“We didn’t hire Rosanne,” Cassy Cochran would laugh. “She hired us.” And it was true. Rosanne conducted a “trial day” in eighteen households before she selected the four original clients she wished to work for: the Cochrans—on the strength of Mrs. C and Henry (Mr. C always made such a mess); the Wyatts—Rosanne liked all of them, particularly Althea, and when she spotted an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting book on Mr. W’s dresser she figured it might come in handy to know somebody on the other side of the fence; Amanda Miller—a shoe-in from the start since, (a) she was so nice, and (b) Rosanne could paint the house with mud for all Amanda would notice; and the Stewarts—well, like Mrs. W had forewarned her, the Bitch was impossible, but Howie was so wonderful that Rosanne had accepted the job on the condition that she would never have to deal directly with her. And then later good ol’ Mrs. G had been added—that had been Amanda’s doing and, besides, Rosanne had loved how Mrs. G kept calling her “dear.”
Financially speaking, Rosanne knew she was very lucky. Not once—not once in three years—had a single client failed to leave her the full cash amount for her day’s work. Everywhere else Rosanne had worked, the client was forever “forgetting” about her, leaving partial payments, or, worse yet, writing checks that took days to clear (if they cleared at all). And then Mrs. C had her thing about coming across clothes that “had Rosanne written all over them”; Mr. W had his about needing to “get something for a boy once in a while”; Amanda had hers about needing to feel that “someone, somewhere, could turn to me if they needed help” (which Rosanne had once, when Frank had been arrested); Howie had his about “when it’s harder work than usual, you should get paid more than usual”; and Mrs. G—man, that Mrs. G—had her thing about wanting Rosanne to have some of her personal possessions—a pin, a plate, a fine piece of linen—offers that Rosanne never accepted, but scored very high with her all the same.
But it was the generosity of her clients’ hearts that most affected Rosanne. One time—and Rosanne would never forget it—during one of Mr. C’s infamous parties, Rosanne had walked in on him while he was giving it to one of the video kittens in the guest room. She had shut the door and was standing there, in shock, when Mrs. C came down the hall. Mrs. C wanted to know what was going on and Rosanne wouldn’t tell her, but neither would she let her past. And then all of a sudden Mrs. C had dragged her down the hall by the hand, stopped her in the doorway, held her by the shoulders, and said, “Rosanne, I love you. Do you understand? I love you for trying to protect me. As far as I’m concerned, you have just joined the family.”
And there was the time the Wyatts took her to Samantha’s Christmas pageant. (“Anyone who baby-sits for her deserves to see her act like an angel once,” Sam explained.) And the time Amanda took her and Jason to the Museum of Natural History. And the first time Howie had given her a book to read, encouraging her, pushing her, to “get into the habit.” And the time Mrs. G gave her a copy of The Amy Vanderbilt Book of Etiquette so that Rosanne would “know exactly what to do at all the wonderful places I’m sure life will take you one day.”
Yeah, right. Wonderful places.
One night, in the summer of 1984, Rosanne asked Frank and Creature to keep an eye on Jason while she took a shower. When she emerged from the west bathroom, toweling her hair, she saw some hulking crazy dragging Jason down the hall by his three-year-old hand—heading for the open window at the end of the Boor. Rosanne silently tore down the hall, grabbed her child in her arms, and when the crazy turned on her—bantering about the Devil—he kicked him as hard as she could in the crotch and started screaming.
Frank and Creature came running (having been busy doing something other than watching Jason) and, without asking questions, beat the hell out of the crazy. Rosanne ran back to her room, clutching Jason against her chest, rocking him and sobbing hysterically for hours.
The next day Rosanne had Jason placed in a foster home. Temporarily. Just until the DiSantoses got on their feet again.
Rosanne visited with her son as often as she could. He had not been back to the Krandell Arms, not even for a visit. And Rosanne vowed he never would. Not ever again.
“Who’re you going out with tonight?” Rosanne asked her husband.
“Zigs, Carson.”
“Where?”
“Uptown. Shoot some pool.” Silence. Then Frank sat up, the first time all evening. “I need some money.”
“I gave you twenty this morning—James, don’t touch the wire.” When James didn’t pay any heed, Rosanne leaped up and went over to him.
“Sweetie,” she said, pulling his hand back, “you should never, never touch wires. They’ll hurt you and make you cry.” She picked James up from under his arms and swung him and the Hulk up onto the bed.
Frank was slipping on a shirt over the undershirt he had been featuring. “Come on, I need some more.”
Rosanne sighed, moving back toward the table. “How much more?”
“Another twenty,” Frank said, following her.
Rosanne spun around, hands on hips. “So what if I don’t have another twenty?”
“We’ll just find out,” he said, lunging for her pocketbook. Rosanne was quicker though, and reached it first, whirling around and bringing it up against her chest. “Don’t fuck with me, Rosanne,” Frank warned her.
“If you want to blow money on pool, blow yours,” she said.
She didn’t stand a chance. Five feet versus six. Frank pinned her against the shelves with one hand and yanked the pocketbook from her with the other. Rosanne reached for it and he roughly pushed her back against the shelves, making everything on them rattle.
Rosanne rubbed her shoulder, glaring at him. “Son of a bitch,” she said, taking a step forward. “Go ahead, take it. Take it all.” She yanked the pocketbook back from him, tore it open, took her wallet out, and threw it at him. She missed and the wallet went sailing clear across the room. James dove under the pillows. Frank laughed and went after the wallet.
“There’s fifty bucks in there!” Rosanne screamed. “Every cent we have, you fool. But take it! Go ahead! What do you care?”
He was taking it. He stuffed the bills in his jeans pocket, slung his black leather jacket over his shoulder, popped on one of his hats, and waltzed out the door. “’Bye, baby,” he said.
“Don’t you come back here tonight!” Rosanne yelled after him. She ran over to the door and shouted. “I’m sick of you lying around here like a bum! You can go to hell for all I care!” She slammed the door and it bounced back open. So she kicked it.
Ceily waved a hand in the doorway and made sounds of admiration. Rosanne backed away slightly. “So the girl’s got a temper after all,” Ceily said. “’Bout time.” James’s head flew up from the pillows at the sound of her voice. In a moment he was at her side, hanging on her hand. “Hi, sugar,” Ceily cooed. “Hey,” she said, looking back up, “Rosanne, thanks.”
Rosanne shrugged it off. “I don’t mind. Listen, I gave him a sandwich.”
Ceily retied the satin robe she was wearing. “Thanks.” She pulled her son out into the hall and then swung her head back into the doorway. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Rosanne said. “Business as usual.”
Ceily laughed, a long, bitter affair. “Yeah, don’t I know it.”
By midnight, Rosanne’s familiar terror had set in.
Frank with fifty dollars—
He’d—
He’s—
He might be—
What if—
And she went out to search in the neon of Broadway.
7
ALEXANDRA WARING IS A HIT
On the first Monday of May, Susan Boxby called in sick and Alexandra Waring made her debut as a co-anchor on WWKK’s six o’clock news. Fifteen minutes into the broadcast the switchboard jammed with calls. Who Alexandra was, where she had come from, was not the concern of the men, women and children who called; their message was very simple: “We love her.” Michael quickly slotted
her into the eleven o’clock broadcast that night and the switchboard jammed again. “Cass,” Michael shouted over the telephone at 11:07 P.M., “you’ve got to see this!”
“I’m watching, Michael,” Cassy said, sipping Perrier on the couch.
“Is the kid watching?”
“The kid has a trigonometry final in the morning.”
There was nothing run-of-the-mill about Alexandra, Cassy had to admit. In fact, Alexandra’s broadcast was the most impressive debut she had seen in years. First of all, the girl had dressed down, appearing in a simple navy blue dress and pearls. But the effect of her eyes against the navy was electrifying. Cassy distinctly remembered thinking—when she had first met Alexandra—how much her eyes were like a stormy Atlantic, possessing those same hypnotic blue/gray depths. But here her eyes were blue... No, looking again, Cassy could see that it was only an illusion, but—good Lord—what an illusion. “Go ahead,” Alexandra’s eyes were daring. “Just try and look anywhere else while I’m on camera.”
Whatever color her eyes were, Cassy was also acutely aware of the fact that Alexandra had her listening to every word she was saying. It had nothing to do with her eyes (and was, perhaps, in spite of them); it was through a superb, seemingly effortless delivery of what was just darn good copy. And since WWKK wouldn’t know a hard fact or figure if they tripped over it, Cassy knew Alexandra must have written the copy herself. Cassy’s final observation was that Alexandra Waring had just changed the course of WWKK’s newsroom forever. She was that good.
There was no city in the world that had more television news being broadcast from it than New York; and as America’s number one market for television, New York City was also America’s number one consumer of local television news. The network flagship affiliates, WABC, WCBS and WNBC, traditionally had the six and eleven o’clock time periods to themselves to battle it out in the ratings, while the independents, WNYW, WOR, WPIX, WST and WWKK, shifted their newscasts to either before or after the network affiliates and national network news. (Cassy’s own WST ran its “News Update amp; Tri-State Report” at seven-thirty.) The fierce competition in town drove news in one direction or the other—to be the best, or to be the most sensational.
Michael Cochran’s “WWKK News” had been moved around to so many time slots over the years that the industry called it “The Sonja Henie Show.” Two years ago, when at long last it seemed WWKK had found its home at five o’clock, another network affiliate expanded its evening news to begin at five and WWKK was blown out of the water. Michael had thrown a fit like no one had ever seen (he put his foot through a monitor) and declared that the time had come to stop running, take a stand, and fight the network affiliates.
Michael moved “WWKK News” to the six and eleven o’clock time periods and gave the flagships a minor but very real run for their money—in other words, he dented their ratings. Against the tremendous money and resources behind “Channel 2 News Center 4” and “Channel 7 Eyewitness News,” Michael used the strongest weapons in any TV arsenal—sex, violence and gambling. His secret was that he loathed doing it; his pride was that his news show survived where other independents’ could not.
WWKK’s co-anchors were Mike True and Susan Boxby. According to his PR sheet, Mike was formerly a radio announcer in Georgia and the spokesperson for a machine that enlarged biceps. However, for anyone “in the know,” Mike True had also been Tad Long, the heavily endowed star of many a porno feature. (When the Post broke that story, WWKK gained an entire rating point.) As for Susan Boxby, she was the former Chapped Lips Stix Girl. Susan was quite cheery and laughed a lot on the air (throwing her head back and shaking it from side to side, showing her long blond hair to advantage). To maintain their ratings, WWKK had two mandatory parts to their broadcast: (1) that at some point they got a shot of Mike standing up and (2) that each show close with a close-up of Susan obscenely licking her lips.
Other members of the WWKK news team included:
Mack Truck Thompson, the former professional wrestler whose career in that capacity abruptly ended when Dark Dog Dahoney accidentally broke his back. Mack Truck covered sports. On Fridays, Mack Truck would run a tape of all the injuries suffered in professional sports that week. “Now watch right here... Bam! YEAH!” (Every New Year’s Eve, as a special treat, Mack Truck would run the tape showing his back being broken.)
Zippy Stevens, a spritely lost soul of unknown origins, covered the weather. If the forecast was rain, Zippy would come out soaking wet. If it was sunny, she would come out in a gauzy robe over a bathing suit and sunglasses. If it was cold, a fur coat with apparently nothing underneath. (Fans longed for the preciously few hail forecasts, when Zippy would come out in a costume of one hundred Formica ice cubes sewn together.)
And last but not least... infamous friend to the Hollywood stars, Slicker MacCoy, the celebrity gossip. Now, in actuality, no one in his or her right mind would ever go near Slicker, much less talk to him, but celebrity gossip was not really the reason he was on the air. It was because Slicker MacCoy betting syndicates had sprung up all over the city. People were placing two-dollar bets on the exact day and time that Slicker would next knock his toupee askew on the air. Sometimes—when Slicker was particularly intoxicated and riled—he would knock it askew as many as three times in one week, and so the syndicate pots would be small. But then sometimes a week would go by and the pot would build and—whoops!—the winner would take home a bundle.
These were the colleagues of Alexandra Waring.
Cassy had to hand it to Alexandra, she sure handled her first broadcast well. She had faced off with her clowny colleagues in the only way that had a chance of winning—Alexandra had ignored them. Cassy played back the tape of the six o’clock newscast to watch one segment again.
Mike True gets up from behind the desk for his mandatory standing shot. (He is wearing pants that look suspiciously close to sweat pants.) He is pointing to a map of the country. Taped to it are winning lottery numbers in the states that hold them. Mike reads these numbers aloud. (He is allowed to turn from the waist up, but never, never is he allowed to turn the lower portion of his body away from the camera.)
“Alexandra,” Mike True ad-libs from the script, “why don’t you just sachet on over here and show our viewers your beautiful Kansas.”
Camera cuts to Alexandra for reaction shot. She looks straight into it and says, “U.S. officials are calling the accident at the Soviet nuclear power plant at Chernobyl—quote—a disaster. The explosion nine days ago...”
Mike True was stranded off screen. (Cassy clapped.)
Susan Boxby’s “illness” continued for the rest of the week, and by Friday, Mike True was suddenly stricken ill too, and Alexandra was slated to fly solo through the following week. By Wednesday WWKK’s ratings had risen one point, while two network affiliates lost half a rating point each. An article in Newsday said that Alexandra Waring possessed, in its opinion, the highest TV-Q of any anchor in town.
The Cochran household was transformed into the Alexandra Waring Media Center. Michael had tapes playing all night: Alexandra’s special report on crack; Alexandra’s interview with the governor; Alexandra’s...
“Look at her, Cass,” Michael would say near two in the morning. “Just look at her. Listen to her. They are crazy about her. Did I tell you she got a call from ABC already?
“I’m revamping the whole show around her, from top to bottom. I’m bringing in Walter Darden as co-anchor. Alexandra’s taking Zippy to Lord & Taylor’s for some clothes. I’m talking to Ripton, the old Mets pitcher. We’re going to keep old Slicker for a while yet. Cass, it’s gonna be great!”
“Michael,” Cassy said at one point, “don’t you think you need some sleep? You haven’t—”
“You go on,” Michael urged.
In the bedroom, night after night, Cassy fell asleep to the sound of Alexandra’s voice. There was no reprieve at the office, either. Everyone around town was buzzing about “Miss TV-Q” on WWKK.
&nb
sp; Michael’s hours became increasingly wild. He was running on Alexandra, scotch and the smell of victory. When he was home, he was raving, plotting and planning. When he was at the newsroom he called Cassy every two hours to bounce an idea off her.
Cassy, in the meantime, was trying to uphold her part in Henry’s end-of the-school-year activities, get him organized for his approaching departure for Camp Survival in Colorado, and—heaven help her-orchestrate the block party coming up on June 7. (At a meeting she hadn’t attended, the neighborhood had unanimously elected her president of the Block Association.)
Within eighteen days of Alexandra’s debut, Michael had completely overhauled the weeknight news, and WWKK had come up with a media campaign to launch it. By this point, Cassy and Henry—even Rosanne—could barely stand the mention of Alexandra’s name. And then Michael really did it.
Michael brought home a subway station billboard of Alexandra’s face:
WHAT DID KANSAS EVER GIVE NEW YORK? ONLY THEIR GREATEST NATURAL RESOURCE.
ALEXANDRA WARING AT SIX O’CLOCK-WWKK CHANNEL 6
It was framed and sealed in nonreflecting glass. Getting up Friday morning, Cassy had unsuspectingly walked into the living room and screamed. Henry stumbled on it next, claiming it was worse than “The Attack of the Fifty-Foot Woman.” Rosanne didn’t say a word about it, but by the time she left there was a black comb Scotch-taped under Alexandra’s nose.
When Michael saw the comb he got upset. When Michael hinted that the billboard was going up in their bedroom Cassy got upset.
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