I scoured the place for files, paperwork, spreadsheets. I couldn’t find anything, nothing suspicious in our records. I wanted to call Barb but didn’t. Without a doubt, they were tapped in to her phones. While I was on the computer, I checked my email. Aside from the crap there was one message from Devin. The subject line was:
IMPORTANT: Network Consultants Tomorrow A.M.
The message read:
Okay, everybody … this is the moment we’ve been dreading. As you know, the network has scheduled an 8 a.m. meeting for us with some consultants, which means only one thing. Ratings are down, and they are trying to decide whether to redesign the show or drop us. Come ready to wow them with our cutting-edge ideas for children’s educational programming and be ready to run with any idea they give us. Even if we hate it. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, take umbrage with anything they suggest, or we’ll all be auditioning for the next season of The Apprentice. I’m not kidding.
Don’t do anything rash. That’s what Asa said. Take a pill and don’t do anything rash. Of course, it’s very easy for Asa to hand out that kind of advice. He has not had to deal with this kind of indignity: being second-guessed. His show shot into the stratosphere like a Soyuz rocket. He never had time to adjust to the new world of becoming rich and famous. He hasn’t even gotten himself a new apartment, just channels all the money to the puppet theater or stashes it in the bank. Plus, he is spiritually grounded, and I am adrift.
Before I knew it, I’d finished off all six of the beers in my fridge. I was calmer but still agitated. I needed something else to drink. As I reached for a highball glass, I saw the stately rows of long-stemmed, ridiculously expensive wineglasses. My hand floated toward them. It felt drawn toward them. I took the wineglass and fumbled in a drawer in the bar for a corkscrew and went into the wine cellar, which we still called a cellar despite being twenty floors up.
The door hissed slightly when I opened it, and the lights came on serially like the ones in a bank vault. Every space in the racks was full, and a few cartons of wine bottles sat, stacked here and there, not randomly, but in the haphazard, art-directed way that everything in Barb’s empire was arranged. What I wanted was the most expensive bottle here. My motivation was absolute pettiness. I wanted Barb to see that empty bottle on the counter, sitting on top of Egg McMuffin wrappers, or maybe in the sink alongside a bag of bite-size Butterfingers.
The problem was that there was too much wine and no way for me to tell the value. So, being a good scientist, I gathered data. I headed back upstairs with a list of twenty-five names and vintages and got on the internet. In about ten minutes I had isolated the 1998 Cheval Blanc, a Cabernet Franc and Merlot with a dash of Malbec and Cabernet Sauvignon thrown in to give it a stunning nose with a cashew nut and dark fruit character with rounded mineral notes, a wine I knew would absolutely lend its terroir to milk chocolate and peanut butter crunch. And it went for two hundred and fifty a bottle. Maybe I’d haul out two of them.
I drank the wine, which saved me the need for sleeping pills and got me drunk fast enough so I didn’t have to mope around in agony over my wife’s infidelities to me and the laws of the United States of America. I slipped into delicious sleep, and I awoke to the chirping of my cell phone.
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, Max, where are you?”
It was Devin.
“I’m at home, why?”
“It’s eight thirty. The network consultan—”
“Oh, sugar,” I said.
“Sugar? Who says that?”
“Can you send me a car?”
“I already did?”
“Can you take them to breakfast?” I asked. “I could meet you there.”
“Max, they don’t want breakfast, besides there are Danishes in the conference room. It’ll seem like a ploy.”
“It is a ploy.”
“Listen—you get here as soon as you can.”
I shaved in the elevator and went to meet the car in the street. The doorman said good morning, and I stopped. I got out my wallet and took out a hundred-dollar bill. “You ever see my wife with Chuck Vogel, that guy from Revive Your Dive?”
His eyes sliced around the foyer and he tipped back the brim of his green cap. “You mean the house-fixing show?”
I nodded. He folded the bill in half and stuffed it in his pocket. “He’s been around.”
“A lot?”
His lower lip gathered slightly and he nodded, his eyes on the street.
“How about a weaselly-looking guy, shorter than her, with red hair. Looks like a cross between Robert Redford and Conan O’Brien?”
“You mean Mr. Barclay?”
“Yeah, that weasel.”
The guy dropped his shoulders a little and scrunched up one eye. “He used to come around a lot, but I haven’t seen him in months.”
A car outside honked aggressively.
I gestured to the cash in his pocket and said, “You tell me if my wife or any of these jokers come around. You call me on the phone.” I grabbed a pen and wrote my number. “You call me if you see any of them, all right?” Another set of honks. “You will be paid. Tell the guy on the second shift. Tell him to watch out. Tell him there’s money in this, for everyone.”
I left
the building and got in the car. The driver—couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old—adjusted his mirror and said, “Hey, it’s Dr. Science. Man, I grew up on your show. You know, I actually built a replica of Mount Vesuvius in the fifth grade.”
“With lava?”
“Oh yeah, baby. When we put the Mentos in there it was, like, red gore all over the room. You know what I’m saying? My mother had a heart attack. Science is so freaking awesome.” He bro-shook my hand in a way I couldn’t follow.
“Thanks,” I said. I wish I could just bring him into the meeting with me, let him sell the show. He ran his mouth the whole way, said how he was going to be a scientist, study physics maybe or geology. But his grades were crap and college was a lot of money for his family. I asked him for some aspirin and he said he had something better, handed me a bottle of pills and told me to take one. The bottle said, HYDROCODONE/APAP. “It’s generic Lortabs, man. Swiss guy left them in my cab last night.” I shook one out into my hand. It had the number M358 stamped into it. You can check the numbers on the internet. I palmed one and handed him the bottle.
“Thanks,” I said.
He let me off in front of the building and told me he’d been inspired. He was going to call City College on his break and see about some classes. I told him thanks for the pill and then said, “Science is the art of understanding the world.” The kid smiled and said he hadn’t heard that line in a long time. I got coffee in the lobby and debated taking the pill. I’d have about a forty-five-minute window, then I’d be in Palookaville for the afternoon. Probably a good thing. Because I’m a lightweight, I settled on half the pill, swallowed it with a swig of coffee, and rode the elevator upstairs. When the doors opened, Devin was ready to pounce. She appeared to be composed, but her eyes were crazy.
“Max, this is it. This is make-or-break. They’re looking for a reason to cut the show. The burden of proof is ours. We have to make them want the show. Pablo’s been pitching ideas for the last twenty minutes, and they’re not biting. If we don’t get in there right away, Sage is going to start talking.”
“Maybe he should.”
“Sage? If it were up to Sage, we’d just fill the show with lightsabers.”
“That would probably sell.”
“Max,” she shrieked.
“I’m going to take care of things,” I said, then redirected my attention to the receptionist. “What’s your name?” I asked. She looked like she was twenty-three, her hair in a bun with a pencil stabbed through it.
“Elaine,” she said.
“Two things,” I said. “First, what do you think of my show?”
She looked down and then to the far corner of her desk.
“Max,” Devin said, “we don’t have time for this.”
I hushed her. “It’s okay, Elaine, I’ve taken opiates this morning. I’m bulletproof. You can say whatever you want.”
She lifted her eyes, and her face flexed apologetically. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t really watch television.”
“So, you’re not an actress,” I said.
She shook her head no. “I want to work in publishing. I like history.” She looked small and ashamed when she said it.
“That’s good, Elaine. That’s good. Do you think people like history? In general, I mean? Do you think history is marketable?” Devin hissed at me again.
Elaine took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through her nostrils. “I think people don’t know what they want, Mr. Condit. People don’t think they can like things on their own. They make their choices because they think it will help them fit in. Or maybe that it will keep them from standing out. I don’t know if that’s the same thing, but I think it is, or close anyway. I think people want to be told what to want and what to like. That way they won’t pick the wrong thing.” Her eyebrows knit together suddenly. “Is that what you want me to say?” she asked. “Because I don’t know what I’m really talking about.”
“It’s perfect,” I told her. “No, you are perfect. Thank you.”
“Max,” Devin said. “We have got to go in there.”
Elaine kept looking at me like there was one more thing she dare not say. I smiled at her and told her that she should finish her thought.
“I don’t know. It’s just that, well … telling people what to like, that’s what your wife does. And I don’t think she’s making the world any better, just more the same.”
“I thought you didn’t watch TV,” I said.
“She publishes magazines, too, you know. And cookbooks.”
“That’s true,” I said. Then I smiled and hoped it wasn’t creepy. “You have no idea what you have just done for me, Elaine. Really, you have no idea. Okay—second thing. I have an idea. I want Asa and Elaine to listen in.”
“How? This isn’t Mission: Impossible,” Devin complained.
“We can do it with our phones,” I said. “We’ll call Asa. He’ll send his comments straight to Devin as texts, and he can serve as our moral compass. Right now, Elaine, you call Mr. Kirschbaum and tell him everything you just said to me, then tell him I wanted him to hear you say it.”
“Max,” Devin said, “we can’t keep those people waiting. You are not that important.”
“I am calling in the reinforcements. Devin, do you have your phone?” I asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Asa is going to text you our instructions. I am all nonsense. You are too angry. Asa and Elaine will be the puppeteers.”
“He’s going to do this by texting?” Devin asked.
“Yes, indeed. We’ll use the enemy’s weapons against them.”
Devin asked Elaine if she had any idea what I was talking about. She shook her head, and when she saw me looking, she smiled.
“Call Asa,” I said. “Devin, let’s go in there and kick some butts.”
We walked into the conference room, me in front, Devin in the rear. I was emboldened by my encounter with the receptionist and the taxi driver and with the still-surging throbs of adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. The consultants were sitting at the far end of the conference room with Sage, who was hunched over the table, sketching madly with one hand and gesturing with the other. The consultants shared a look that was one-third amusement and two-thirds confusion. “And those are the people of the Numericon Guild of Erdös, who forge the mathematical operations in their workshops and bring them above ground to—”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “I was just wrapping up a couple of focus groups this morning. I like to keep a clear sense of what people are saying about The Dr. Science Show.” As I went to shake their hands, the phone rang. I pressed the speaker phone and said, “Please hold the calls.” But I didn’t hang up. That was our connection to Elaine, who would relay to Asa. I extended my hand again, “Max Condit—pleased to meet you.” We shook hands and exchanged names.
Sage tried to interrupt. “Hey, Max, the phone—”
“So you’ve met Sage? He’s our out-of-the-box thinker, a real envelope pusher,” I said. “How about Pablo and Laura?”
“Laura’s not here,” Sage said.
Sure enough she was not.
“Laura is spending a little time with some of the science educators at NASA,” Devin said, and then she checked her phone.
I pulled out a chair and sat grandly. I gestured for Devin and Pablo to sit as well. Pablo seemed to be fuming. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were so small you almost couldn’t see them through his little rectangular glasses.
“So,” I said, “you have some ideas about my show.”
The consultants glanced at each other, and the one on the left opened her leather notebook. “As you know,” she began, “the growth of streaming media has increased the struggle for audience share in all markets, but this competition has been particularly stiff for the producers of educational content. Direct-to-school networks, DVDs, and other media have taken away public broadcasting’s privileged position regarding this kind of content.”
“Very interesting,” I said. “Tell me, who are your other clients?” The consultants looked at each other with some confusion. “What other shows and networks have you been working on? I mean surely you weren’t brought on because you were the low bidder. What I mean is, I have a PhD in physics from Stanford and I’ve produced the second-longest-running children’s program in the history of children’s television. What are your credentials?” I grabbed a Danish and sat back in my chair. The consultants whispered to each other, and the one without a pad said, “Well, Amy has an MBA from SUNY Albany.”
I told him I thought Albany was pretty good for a public school.
Amy glowered at me for a microsecond then said, “We’ve worked with Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer, Carmen Sandiego—”
“Our competition,” I said. “How’s that supposed to work? If you’re telling all of us what to do to be more effective, isn’t that a little like you running around a poker table telling people what everybody else is holding? I don’t think that’s the kind of help we need, quite frankly.”
Devin looked down calmly at her lap and firmed her lips. “I think …” she said hesitantly, “we should hear some of … their ideas … um, for the show.” Then she looked at me and raised her little phone slightly and set it back in her lap.
Amy smiled and said that she and her associate, his name was Parker, recognized the history of the show and its long run. “But kids want to be empowered to become independent learners,” she said. “They don’t need or want to rely on adult authority figures for the answers. They want to work it out on their own. We need to help them learn to face unscripted problems.”
“It’s television. There’s always a script.”
“Yes, but with technology,” Parker interjected, “kids don’t have to rely on adults. It’s a much more democratic educational process.”
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