The Money Shot

by Glenn Dier

  “If such a tape exists, wouldn’t the premier quietly leave to avoid a scandal?”

  “She’s in denial. She has a drug problem.”

  “That kind of language is slanderous,” said Head.

  “Not if it’s true. I just need the proof.”

  “If such a tape exists, wouldn’t her enemies leak it?”

  “That’s my fervent hope. The situation will get very messy, very quickly. Who knew about the tape? Who covered it up? Who didn’t call the cops? Who didn’t get the premier help? Who didn’t do the right thing? A smart cabinet minister would be poised to seize power and turn his opponents into outcasts.”

  “You have a vivid imagination, Sebastian.” Head wrapped his fingers around the guitar frets. “As the Emperor Caligula said, if only Rome had just one neck.” He picked B string. “I should finish tuning.”

  “And I should go interview the Clarks about their misfortune.”

  Teddy raised a small light on a stand and aimed it at the stage.

  “Let’s grab the von Trapp family before The Sound of Music starts,” said Sebastian.

  The Clark children flocked around their parents. “I should have brought the wide-angled lens,” joked Teddy.

  Mr. and Mrs. Clark recounted the details of the terrible fire and thanked everyone for the outpouring of generosity. Sebastian caught Roxanne in the background talking to the finance minister, guitar hanging from his shoulder. They laughed as Head pointed at the TV crew.

  The minister took the stage and bellied up to the microphone. “Welcome, everyone.” Feedback screeched through the speakers. Head pulled back and waited until the squall faded away. “Must be an NDP sound system.” The crowd laughed.

  “It’s great to see so many of you here supporting the Clark family. Neighbours helping neighbours. That’s what this wonderful province is all about.” Applause rippled through the room.

  A couple of strums; a chord change; Head glanced at Roxanne and winked.

  “I’ve always said money can’t buy me. I was wrong. I can be bought for the right price.” Head’s descent into corruption was greeted with wahoos.

  “That young lady over there will contribute one hundred dollars to the Clark Family Relief Fund if I play her favourite song.”

  Roxanne looked thrilled. Sebastian felt dread.

  “First on the dance floor,” said the minister, “Roxanne and Sebastian. Let’s get ‘em up here, folks.” The crowd stomped and whistled.

  “Teddy, if you record this, you will not die a man.”

  “This is worth losing an appendage for.” Teddy clicked the record button.

  The reporter turned reluctant dancer met Roxanne in front of the band.

  “Even a CBC reporter can have a heart,” cracked the minister. The crowd roared. Roxanne and Sebastian struck a ballroom dance pose.

  “Roxanne,” said Sebastian with a counterfeit smile, “we’ll have lots to talk about at the next counselling session. I think we can jump straight to: Has your partner ever done anything to embarrass you?”

  “Take a number, Sebastian. I’m at the head of that line. You only lead when we dance.”

  Sebastian stepped forward while Roxanne stepped back.

  Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight,

  Gonna grab some afternoon delight.

  •

  Sebastian followed the horseshoe shape of The Desk, bound for his own. “Morning, Zoe.”

  “It wasn’t me,” she said. That phrase always pierced his armour. It meant mockery was on the horizon.

  The scorn sat in his chair in the guise of a yellow, diamond-shaped warning sign. A ballerina in silhouette sported a tutu; her arms extended above her head towards Dancer as she tiptoed above Zone.

  “Can you show us how to plié,” heckled Ethan. He bent his knees outward and unfurled an arm like a swan’s neck. Sebastian heard snickers.

  Ethan deserves a Riverdance high kick to the groin. And not just one. The entire troupe should deliver a buckled shoe to whatever gonads he has.

  “I’m sure you already know everything you need to know about bending your knees,” said Sebastian.

  “Such rapier wit, but two left feet.”

  “At least they’re on the floor and not in my mouth.”

  “You know, you’d be a natural on Dancing with the Stars. They love fading celebrities who make fools of themselves.”

  “We’ll see who gets there first,” said Sebastian.

  “I’d love to continue, but my dance card is full.” Ethan held up a stack of scripts. “I have a newscast to read.”

  Sebastian waited until Ethan left the newsroom before cornering Janice.

  “Do it tonight. Just like we discussed. We’ll wipe the smirk right off his face.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Janice. “We have time. I still have three nights of backfill after tonight.”

  “I can’t stand the smug bastard anymore. It’s time to take him down.”

  Janice gathered her scripts, checked her makeup with a pocket mirror and headed for the studio.

  “Janice,” said Sebastian. She stopped and looked back. “Have a good show, but a killer rehearsal.”

  “You’re buying the champagne,” said Janice. She gestured as if popping the cork and disappeared through the door.

  Sebastian opened the TV software on his computer and chose channel 124—the internal feed from the studio. It was an eavesdropping portal. The Desk used it benignly, vetting pre-recorded interviews without the bother of actually being in the control room. Sebastian intended to expand its usefulness.

  He watched Janice and Ethan wire up—the nightly ritual of attaching microphones and earpieces. The control room rapidly switched between four cameras, making sure the computer-encoded framing hadn’t gone wonky.

  “Where did Samantha go on her holidays?” asked Janice.

  “Antigua,” replied Ethan. He sat on the tail of his jacket to pull down the shoulders. “Did you see the video of Sebastian dancing with his fiancée?”

  “Two seconds after I heard about it,” said Janice. “Sebastian squirmed like a worm on a hook. It’s a keeper for the Christmas blooper tape.”

  Ethan laughed.

  Good girl; win his trust, thought Sebastian. He checked the time. 5:45. Just fifteen minutes to snare the game.

  Channel 124 dipped to black. Rehearsal time. The monitor pulsated with Here & Now’s animation. To Sebastian, the drums in the theme were the drums of war. The headlines swished by; Ethan and Janice took turns reading.

  Tonight—Animal cruelty. A dog dies in a hot car; the owner is charged.

  Guilty verdict. A hockey star is convicted of sexual assault.

  Closing time. A Band Council shuts down a bar it just opened.

  Second thoughts. A transgender activist cancels a sex change.

  No mistakes. A flawless run-through.

  5:47. Thirteen minutes to showtime.

  “These headlines are pedestrian,” complained Janice.

  “No oomph,” agreed Ethan. “They certainly could use a goose.”

  “You’re a quick wit,” said Janice. “What would the Evil Ethan write for fun?”

  “You don’t give a guy much time.”

  “Come on. Make me laugh.”

  “Take the bait,” pleaded Sebastian, one floor up.

  “Hmmm,” said Ethan. He scribbled madly on his script.

  5:53.

  “Hey Roddy,” said Ethan on the control room intercom, “run the headlines again. Ms. Stone is demanding to be amused. I’ll read them all.”

  Tonight—Man’s baked friend. This dog is golden brown and light to the touch.

  He shoots, he scores. The prison’s hockey team trades up.

  Indian givers. No hitting the bottle; the bar hits the road.

  A girl can change her mind. A transgender activist sticks with the bird in the bush.

  The camera briskly zoomed into Ethan and Janice. Janice raised a quizzical eyebrow. Ethan radiated smugne
ss.

  Good evening and welcome to Here & Now. I’m Ethan Tremblay. Our top story tonight—Hot dog. Fido is done like dinner.

  Hubris has caused many implosions, thought Sebastian. What a wonderful human failing.

  Channel 124 went black. Sebastian hit the stop button on his iPhone. His video ran thirty-six seconds. Thirty-six seconds of gold. Thirty-six seconds that would destroy Ethan Tremblay. Next stop—YouTube.

  •

  Ethan Tremblay’s Politically Incorrect Headlines was a YouTube sensation. It had 125,684 views before Sebastian crawled into bed; by daybreak the number had tripled. Sebastian awoke to a radio newscast announcing that Ethan Tremblay was suspended and CBC had apologized for what it called grossly offensive and wholly inappropriate comments.

  “What was he thinking?” asked Roxanne, as she dolloped yogurt on a dish of fresh raspberries. “Those were terrible things to say.”

  “That’s the real Ethan Tremblay,” said Sebastian, sipping on a coffee. “He says this stuff all the time around the newsroom, but there’s never a camera. Last night he got caught.”

  “How did it get on YouTube?”

  “He’s made a lot of enemies since moving here.”

  Roxanne rested her spoon in her dish. “Sebastian, you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?”

  “I don’t like him, but I’m not stupid, Roxanne. I don’t engage in career-limiting moves.”

  “I didn’t think so. It’s just… those PTSD webpages have me a little nervous. They talk about aggressive behaviour.”

  “Not me, Roxanne. My therapist is teaching me to how to relax.” He rubbed the shoulder muscles so erotically touched by Janice’s hands. “We’re also trying exposure therapy. Every session makes me feel better about myself.”

  Sebastian downed his coffee and kissed Roxanne. “Got to run. I’m covering Question Period this morning.”

  Sebastian’s car radio was always tuned to CBC. The Morning Show could barely finish interviewing one Ethan Tremblay denouncer before another was clamouring to get on the air.

  “Joining us now in the studio is the executive director of Stop the Violence—Jennifer Allen. Ms. Allen, what was your reaction when you saw the video?”

  “I was shaking with rage. Ethan Tremblay trivialized sexual assault. He used the most offensive locker-room humour imaginable. It’s certainly not funny. It’s degrading to women and inexcusable.”

  Sebastian drove by a billboard. Ethan Tremblay and Samantha Cormier photographed in happier times: BREAKING NEWS and ALL THE RULES according to the ad. A spray-painted JERK in yellow, ragged letters covered Ethan’s face.

  “Finally, graffiti art I can appreciate,” said Sebastian.

  “On the phone is Bentley Smith of Dogs Are People Too. Mr. Smith, what did you think?”

  “When it comes to correction, I don’t believe in hitting. But I’d make an exception in this case. Someone should roll up a newspaper and whack Ethan Tremblay on the nose.”

  Sebastian’s phone played a “Werewolves in London” ringtone. He turned down the radio.

  “Hi Janice.”

  “You’re missing a firestorm here. They’re grabbing everybody’s phone, every camera, checking every file to see who did the recording.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “I got grilled by The Executioner this morning. The blood vessels in her forehead almost popped. I told her I was as appalled as she was. Said I had no idea Ethan would say such things.”

  “Did she buy it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Sounds like she’s being eaten alive,” said Sebastian. “Ethan Tremblay will be eviscerated by the end of the day.”

  “Be careful. You’re suspect number one. They’re gunning for you.”

  “Someday they’ll realize I did them a favour.” Sebastian pulled into a parking space behind the legislature. “Talk to you later.”

  Sebastian walked through what the reporters called Rogues Gallery. Portraits of premiers past, all piously gazing down on the latest crop of earnest and sanctimonious politicians, all lusting after a painting of their own.

  An elevator opened. Ambition walked out.

  “Good day, minister.”

  “Hello, Sebastian,” said Dean Head. The finance minister stopped, letting his cabinet colleagues file past the security desk into the House.

  “You’ve got some nerve saying we’re in trouble,” kidded Head. “CBC is having a spot of bother of its own this morning.”

  “Yes, Ethan Tremblay is flaming out.”

  “We’ve got a statement about it today. Your bosses won’t like it.”

  Sebastian quashed his desire to congratulate the minister. “No, I’m sure they won’t,” he said in his wounded, CBC-team-player tone. “Minister, have you given any thought to my request the other day?”

  “If such a tape exists, I’m sure you’ll be the first one to get it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you have a reputation for doing the most damage.”

  An electronic bell chimed, summoning the members.

  “Duty calls,” said the minister, slipping away.

  Sebastian climbed the stairs to the press gallery offices.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am at your disposal,” announced Sebastian, as he pulled open the solid oak door. He was swarmed by reporters; they scrummed him the way they scrummed the politicians below, questions flying from all angles.

  “What the fuck happened last night?”

  “Has Ethan been fired?”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Did you have a hand in it?”

  Sebastian’s protestation of innocence was met with eye-rolling. He embellished Janice’s information about the search for the culprit, turning the IT department into jackboot storm troopers.

  “Admit strangers,” droned the Speaker of the House over the PA system. Reporters and the public were “strangers”—a centuries-old British parliamentary term. Only the supercilious members had a right to be inside the chamber. The plebs entered by invitation only. Sebastian, the stranger, took a seat in the gallery reserved for journalists. The perch let him see both sides of the House. The premier’s seat was empty.

  “Statements by Ministers,” said the Speaker. Dean Head stood amid desk-thumping. “The honourable finance minister and deputy premier.”

  “Mr. Speaker, we tend not to criticize the media on this side of the House. We believe in freedom of the press. But the profane headlines offered by Here & Now’s Ethan Tremblay cannot go unchallenged. Frankly, Mr. Speaker, one has to ask, Who do they think they are?”

  “Shame,” shouted some honourable members. “Shame.”

  Sebastian fired off his first tweet of the day: “Rough day for CBC at the House. Govt. attacks Tremblay headlines.”

  Democracy is wonderful.

  •

  Sebastian caught sight of Percival Thompson entering The Executioner’s office. Percival supervised the IT department, though today Sebastian considered it the SS department. He goose-stepped down the hallway, stopping his straight-legged kick just before crossing The Executioner’s open door. He checked in with her assistant.

  “Herr Hunter reporting as commanded,” said Sebastian in staccato style with a thick German accent. He pointed to the office. “Vat is he doing here?” All those hours watching Hogan’s Heroes reruns during his teens hadn’t been wasted.

  The assistant looked utterly confused. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “Never mind,” said Sebastian in his regular tongue. “Alicia wanted to see me.”

  “Go on in.”

  Sebastian knocked and blew through the doorway. “Hello, Alicia. Percy.” Percival leaned back in his chair, exposing his bulging midsection. He refused to answer to the name Percy.

  “Take a seat, Sebastian,” said Alicia. “I’m sure you know that we’ve had a security breach and I’ve asked Percival to investigate.”

  “Did you
generate a ticket for that?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that whenever I need something from IT, I have to send them an email and it generates a ticket and they’ll get around to it in due course. My computer could be crashing ten minutes before newscast time and I still can’t speak to a human being down there. So I guess I’m wondering if proper procedures have been followed, or if there’s a new procedure.”

  Alicia and Percival turned to each other in bewilderment. “Stop deflecting this investigation,” said Alicia with a sullen face. “Hand over your phone, please.”

  Sebastian pulled his iPhone out of an inside jacket pocket and toggled between the two managers until Alicia motioned that he should hand it to the IT department’s top man.

  “What’s the password?” asked the always officious Percival.

  “Let me see if I have this right. You think I did something wrong and you want me to tighten the noose around my own neck.”

  Alicia slammed a hand on her desk. Percival jumped. “What’s the damn password?” she yelled.

  Sebastian was mute. Alicia breathed deeply.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alicia, “that was out of line. I shouldn’t have sworn. Sebastian, that phone is CBC property and we require the password.”

  “One, two, three, four.”

  “You’re joking,” said Percival.

  “It’s not like I keep the nuclear launch codes in there.”

  “Don’t make it easy for the Chinese hackers,” lectured Percival.

  “I blame Feist,” said Sebastian.

  More muddled glances on the other side of the table.

  “The song—’1234,’ ” explained Sebastian. “Apple used it in a commercial. The earworm turned into a subliminal directive for my password.”

  “This is all irrelevant chatter,” said Alicia. “Your computer and phone are off limits until we finish our investigation.”

  A muffled “Werewolves of London” ringtone seeped out of Sebastian’s jacket.

  “Excuse me,” said Sebastian reaching into an inside pocket. He produced a second iPhone, his personal phone. He touched the Decline button. “Sorry about that. You were saying something about my phone being off limits.”

  Alicia frowned. “I need a direct answer—did you record the rehearsal headlines and post them on YouTube.”