“I’ll go out with her,” he’d tell George Harding, as though it didn’t matter one way or another. “I ain’t got anything better going on.”
He’d ask her if she wanted to grab some dinner after work or if she wanted to meet for a few beers and talk about doing a series together. He’d try anything to keep an eye on her. He knew she was in trouble. He could feel it tight in his chest whenever he looked at her.
*
“She’s seeing a doctor,” Ellen told him. “If there is a problem, she’ll work it out with him. She’s not asking for your help, Clifford. Leave it alone.”
Clifford couldn’t do that. Neither could Jim Brown. He got the phone call from Sue in the front office, an old hand at the station.
“One of your people was asking about our insurance coverage for group therapy,” she told him. “Thought you might need to know.”
He called Debbie into his office. He shut the door and sat down in his high-backed chair, his hands folded atop his belly.
“Debbie,” he said, “is there something wrong, something we can do to make you happy?”
“No, no,” she said with a quick shake of her head. “Nothing is wrong. Why are you asking me that?”
“You seem a little down lately. I thought there might be something you want to talk about.”
“No, really, Jim,” she insisted. “Everything is going well.” She smiled wide.
“How about a few days of vacation? Would you like to take a few days off? That wouldn’t be a problem, Debbie. We care about you. You know that.”
“I know,” she said, nodding. “I know.”
He left his chair and walked around the desk. He went to her, putting one hand on her shoulder.
“You’re one of the family. You matter to us. If there is anything I can do to make things easier for you, you tell me, okay?”
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “A little tired, but it’s nothing important. I’ll try to get some rest.”
“Promise?” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Promise?”
“I promise.” She smiled but pulled her shoulder away. That squeeze hurt.
He went back to his chair and, as she stood up, he asked, “Debbie, have you talked to a doctor about it, this being tired?”
“No, no,” she answered quickly.
“No?” he asked, his eyes surprised. “Well, maybe you should. Don’t forget,” he said, his voice firm, “we all love you.”
36
Jean Ann Maypin had three standard speeches for the many groups that requested her appearance. She had one on how to dress and act for success, one on how to organize time and one, she loved this one, about being a feminine woman in a man’s world.
“I call this speech ‘Grin and Bear It,’” she would start. “It’s about being a woman in a man’s world.”
There would be giggling and clapping almost before the first sentence came out of her coral-glossed lips.
“She reminds me of my granddaughter Heather,” one would whisper.
“Reminds me of that sweet Jane Pauley on the Today Show,” another would chime.
“No, no, she’s much better than that Jane Pauley,” would come from the row behind.
They all knew the truth about Jean Ann Maypin. They knew she became a star without being coarse and rude and mannish. She did her best in a man’s world and one day, they all knew this, she would meet Mr. Right and spend more time at home. She wouldn’t have to give up television completely, but she would definitely be happier spending more time at home and raising a family. They all knew she wanted that. All real women did.
Jean Ann was dating a psychologist. She called him “my analyst” and giggled with the hint that perhaps she did see him, or had, on a professional basis. Then, she would roll her eyes to show how absurd it would be to think that she, Jean Ann Maypin, would ever need an analyst.
She loved his name.
“Gregory,” she said and rolled her eyes at Paige Allen. “Isn’t that cute? My analyst. We date, you know.”
She liked Paige Allen knowing how desirable she was. Paige might be sexy and blond but she was no Jean Ann Maypin.
She met him at the station when he came in to talk with Jim Brown about doing mental health tips to fight holiday season depression. That idea didn’t appeal to Brown but he was glad to add a presentable psychologist to his list of people they could use for a sound bite or two in future stories.
Gregory took her to dinner before the ten o’clock newscasts. He chose places with candlelight where Jean Ann could allow herself a single sip of wine from his glass. He would hold her hand and listen to her talk about her day and about television news. They were, he found, one and the same.
He smiled patiently when people stopped by the table.
“We watch you every night,” they would tell her.
“Well, how sweet of you to say so,” she’d say, and sign the scraps of paper they pressed on her.
Sometimes, after giving him a long look, her admirers would say, “and you too.” He would smile and give a short bow of his head.
“I’ve told everyone I have an analyst,” Jean Ann told him one night.
He shook his head.
“Oh, pooh. That’s what I tell them. Everybody’s got one, don’t they? I could need one, couldn’t I? It could be exciting. I have so many stories to tell. I wouldn’t be boring.”
He smiled.
“And, you know, I do need someone to talk to. Television is such a hard business. Oh, I have the most wonderful job in the world. I wouldn’t change it for anything, but it can be difficult for a woman.”
He nodded and smiled, watching her mouth as she chewed her veal. Her knife scraped the plate as she cut another bite. He could sense the others in the restaurant staring and smiling and nodding in their direction. Jean Ann Maypin, gosh.
*
At the end of every speech, they asked the same question. It usually came at that too quiet moment with no hands waving with questions to be asked. Finally, one of the bravest, the most determined of them, would giggle and raise her hand and stand.
“Jean Ann, what’s Tom Carter really like?”
“Yes, yes,” would come the excited chorus.
She gave that question her warmest smile and she always said the same thing.
“Ah, Tom, he’s quite a guy. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He’s helped me a lot and working with him has been a wonderful opportunity for me.”
A sigh of contentment would fill the room. Was there ever any doubt?
SEGMENT THREE
“And finally tonight …” Carter allowed for his thin smile. This was the light story, the kicker. Made them feel good, that’s what those pricks Back East said anyway.
“We have a report about some very, very,” he moved into a smirk, “special dancers.” He had no idea what kind of dancers they were. Could be belly dancers, for all he knew. He didn’t know. He read.
“Our arts and entertainment reporter,” God, he hated that, “Harold Lewis, brings us the story.”
He held the prim mouth smirk without moving, staring into the camera, waiting for the tape to take over.
That son of a bitch director wasn’t fast enough. Too many times he left him hanging out here with a stupid fucking look on his face. He’d see about that.
He held the pose a second longer, the eyes narrowed. Next to him, Jean Ann turned to watch her desk monitor. She liked Lewis’ little stories. She could smile after them.
37
Jim Brown decided to throw the problem to Tom Carter at the Wednesday management meeting. He had learned that every so often Carter needed something to stew over, something to get him into the newsroom. Once there he caused trouble, true, but the more the newsroom disliked Carter, the more they turned to him. And, that’s exactly the way Jim Brown wanted it.
The three of them, Tony, Brown, and Tom Carter went down the list of reporters and photographers, stopping at certain names with comments about stories or o
utput or, when it came to photographers, overtime. George Harding sat quietly to one side.
“Those pricks,” Carter spat, “they’re padding their goddamn time sheets. You bet they are and it’s going to stop.”
“Somebody has to shoot the stories, Tom,” said George Harding.
“Well, find somebody to do it on our time, not theirs,” Carter ordered. “You bring that goddamn overtime down or I’ll do something about it.”
Brown smiled an apology to George Harding. Every Wednesday meeting was the same.
“Who’s low on story count?” Carter demanded. This was the part he loved, the story count. The count showed how these little bastards tried to rip off the station.
“Allen and, I guess,” Brown hesitated as though examining the list, “Debbie Hanson. But, you know,” he seemed to rush to explain, “Debbie’s been down, a little sick, no big deal.”
Carter began to swell with anger. Why was Brown making excuses?
“Allen’s a fucking bimbo so who cares about her but you tell Miss Hanson to get on the stick. She’s been here less than a year. Right, George?”
George Harding nodded. He had no idea.
“And she hasn’t done anything worth talking about,” Carter concluded.
“Ah, she’s done some good stuff, Tom,” Brown argued.
“Not enough, buddy,” Carter spat back. “We ain’t no goddamn nursing home. What do you mean she’s sick?”
“Stomach or something,” George Harding mumbled. No one had said anything to him about her being sick but that sounded harmless enough.
“Maybe the bimbo is preggers,” Carter sneered.
“Well, that’s an easy one to solve,” Tony said without thinking.
“What?” Carter yelled.
“I was joking, Tom.”
“You better be, boy. We don’t put up with that shit in my newsroom. You got that?”
Brown looked at Tony. There was nothing they didn’t find out sooner or later. Even if they only guessed at something, they were usually right. Every newsroom rumor he ever heard turned out to be true.
“I ain’t having no pregnant gashes in my newsroom,” said Carter.
George Harding flinched.
“Tom, Tony was joking,” Brown stated.
George Harding sat like a schoolboy before an exam, all of his papers on his lap, his knees held close together.
“Are we almost done?” he asked. “I should get back out there.”
“Go ahead,” Carter said, “but you keep that goddamn overtime down. Who’s the worst one on that overtime stuff?”
“Ah,” George Harding was on his feet, holding his papers in a tight fist. “Ah, maybe, ah, Clifford Williams. He’s usually high.”
“He’s high, ten, fifteen hours,” Tony commented, then added, “He does good work.”
He made it a practice to balance a criticism with a compliment. Something he learned from Brown.
“Not on my back he doesn’t,” Carter shouted. “You get that overtime down or I will.”
George Harding nodded and left the room.
“That it for me too?” Tony asked.
“Yeah,” Carter said.
“So, what about this Hanson thing?” he asked Brown after Tony left.
He liked a problem with the staff. They hadn’t had any serious problems in a long time and he liked handling them, the overtime, the story count. That was his area. What he didn’t touch was the newscasts. He didn’t have any idea how those things got put together and he admitted it.
“I couldn’t put a newscast together to save my life,” he told Ellen Peters as they watched Chuck Farrell lay out the script on the long table. He put it down page by page, in five vertical rows, each row representing one section of the newscast.
It had all gotten so goddamn complicated, tapes, mini-cams, microphones, earpieces, somebody always waving at you, yelling in your ear. Oh, he could handle it out on the set. Who cared what the director said or the producer or the people on the floor? On the set he was in charge and if all went to hell in a handbasket, he was the man who made damn sure the right bastards got theirs.
He handled the staff and that is what kept it all together, not any goddamn row of scripts. It was The Best because he built the best goddamn team in the state. He built it, from Bakersfield to Omaha to wherever the hell that goddamn Polack Kowalski came from.
“I’m going to have to have a little talk with Miss Hanson,” he told Brown to show him who was really in charge.
“Couldn’t hurt,” Brown agreed.
“Damn right. If something needs to be straightened out with that young lady, we better do it now. And I don’t like this talk about her being pregnant. Who’s she screwing anyway?”
Brown shrugged. He heard some talk that she and Jason were dating but after he tied him into Ferguson and the medical stories, there couldn’t have been much time left for Debbie. It was a hard life, television, a lot of tough choices had to be made. As he once told Ellen, it wasn’t good for relationships.
“Destroys marriages, yes, it can, and relationships,” he told her.
“Doesn’t have to,” she countered.
“It’s tough,” he said, shaking his head. “Nobody understands what it means, nobody who is not in the businesss,”
“Sure,” was her answer.
*
“So, what are you going to do?” Clifford asked as they drove to their story. “You plan to stay here forever?”
“No, not forever,” Ellen said.
“Well, what are you going to do?”
“Clifford,” she warned. She didn’t want the questions today. No more questions.
“Like I said, I’m going to New York,” he told her. “I can make it there. I’m good.”
“A lot of people are,” she said. She wasn’t going to build up his dream today. She was tired of that too.
“Not as good as this nigger,” he replied strongly.
“Well, it’s too big for me. Too many people.”
“Then where?” he demanded.
“I might pack it in and go back to New Mexico.”
“Any jobs up there?”
“Yeah, but they don’t pay.”
“I’m already there in the don’t-pay-me-nothin’ place. I ain’t going to another one.”
She laughed.
“Nothin’ as bad as this place,” he shook his head. “Nothin.’ It’s March and I’m already sweatin’ like a pig.”
“And it’s freezing in New York.”
“You and that freezing in New York. So what? At least I’m going somewhere, sister.”
She gave him a sharp look. He was staring straight ahead, his profile innocent of criticism.
“Well, at least we didn’t get the prison story,” she said.
“I hear that,” he said, nodding with the words. “I hear that.”
38
The prison story went to Debbie with Jason as her photographer. She pleaded with George for someone else. She had managed to avoid Jason for months, conniving and manipulating to work with other photographers.
“Clifford would be good on this one,” she told George. “Or, how about Cappy? We work well together on things like this.”
“Nope. Jason’s it. Everybody else is out.”
“Ah, George, doesn’t Jason need to work on some series?” she tried.
“Debbie, go out and do the story,” he said in frustration. What was wrong with these people? First they wanted to work together. Now they didn’t. Well, they could forget it. He didn’t have time to juggle the schedule first thing in the morning.
“How’s everything been with you?” Jason asked her as they started the hour drive to the prison.
“Fine.”
“I haven’t seen much of you.”
“No,” she said, staring out her window. “I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, right.” He turned on the radio. Rock and roll blasted through the van.
“You haven’t gotten any sh
orter,” he yelled over the music.
She said nothing.
He turned off the radio.
“Missed you,” he said, looking over at her..
She continued looking out her window.
“Have you ever been in the prison?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’ve never been in any prison.”
“It’s bad,” he warned her. “We’ll get in and out as fast as we can.”
For Jason, prison stories were the worst, county, state, city, any prison. And, it wasn’t only because they were hard to shoot, no faces allowed, and the light was bad. It was the noise, the sounds of metal on metal, cell doors closing, the strange screams of laughter.
“We’ll get out fast,” he promised.
He tried before, being friendly, talking to her in the newsroom. She would give him a smile but not much more.
“How’s Ashley?” she asked suddenly.
“Working in Washington, as far as I know.”
“Poor you.”
“Come on, Debbie.”
“Let’s not talk,” she said. “I really don’t feel like it.”
He turned the radio on and they rode the rest of the way without speaking.
They signed away any special consideration for their safety at the front gate. If anything happened to them, if they were taken hostage, they should not expect anything to be done for them. The gate slammed behind them and they stood in the open yard. Jason set up the tripod. The man from the warden’s office stood with them.
“You can go up there,” he said and pointed to the walkways running atop one fortress-like wall. “Would that be good for you, a good view?”
The legislature was in session. Any story about prison overcrowding could mean more money. The warden told him to give the television people what they wanted.
“And we’ll need to go inside one of the cell blocks. Is that okay?” Debbie asked.
“Already set up.”
The warden told him to take them into the three-story square brick jail built back in Territory days. They wanted shots of a prison system in need of money, they’d get them there.
The Best in the West Page 20