Ethel shrugged. “Well, I’m just tipping you off. You’d better gird yourself for a tough evening with the Great Danton. If he gets the sack, it’ll be awfully drunk out.”
Susie knew Dan had a reputation as a heavy drinker, but he never took more than two martinis with her, and she had never seen anything ruffle his calm. She looked at Ethel and smiled. “I don’t think you have to worry about Dan. If he did lose this job, I’m sure he’d have plenty of offers.”
“You weren’t here when Colin Chase quote, retired, unquote. When they asked him about his plans, he said, ‘when you’re captain of a dirigible and the dirigible blows up, that’s it. After all, how many other dirigibles are there to go to?’” Ethel waited for this line to make an impact, then added, “It can get very lonely and cold sitting out there at Lakehurst, waiting for another dirigible to come along.”
Susie smiled. “I don’t think Dan will go to Lakehurst.”
“Honey, every place is Lakehurst when you have no dirigible. Colin Chase still sits in ‘21’ or the Colony every day, having three-hour lunches, stalling until it’s time to go to Louis and Armand’s for cocktails.”
Susie studied her hair in the mirror. Ethel gave up. “Okay, play it cool if you like, but I’ll bet you a lunch that Dan will go. He’s in real trouble.”
Susie stood alone in the Powder Room. She was concerned for Dan. But she was even more concerned for herself. If a new man came in, he’d bring his own secretary. She couldn’t go back to the “bullpen”! She’d have to job-hunt… .
Oh Lord, she had spent a whole week’s salary buying a dress to wear with Dan at the Emmy Awards dinner next month. She was feeling panic now. She had seen the ratings. Everything was down. Network News was hardest hit, but Ethel was right-Morgan White was related to the Austins. Danton would be the fall guy. True, he had looked calm enough this morning when she placed the message on his desk, but you could never tell when Dan was worried. His Madison Avenue training and his ubiquitous catlike smile made him seem in total command.
In fact Dan was worried. He sensed disaster the moment he saw the ratings. And when Susie put the phone message before him he felt the blood drain from his stomach. He loved the job. It was stimulating and exciting. And as he reveled in his power, his fear of failure grew. You couldn’t take chances when you put your job on the line. Presidents of other networks could take chances. They didn’t work for a maniac like Gregory Austin, who fancied himself a combination of Bernard Baruch and David Merrick. What was he trying to prove? You couldn’t be any bigger than Gregory, unless you were Robert Sarnoff or William Paley.
At ten twenty-seven he left his office and walked to the elevator. He looked down the hall at the impressive walnut door with the gold lettering: MORGAN WHITE. Everything seemed serene in there. Sure, Morgan was safe. Gregory Austin had chosen Dan-ton Miller, Jr., as the sacrificial lamb.
He nodded briskly to the elevator boy as the car took him swiftly to the penthouse floor. He smiled evenly at Gregory Austin’s secretary as she announced him. She returned his smile and motioned him to go inside. He envied her, serene and secure in her paneled and broadloomed cubicle.
He entered the spacious reception room, where Gregory usually came out to greet VIPs—big sponsors or presidents of advertising agencies who were making multimillion-dollar buys of IBC air time. Beyond it was the conference room and Gregory’s luxurious inner office.
If Gregory wanted to fire him, he’d probably be standing here, waiting to get it over with quickly. But Gregory wasn’t here, so maybe it was a good sign. But what if Gregory wanted to make him wait and sweat? It could be a bad sign.
He sat on one of the leather couches and stared morosely at the handsome early American furniture. He glanced at the neat creases in the trousers of his Dunhill suit. God—right now, he was Danton Miller, Jr., President of Network Television. Five minutes from now he might be unemployed.
He took out his cigarette case. The slow burn of his ulcer warned him, but he took out a cigarette and tapped it against the case. He should have taken a tranquilizer before he left his office. He should have stayed on the wagon last night. Hell, he should have done a lot of things! He studied the cigarette case. He had selected it with great care. Three hundred dollars. Black baby alligator, trimmed with eighteen-karat gold. He could have gotten a solid gold one for the same price, but that wasn’t the image of understated elegance he had styled for himself—the black suit, the black tie, the white shirt. He had twelve black suits, fifty black ties, all the same. Each tie had a small number in the lining so he could rotate them each day. A black suit simplified life: fine for the office, but equally presentable if an important dinner date came up. The cigarette case was a great prop. If he was asked to make a snap decision, he could reach for the cigarette case, select a cigarette, tap it against the case—it gave him time to think, to stall. It was also a substitute for cuticle picking, nail biting and other manifestations of nerves.
His hands felt damp. He didn’t want to lose this job! This was power! There was no place to go after this, no place other than the Valhalla of ex-network presidents, the martini-laden four-hour daily lunch at “21.”
He stared out the window. A watery sun was trying to shine. Spring would soon be here. This couch would be here in spring. Gregory’s secretary would be here. But he would be gone. Suddenly he knew how a condemned man must feel as he walks to the electric chair and stares at the witnesses who must watch him die. He breathed deeply, as if savoring every last second of life; as if in a few seconds his life could be shot from under him. The large office, the trips to the Coast, the bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the broads. … He walked back to the couch. He didn’t consciously believe in God, yet he sent up a small prayer—a promise. If he got through today without getting canned, things would be different. He’d make those numbers rise. He’d do it if he had to steal shows from other networks. He’d make it a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. He’d cut down on the booze, on the broads. This was a pledge—and he’d keep it. Hadn’t he kept the rule he had set for himself against drinking at lunch? He had made that decision when he saw the disintegration of Lester Mark. Lester had headed a big advertising agency. Dan had watched him go from two to four to five martinis at lunch. Martinis bolster a man’s confidence and loosen his tongue. He had watched Lester go from president of an advertising agency to vice-president of a lesser agency, from vice-president to unemployment, from there to full-time alcoholic.
Dan was convinced that the lunchtime martini was one of the worst occupational hazards of television. For this reason, he was strict in his abstinence during the day. What he did after hours he always considered his own business. But in this past year he had been doing it too much. Maybe that was why he had latched on to Susie Morgan, breaking another of his rules. (Keep your social life apart from your business.) Susie was too young for him, so he made no passes and stayed reasonably sober when he took her out. Besides, he couldn’t really cope with a twenty-three-year-old: a girl that age has marriage spelled across her forehead. It was safer to get a hooker for sex or even jerk off. Girls like Susie were good for window dressing. He’d even give up the hookers if he held the job. He’d stay home several nights a week, just watch that goddam box, watch the competition, find out why IBC was lagging. Find out what the public really wanted. Oh, who the hell knew? Even the public didn’t know.
The heavy door swung open and Gregory Austin walked in. Dan jumped up. Gregory was holding the ratings. He handed Dan the paper and motioned him to sit down. Dan studied the ratings as if seeing them for the first time. From the corner of his eye he watched Gregory pace up and down the room. Where did the man get the energy? Dan was ten years younger, yet he didn’t walk with the same spring. Austin was not a tall man. Dan was five foot ten and he stood several inches higher than Gregory. Even Judith in her high heels sometimes appeared taller than Gregory. Yet there was a virility and a feeling of strength that emanated from him. His whole being crackled with
excitement: the red hair, the freckles on the strong sun-tanned hands, his flat stomach, the quick movements, and the sudden disarming smile. The rumor was that he had led an active love life among the Hollywood starlets until he met Judith. After that, to Gregory, no other woman seemed to exist.
“What do you think of the numbers?” Gregory said suddenly.
Dan made a wry face.
“Notice anything particular?”
Dan took out the cigarette case. He tapped a cigarette.
Gregory reached over and took one, but ignored Dan’s offer of a light. “Been off them for a week,” he announced. “I just hold one in my mouth. It works. You should try it, Dan.”
Dan lit his own cigarette and exhaled slowly. He made another vow to the God who watched over network presidents. If he walked out of this room with his job intact, he would never smoke again.
Gregory leaned over. The strong hand with the red-gold hairs pointed to the news ratings.
“We’re in the cellar,” Dan said, as if making a sudden discovery.
“Notice something else?”
Dan’s ulcer stabbed him. His eyes kept riveting to the two variety shows that were in the bottom ten. Shows that he had recommended. But he forced himself to look at Gregory with a bland innocent stare.
Gregory Austin’s finger impatiently tapped the page. “Look at our local news. Not only does it hold its own, but some nights it even outrates CBS, ABC and NBC. Know why? A man named Robin Stone!”
“I’ve caught him many times, he’s excellent,” Dan lied. He had never seen the man or watched the eleven o’clock IBC news. Either he was loaded and fell asleep, or he turned to NBC and waited for the Tonight show.
“I’ve watched him every night for a month,” Gregory stated. “Mrs. Austin thinks he’s great. And it’s the women who determine what channel their husbands pick for news. The man may win in the choice of any other show, but when it comes to the news, it’s her choice. Because the news is the same on each network—it just depends on which newscaster you prefer to watch. That’s why I’ve taken Robin Stone off local news. I intend to put him on our seven o’clock network show with Jim Bolt.”
“Why keep Jim on at all?”
“He’s got a contract to play out. Besides, I don’t want Robin Stone stuck with just that spot. I have other plans for him. This man can be another Murrow, Cronkite, Huntley or Brinkley. We build him. And in turn he’ll build the seven o’clock spot. By the end of this summer, his face will be known nationally. He’ll be our anchor man at the conventions. We’ve got to build our news department. The only way to do it is with a personality. And Robin Stone is our man.”
“Could be,” Dan said slowly. He wondered what was coming next. This should be Morgan White’s territory.
As if reading his thoughts, Gregory said, “Morgan White has to go.” He said it quietly, without emotion.
Dan remained silent. This was a startling turn of events and he wondered why Gregory was confiding in him. Gregory kept everyone at a distance.
“Who would replace Morgan?”
Gregory stared at him. “What in hell have I been telling you? Do I have to lay it out? I don’t want Robin Stone just as a performing newscaster. I want him to head the department.”
“I think it’s a marvelous idea.” Dan was so relieved at his own stay of execution he could afford to be expansive.
“But I can’t fire Morgan, he has to quit.”
Dan nodded, still afraid to offer any comment.
“Morgan has no talent. But he has plenty of pride. It runs in the family. His mother and Mrs. Austin’s mother were sisters. Great family—no business sense—but great pride. But that’s what I’m counting on. When you leave here, I want you to send a memo to Morgan, announcing that you have hired Robin Stone as Head of Network News.”
“Head of Network News?”
“There’s no such job or title. I’m just creating it temporarily. Morgan will wonder what the hell it is, too. He’ll come to you. You’ll say that you created this job for Robin Stone in order to bolster the ratings. That Robin Stone will have a free hand in changing things in the news department—and will report directly to you. Get it?”
Dan nodded slowly. “Morgan will claim I’m butting into his department.”
“Not butting in. As President of Network Television, you have the right to suggest changes in any department.”
Dan smiled. “Suggest, but not act.”
“Let’s not fool with semantics. Morgan will come running to me. I’ll pretend it’s a surprise, but I’ll say that your job gives you the power to hire new personnel.”
“Suppose Morgan doesn’t quit?”
“He will,” Gregory said. “I’m betting on it.”
Then Gregory tossed aside his unlit cigarette and Dan stood up. The interview had ended. His life had been spared. He left the office with a new sense of security. His job was not in peril, and wouldn’t be for some time. Gregory wanted him to be hatchet man on Morgan. He was dizzy at the thought of the new prestige this would give him in the business. Everyone knew Morgan’s relationship with Gregory Austin. And now he, Dan-ton Miller, Jr., would make the announcement that he had appointed Robin Stone as Head of Network News. They would actually believe that he was big enough to fire Morgan White and that Gregory Austin would sit back and accept it! The word would be out all over town: “Danton Miller, Jr., has autonomous power.”
His hand shook as he wrote and rewrote the memo to Morgan White. After rephrasing it several times, he dictated it to Susie. He wondered how fast she’d get the news around the building. He sat back and reached for a cigarette, then, recalling his pledge, he tossed it unlit into the wastebasket.
He stood up and stared from his window. The sun was shining, the sky was almost a Wedgwood blue. Spring was coming and he’d be alive to greet it.
He turned around calmly as Morgan White burst into his office.
“What is all this about?” Morgan demanded.
“Sit down, Morgan… .” Dan reached for his cigarette case, hesitated, then snapped it open. Hell, if there was a God, He knew a man had to have a cigarette at a moment like this!
FOUR
THE DAY AFTER the big announcement was made, business went on as usual at IBC. Robin Stone’s picture appeared The New York Times with a brief statement announcing his appointment as President of News replacing Morgan White, who had resigned. There was a sense of suspended apprehension in the news department as everyone waited for Robin Stone to appear. Robin had always been a loner, so there was one speculation that took all precedence—“What was Robin Stone really like?” The only person who had come near to socializing with him was Bill Kettner, a cameraman. On two occasions he had gone to a bar with Robin after the eleven o’clock news. On both occasions it was to watch a night ball game. Robin Stone liked baseball. He could also polish off three vodka martinis as if they were orange juice. This was the sum total of information that had been dredged together.
A few of the girls had seen him at P.J.’s, always with a pretty girl. Sometimes Jerry Moss was with them. Jerry Moss seemed to be his only male friend. They met every day at the Lancer Bar for a drink.
“Where in hell is the Lancer Bar?”
Jim Bolt said he thought it was on West Forty-eighth Street.
Sam Jackson was sure it was on First Avenue.
They looked it up in the phone book.
It was on East Fifty-fourth Street.
No one had ever been there.
On Wednesday afternoon, half the news department went to the Lancer Bar.
Robin Stone never showed.
On Thursday one of the researchers went there because he had liked the Lancer Bar.
Robin Stone was there.
With Jerry Moss and the most beautiful girl in the world.
There was nothing to do but wait for Robin Stone to make a move. It came late Friday afternoon. A message was placed on the desks of all news personnel:
THERE WI
LL BE A MEETING IN THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON THE EIGHTEENTH FLOOR, MONDAY AT TEN THIRTY.
ROBIN STONE
They began filing into the conference room at ten twenty. At ten twenty-five Ethel Evans entered. Jim Bolt glanced at her curiously. She had no business being here. But he was too concerned with his own problems to give her much thought. A new president meant a big shake-up. Yet he had to hand it to Ethel-barging in like this. He admired her guts and her easy confidence.
But Ethel wasn’t as confident as she appeared. She noticed that most of the staff automatically took seats as if they had been assigned to them. It was a long room, the long table was the only furniture. Some extra chairs were against the wall. The door they had all come in by led to the outside hall. She stared at another door. A door that was ominously closed. Soon every seat was taken except the empty seat at the head of the table. Ethel hesitated, then she took a chair from against the wall, dragged it to the table and wedged it in between a researcher and a sports-caster.
At ten thirty Randolph Lester, Morgan’s vice-president of News, entered the room. Ethel noticed that he looked fairly confident. Maybe Robin had given him some hint that his job was not in jeopardy. Randolph was wearing a black suit and black tie. The IBC image that Danton Miller had inspired. He smiled at them paternally. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I know you’ve all shared IBC’s excitement at the appointment of Mr. Stone to the presidency of News. Some of you have worked with him. Some of you will be meeting him for the first time. Both Mr. Gregory Austin and Mr. Danton Miller are proud to place all future news programming in Mr. Stone’s hands. There will be some changes made—in fact, there will be many changes made. But I’m sure everyone will understand they reflect in no way on anyone’s personal talent or accomplishment. The changes will be to extend our news coverage. To make for higher achievement.”
The Love Machine Page 3