The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  Mr. Anderson was mesmerized by the time-lapse video of Miss Kitty scaling the bluff. He even gasped when she dropped Hope. At the top, men in hardhats cheered; Moms cuddling infants cried.

  “The most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Cats are more human than people.”

  If that’s true, then Miss Kitty must be grieving. She could only save one kitten. The rest of her litter is down there, underneath that rubble.

  “They just let them die. It’s not right.”

  “Make the man who owns the shed get them. It’s all his fault.”

  Mr. Anderson’s head drooped. It’s all his fault. The words looped in his mind as he buried his face in his hands. He didn’t hear the door open.

  “John, are you alright?” asked Mrs. Anderson. He flinched as she squeezed his shoulder.

  “You’d think I had put the kittens in a sack with a rock and thrown them off the wharf.”

  “What are you talking about?” She examined the half-empty bottle of Scotch. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “What’s wrong with people? No one cares that we could have been killed. No one cares that we lost our house. They’re only concerned about a couple of damn cats.”

  “John, you’re not making any sense.”

  Mr. Anderson glared at Sebastian Hunter’s web photo.

  “How does he sleep at night?”

  •

  The sailboat shuddered as the bow cut through the surf, coating Sebastian in warm spray. The sun touched the horizon. No doubt the lobster boil had started. The thought of dipping the sweet meat into garlic butter made him salivate. Time to change direction and head back to the yacht club. Sebastian pulled the tiller hard towards him, turning the boat to starboard and into the wind. The sound of fluttering canvas gave way to cellphone vibrations.

  Sebastian opened his eyes. His phone quivered on the night table. Couldn’t you wait until I ate the lobster, he thought. His arm shot out to capture the phone. He held it above his nose, pressed Decline and dropped it on the comforter.

  “Who was that?” asked Lindsay.

  “A friend. Seven o’clock is way too early for conversation.”

  Lindsay rolled on her side. She rested an arm on Sebastian’s chest, tapping his lips with her fingers. “Peter Mansbridge said your name last night. ‘Sebastian Hunter reports.’ People coast to coast know who you are. How many people?”

  “Millions, if you include the States. CNN picked up the story too.”

  “You’re grinning like a Cheshire cat.” Lindsay played with the hair on his chest. “What’s it like when they say your name?”

  “The first time I heard my name on The National it was electric. My skin actually tingled. The sensation made my toes curl. It was like sex. I’ve never felt more alive.”

  “And now?”

  “It can never be as good as the first time, but I still get a buzz. I love overhearing conversations in bars about stories I’ve done. I love when people stop me on the street to give me their two cents’ worth. I love when the premier goes ballistic because I’ve embarrassed her again. I’m good at my job, Lindsay. I’ve made it. I belong.”

  “And where do I belong?”

  Let her down easy. “Lindsay, these last two nights have been spectacular,” he said, caressing her cheek, “but I have a life back in the city. It’s time for me to go.”

  A muffled vibration wafted from the comforter. Sebastian pushed the phone into his side, scrunching more batting around it.

  “Maybe you should answer that. She’s probably worried.” Lindsay threw back the comforter and headed to the bathroom.

  Sebastian waited until the door closed before grabbing the phone. The screen said ROXANNE. Slide to answer. Sebastian did.

  “Hi honey. I’ve only got a minute. I’m packing. I’ll be home this evening.”

  •

  The clerk handed Sebastian his receipt. “We hope you enjoyed your stay here, Mr. Hunter.” Sebastian folded the paper and slipped it inside his coat.

  “Yes, very much, thank you. Paradise Point is a beautiful spot, except for the landslides.”

  “Just awful, wasn’t it? But that story about Miss Kitty. That was fabulous. My wife is crazy about cats. She cried enough to cause another landslide.”

  “Don’t tell her I said so,” he whispered, “but if she’s raining tears I’m doing something right.” The clerk grinned.

  Lindsay stood by the front door. Sebastian mimed drinking a cup. She nodded. He scooted across the lobby towards the café. A sandwich chalkboard by the entrance greeted him with a floral Good Morning and a sketch of a piping-hot coffee.

  Sebastian froze. John Anderson stepped out of the café with a coffee cup in each hand. He stiffened as he recognized Sebastian.

  “Mr. Anderson, I had no idea you were staying here.”

  “A homeless man has to stay somewhere,” he scowled. “And thanks to you, I have to sleep with one eye open.”

  “What happened?” Sebastian was good at feigning bewilderment. He already knew where the conversation was headed.

  “People want to lynch me.”

  “Excuse us,” said a male voice behind Sebastian.

  Sebastian and Mr. Anderson stood aside. A man and a woman with a rotund belly headed toward the café, her bulging girth exaggerated by a stretched T-shirt.

  “She’s not fat, she’s pregnant,” said the man with twisted lips. His partner’s eyes burned into Mr. Anderson as she tottered by.

  Mr. Anderson’s hands shook, coffee sloshed out of the pinholes in the cup lids. “Everywhere I turn there’s venom.”

  “Producers, again,” said Sebastian, throwing up his hands. “I told them, ‘The man’s been through enough. Don’t kick him when he’s down.’ I pleaded with them. But they wanted the anger; they wanted the nastiness.”

  “You fed them poison. You filled them with hate.”

  “They completely ignored your kindness. I don’t understand people. It’s disgraceful.”

  “I’ve lost my home,” said Mr. Anderson, his voice quavering. “The insurance company has wiped their hands of it. They call it an Act of God. No one is offering me anything except bile.”

  “Insurance companies are in the business of screwing people. My father was a lawyer and the stories he told me about insurance companies would make you blanch. Their behaviour is appalling. Somebody should stand up to them.”

  “Somebody,” Mr. Anderson said flatly. “Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “I know these last couple of days have been rough on you. I know you’ve been unhappy with the CBC’s coverage, and rightly so. But think of the greater good. You can be a champion for everyone who’s ever been shafted by those greedy bastards.”

  Mr. Anderson ground his teeth.

  “Do an interview with me,” cajoled Sebastian. “We can make this right. Let me help you.”

  “I think you’ve helped me enough already. My coffee is getting cold.” Mr. Anderson headed to the elevator.

  Sebastian checked the time and weaved through a train of hotel guests and luggage to rejoin Lindsay.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Some people don’t appreciate what I can do for them.”

  •

  Sebastian dropped his suitcase in the front hall. Roxanne bounced towards him, offering a kiss with her hug.

  “It’s nice to be home,” said Sebastian. He dropped a hand and squeezed a buttock.

  “Stop that,” Roxanne said softly. She pointed at the wall separating the front hall from the dining room. “Company.”

  “Who?”

  “Dad’s in town, so I invited him and Donna over for supper,” said Roxanne.

  Oh no! Dozy Dan and Dour Donna. Two members of Roxanne’s family on the same night, either of whom could suck the air out of a room. Together, suffocation was guaranteed. Still, it could have been worse.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s bu
sy tonight. Choir practice.”

  Thank God for small mercies. No Prudish Penelope tonight. Sebastian followed Roxanne into the dining room. Dozy Dan and Dour Donna stood by the china cabinet sipping red wine.

  “Dan, how nice to see you.”

  “And you, Sebastian.” The two men shared a warm handshake.

  “Donna, so glad you could make it.” She turned her cheek. Sebastian gave her an air kiss with the flimsiest of hugs. Roxanne handed Sebastian a glass of Bordeaux.

  “A toast,” said Dan. “To family and the ties that bind.”

  They clinked glasses. “You certainly love that toast,” said Sebastian with a strained smile. “You use it every time we get together.”

  “That’s not often enough. There’s nothing more important to me than family.”

  “Back and forth to Toronto every week is a tough slog,” said Sebastian. “And expensive for the Holy Mother Corp. I’m surprised CBC doesn’t make you move.”

  “They bring it up from time to time. I keep saying no. We’re not giving up our house and garden.”

  “Oh yes,” said Sebastian, “the famous strawberries. I can’t wait.”

  Sebastian sipped his wine, watching the bird of prey out of the corner of his eye. Donna opened her talons.

  “Sebastian, I hear you were into the red in Paradise Point.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Donna crossed her arms and smiled smugly. A kill with just one swoop.

  “If you mean red hot, was I ever. Got two stories on The National and CNN.”

  “That’s not what I was referring to,” cawed Donna. “I heard you were bankrupt, morally bankrupt.”

  “Donna,” admonished Roxanne.

  “That’s okay, Roxanne. She’s right. I was a red rag to a raging bull.”

  “What do you mean?” inquired Dan.

  Sebastian relayed the story of the reviled Andersons and his tense encounter in the hotel lobby. He portrayed Mr. Anderson as a bull trying to gore a matador.

  Dan and Roxanne tut-tutted; Donna rolled her eyes.

  “By the sound of it, it wasn’t just his house that went over the edge,” said Donna. “You must have done something wrong.”

  “I’m sure Sebastian was only doing his job,” said Roxanne. “And he doesn’t have the last say about what gets on the air. Now, could we please have an evening without an argument over the ethics of journalism?”

  “Ethics,” shrieked Donna. “The ethics of journalism. That must be the world’s shortest book. The opening sentence goes, ‘Find people in misery, and make them more miserable.’ ”

  Roxanne and Sebastian dropped their heads. It would be a long evening.

  “Your cat story,” interrupted Dan, “was the talk of the newsroom in Toronto.”

  Sebastian felt himself grow taller.

  “Real cute story,” added Dan.

  Sebastian bristled at the word cute.

  “I was too busy to see it myself, but everyone said it was riveting. They were pointing at the monitors.”

  “I didn’t think you ever left the tenth floor of the Broadcast Centre. What were you doing mixing with the peons?” It was a running joke between the two men—reporter vs. vice-president. Sebastian always got the better of the banter.

  “I was just passing through. A bit of trouble in the Jerusalem bureau. I can’t get into it.”

  Sebastian tucked the nugget away. Such intelligence would be fodder for gossip or advantage.

  A timer beeped in the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready,” said Roxanne.

  “I’ll help you, sweetheart,” offered her father.

  Sebastian’s eyes pleaded, Take me with you.

  Roxanne ignored the signal. “Try to get along while we’re gone.” The resignation in her voice indicated that she thought prospects for peace were slight.

  Donna laid her wine glass on the white tablecloth. She said nothing until a pot cover clanged in the kitchen.

  “I keep hearing things about you that I don’t like,” she said.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “I don’t want my sister hurt.”

  “Neither do I. I love Roxanne.”

  “You love yourself.”

  “It’s better than self-loathing.”

  The kitchen crew reappeared carrying bowls brimming with cubes of beef, diced carrots and pearl onions, all resting in a rich, brown sauce.

  “Take a seat everyone,” said Roxanne.

  “Beef bourguignon,” said a beaming Sebastian. “My favourite.” He winked at Dour Donna.

  [ two ]

  The Here & Now newsroom was a paradox: a place mired in disasters, scandals and corruption, yet it looked like it should be selling home insurance. A sea of identical cubicles built with waist-high, grey panels and vanilla desks. Sebastian’s cubicle was as bland as the rest, devoid of colour apart from a red chair.

  A few deft maneuvers with the mouse and he had a new collection of photos for his screensaver. The folder was entitled Money Shots. He set the slide show speed at medium: the space shuttle Challenger exploded high above Earth, a young man blocked a column of tanks in Tiananmen Square, United Airlines Flight 175 slammed into the World Trade Center, John and Beth Anderson’s house slid into a crater.

  “That’s a little pretentious, don’t you think?” said a familiar voice beside him. “Your falling house deserves the same status as a terrorist attack which kills over three thousand people?”

  “I’d put your world-famous money shot there if you had one,” Sebastian replied without looking at the speaker. “Welcome home, Janice.”

  “I bought you this.” Janice handed him a snow globe containing the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral and the Arc de Triomphe.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have.” Sebastian shook the globe like he was trying to thicken a can of cream. A blizzard swirled around the Paris icons.

  “I was torn between that and a pair of boxer shorts with a Metro map printed on them. I figured the boxers wouldn’t be appreciated at home, so I went with traditional tacky.”

  “It’s a classic and deserves a place of honour.” Sebastian turned to the souvenir corner of his desk and opened a space between a monkey’s face carved out of a coconut and a cigarette lighter sporting a picture of a smiling Chairman Mao with the phrase Better Red Than Dead.

  “A rose between two thorns.”

  He peeked at the wall clock. 9:30. “Meeting time.” He grabbed a gift-wrapped box as he stood.

  “What’s that?” said Janice pointing.

  “A birthday present for Evan. Something befitting a man of his age.”

  Sebastian and Janice walked side by side down a hallway lined with award certificates in glistening silver frames. “My heart is still on the French Riviera,” she said. “I saw Tom Cruise on the red carpet in Cannes. I tried not to swoon, but dizziness was in the air.”

  “Angelo should have been there to catch you, but I hear it didn’t work out. He seemed like a decent guy.”

  “What would you know about decency?”

  En garde, thought Sebastian.

  “Angelo, decent? He dumped me over the phone. Took the dog and walked out the door before I got home.”

  “I guess he decided which bitch he wanted to live with.”

  Janice’s jaw dropped. “Touché.” She bowed her head. Match—Sebastian.

  “Did you find Jean Reno on that beach? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “I had fun. A girl can only mope for so long. It’s amazing how Chablis and sunshine can cure the blahs.”

  A chatter of multiple conversations greeted Sebastian and Janice as they walked into the boardroom. Such boisterous din in such boring décor. Empty beige walls, except for a white board and a sixty-inch flat-screen TV used almost exclusively for video conferences.

  Sebastian and Janice took the last empty seats around the table. A full house meant trouble—a slow news day. No one out the door yet. The crowd was its usual mix of producers and reporters, th
ough producers outnumbered reporters two to one. The habitual imbalance fuelled what’s-wrong-with-this-place rants whenever reporters gathered for happy hour. The boss producers sat at the far end of the table behind open laptops.

  “The power couple looks unhappy,” whispered Sebastian.

  Executive Producer Evan Forbes and his news wife, Zoe Patel, were engaged in quite a bit of head shaking. Evan surveyed the room.

  “Hey, Janice, welcome back. Could your hair get any blonder?”

  “It’s hard to avoid the sun in southern France. I’m refreshed and ready to go.”

  “We’ll suck the life out of you before the day is done.”

  “Happy Birthday, Evan,” said Sebastian waving the gift. “We all chipped in. You only turn fifty once.”

  Evan peered suspiciously as the box was passed down the line. Birthday cakes were common, but birthday gifts were unheard of. Evan poked the box with his pen.

  “It won’t explode,” said Sebastian.

  Evan tore off the wrapping paper. “Prostate self-examination kit,” he announced. The room erupted into laughter.

  Evan gingerly lifted the lid, and pulled out a blue latex glove and a tube of KY Jelly. He stretched his arm and squinted at the small print on the box. “Bend over. Insert finger into rectum. Cough. If you feel something bigger than a walnut, kiss your ass goodbye.”

  Hoots and clapping swept around the table. “Zoe, give Hunter the worst story on the list,” ordered Evan.

  “The worst story on the list. Every story is the worst,” moaned Zoe, as she flung copies down the table. “My kingdom for a hostage taking.”

  Zoe was the Assignment Producer—author and keeper of the outlook; that critical list of known news events and potential ones. Every newsroom in the world starts its day with one.

  Her drawn face emphasized that today’s list was indeed ghastly. Not an ounce of heartache, not a modicum of triumph, no heroes or villains, no breathtaking rescue, no drug boat seized, not even a bit of TV silliness like a squealing pig race. This would be a torturous day.

  “You don’t have another house falling over a cliff in your back pocket do you, Sebastian?” asked Zoe.

  Sebastian always had a next story. “I’m hearing some wild stuff about the premier. Let me make some calls.”