by Nic Tatano
"And those would be?" I asked.
"First, the word news is not associated with CGR. It's called a report, not a newscast. The slogan is theater of information. Again, the word news is not included. This is no more a newscast than Entertainment Tonight and they really don't hire unattractive people for that program either. It's a television show, pure and simple. And like any other television show, it has stars, and you're entitled to be subjective in your hiring practices."
"But we only hired women with news experience," I said.
"Doesn't matter," said Amanda.
"We do have one more card up our sleeve," said the attorney.
"What's that?" I asked.
"There will be women on the jury."
* * *
I'm not sure of the exact origin of the term "the shit has hit the fan" and I don't really care to look it up on Wikipedia. In real life, should a pile of actual shit hit an actual electric fan, it would leave an actual mess.
In New York, the shit hits the fan in the form of a giant headline in a New York tabloid just about every day. The tri-state area has a never ending supply of manure.
So when I read the phrase "Too Old For Sex" in a typeface generally reserved for the end of a war, you might as well have cleaned out all the stalls at Belmont Park and dumped the horseshit into my central air conditioning unit.
My bleary eyes cleared instantly as I ducked back into the safety of my townhouse. I felt my knees weaken, so I sat on the cold brick floor. There he was, the Monopoly Guy, looking at me from what little space was left on the front page under the headline.
And then, I opened the paper and saw myself without looking in the mirror.
Right there on page three, my picture side by side with the cue ball, under another lovely configuration of bold type.
SEX DISCRIMINATION:
"I couldn't get hired because she didn't want to sleep with me."
I dropped the paper in my lap as I buried my head in my hands.
Ho-lee shit.
I didn't want to read the article, but I had to.
And I knew it was probably going to be worse than the headline.
I kept my head in my hands, slowly spreading the ring and middle fingers of each hand to make room for my eyes, like some crazed fanboy doing a double Vulcan salute at a Star Trek convention.
Sadly, I wasn't dreaming. The article was still there slapping me in the face.
By Harry Kartleman
The two-day-old CGR cable network is off to a flying start, both on the air and in the courtroom. Or is it the bedroom?
A forty-five-year-old man has filed a discrimination suit against the network, contending that his age and appearance knocked him out of consideration for a job. Todd Jones, a former anchor who applied for one of the many slots at the new network, claims that CGR's big kahuna, Sydney Hack, did not even consider his video resume tape because he was over thirty and unattractive.
"Look at the guys they hired," said Jones, a bald, stocky man with an old-fashioned handlebar moustache. "All young hunks under thirty. Half of them have never even been in front of a camera. And you're telling me they're more qualified than I am?"
But this isn't just any age discrimination suit. More damaging to CGR are the charges of the internal machinations behind the scenes and the manner in which its current anchors were chosen. Male anchors reportedly are required to provide sexual favors to their co-anchors on a regular basis. In addition, midday trysts are burning up the sheets in a secret hideaway on the top floor, known simply as "The Loft."
Jones contends those men who were hired were required to "have their references checked" on a casting couch.
CGR attorneys called the lawsuit "frivolous" and "without merit."
Hack, you may remember, was accused of sexual harassment earlier this year by local anchor Scott Harry, who still remains employed by the network's local affiliate. She has raised eyebrows in the broadcast industry by pairing middle-aged women with younger men at the network's local affiliates. The moves have resulted in an increase in ratings for every station.
I segued quickly from upset to pissed off.
My eyes narrowed as I tried to bore holes with my stare at the Monopoly Guy.
Okay, buddy. You want war, bring it on.
Meanwhile, it's time I plugged that damned leak.
* * *
I finished reading the entire legal document and slapped it on my desk. "I knew it. The stuff in the newspaper isn't mentioned in the lawsuit," I said, as we huddled in my office with the door closed and the blinds drawn. "This had to come from the inside. No one on the outside knows about the loft. No one else could know the term checking references."
"Gotta be Scott," said Rica. "He's the only disgruntled employee around here. Everyone else is too new to be jaded."
"Or too damned happy," I said.
Jillian and Neely both nodded. "Can we let him go?" asked Jillian. "When is his contract up?"
I shook my head. "Not soon enough and not an option. If we fired him right after the newspaper article it will look too suspicious. We've got a window in a few months, so we could let him go then. But if we haven't settled this thing by that time we can't get rid of him or he'll testify against us. We're stuck with him for the time being, like it or not."
"We could demote him," said Rica. "Take him off the anchor desk."
"Nah, he's a terrible reporter," I said. "That's only gonna hurt the product and piss him off even more. Besides, his ratings are still strong."
The conversation stopped for a minute as we struggled to find a solution.
"There is one sure-fire way to find out what he's up to," said Neely, looking directly at me. "We need to be nice to him. And Syd, I know you don't want to hear this, but you're the only one who can do it."
My face tightened as if I'd eaten spoiled food. "Oh, no, you are not suggesting that I—"
"I'm afraid so," said Neely. "The only way to get any information out of him is in the bedroom, and your body is the truth serum."
"Great idea, Neely," said Jillian.
"Great idea, Neely," I said, mocking Jillian in a nasal tone. "Sure," I said. "Great idea from your point of view. You're not the one who'd have to sleep with him."
"Aw, c'mon Syd," said Rica. "You used to rave about the guy before he played the commitment card. And he's not exactly chopped liver."
"Really," said Jillian. "How many women have to use the centrifugal force of a ceiling fan to collect their laundry after a date? It's not like we're asking you to engage in combat duty."
"It has to be you, Syd," said Neely. "I mean, I'd nail him, but he's not gonna open up to me."
"You'd nail anything with a pulse," said Rica. "Maybe you ought to give the plaintiff a call and then he'd go away."
They were right about Scott. Much as I hated to admit it. "Ironic, isn't it?" I said.
"What?" asked Rica.
"Scott's the guy who started it all, and I just thought he was perfect the first time. Now the idea of having sex with him makes my stomach turn."
"Shit," said Jillian. "We really are turning into men."
* * *
I flip open my compact one last time, and I'm glad to see the look in the mirror.
My game face is on tonight, and I'm not talking about make-up. And when that's the case, men don't stand a chance against me.
I am the Red Queen, cruising for my prey in the company limousine. I don't need hot lights or bamboo shoots under the fingernails to break a man. The strategy to get information out of Scott is simple.
Wear one incredibly hot outfit and screw his brains out until the sexual aftershocks make him look like he's been hit with a taser.
I could even take the subtle approach, hinting that I might have made a mistake with our relationship, that I miss him, that we might have a future together. (One of these days, I gotta go to confession with Neely. I'm probably up to about a hundred Our Fathers by now.) A lotta alcohol, a lotta sex, and he'll come cl
ean.
I was going to wear Scott's favorite ensemble, but Neely said I needed something different to blow him away. (Not that you need clothes to do that.) So I borrowed some stuff from Jillian, which she says is a personal bedroom preference of The Snack. Electric blue sequined halter minidress, about mid-thigh; skin-tight black boots that just cover the knee. Red hair teased out like it was 1988. Fire engine red lipstick, forest green eyeshadow. I'm one hundred and thirty-five pounds of pure toned fantasy and Scott doesn't have to pay a dime. Even though, as I ran my hand across the soft black leather upholstery, I felt expensive.
The men on the sidewalk rubbernecked like they were driving on the Long Island Expressway as the driver held the door open and I exited the limo, extending one long leg with the promise of better things to come. (A burly guy walked into a trash can, causing me to laugh and break character for a moment as he hopped around and grabbed his banged knee. He looked back at me and yelled, "Your fault, lady!")
Okay, game face back on, I walked up the steps and rang the bell. There was a serious chill in the air, and for just a moment I cursed the hemline of the dress.
But just for a moment.
The door opens, and Scott's jaw slowly falls open. "Whoa," he said, eyes wide.
(Had he said, "Syd, what the hell are you doing here?" or "I didn't order a girl," I knew I'd be in trouble.)
"Hello, Scott," I said, keeping my voice low and sultry.
"I… uh….Madison was going to—"
"Madison and I swapped," I said, walking inside. "I hope that's okay. Actually, it doesn't matter if it's okay with you because it's what I wanted tonight."
"Uh… yeah, of course it's okay." (Big smile begins to grow, among other things. He's half dressed, by the way, in boxers and an unbuttoned shirt.)
"It's cold outside," I said. "I need to get warmed up." I close the door behind me. I dip my head and look up at him through my eyelashes while throwing my lower lip into a pout as I run both hands underneath his shirt and up his chest. "I've not been very nice to you lately, Scott, and I wanted to apologize. And I've been having second thoughts about… things. I hope you'll let me make it up to you and give me a second chance. I'd like to see where this relationship goes." I run my hands down his chest onto his stomach and he inhales quickly. "If you'd like to start over."
Oh, his eyes are filled with fireworks. "Of course, Syd. You know the door is always open for you. I was always hoping you'd come back."
Sixty seconds and I've already set the hook.
(See, this is the difference between men and women. Women wouldn't fall for this crap. But one short skirt, big hair, some dominatrix boots, and a man's brain goes into vapor lock.)
"Thank you, Scott."
He started to button his shirt. "I'm, uh, not quite ready. You're a half hour early."
"I know." I took his hand and stopped him. "I wanted an appetizer before dinner. Just a quick bite before we go out. So don't bother getting dressed now, you'll only have to do it again."
* * *
An hour and two drinks in the limo later, Scott was well on his way to letting down his guard. My half hour of torture in his bedroom might have violated the Patriot Act, but it sure sent a clear message.
So now we're seated at a corner table of one of Manhattan's classiest restaurants. (Well, okay, not that classy… I mean, they let me walk in here looking like a high-priced hooker.) The place was filled with quiet conversation and understated violin music, and very little in the way of incandescent light. The well-heeled patrons sported thousand dollar suits and dresses that could pay down the national debt. My blue sequins shone like a beacon in a sea of gray pin stripes and New York black. We were sipping drink number four as the waiter served a decadent white chocolate concoction on bone china so pure you could read a newspaper through it.
The sweet chocolate sent a rush into my veins while I ran my leg up Scott’s shin. "You know what I'd like to do now?"
His quick inhale was audible. "No, what?" he asked. He was ready to go home, but I pushed the torture a little farther.
"Shoot some pool."
His face twisted like a dishrag. "Excuse me?"
"Just for a while. I love to shoot pool and I haven't done it for such a long time." I ran my finger across the china, scooping up the last of the chocolate, before swallowing the finger and slowly pulling it out. "But maybe we could ride around for a while in the limo first. I've got it for the entire night."
The smile magically returned. "Okay. Pool it is."
God, this is easy.
* * *
To say I was overdressed for a pool hall is putting it mildly. I'm sure the only time they've seen sequins in this place was when the gay pride parade route went past the front door and one of the participants needed to use the restroom.
But, 'tis all part of the plan. Actually, this part was Neely's idea. In her words, "While the perfect Southern woman has biscuits in the oven and her buns in bed, she must be able to stop traffic in a party dress and, at the same time, excel in at least one male activity. Men love women who like to do guy stuff. It's the ultimate turn-on. If you can do it while dressed like a whore, game over." So, since bowling in sequins and heels is out of the question, and I'm actually pretty decent with a cue stick (hey, hold the jokes, okay?), we were shooting a few racks in what would be considered an upscale billiard room. Beautiful mahogany inlaid tables with red felt, colorful Tiffany lamps throwing soft rectangles of light on the tables, no cigarette smoke, a few of the men fresh from the corporate wars with ties loosened around starched white French cuffed shirts. The constant clacking of the billiard balls mixed with the conversation at the packed bar. Every time it was my turn I picked a shot that forced me to stretch and lift one leg off the floor while leaning over the table in Scott's direction. (The first time I did this the guy at the next table missed his shot so badly he sent the cue ball flying off the felt and crashing through the mirror behind the bar.) Every time I chalked the cue I twisted it, then rounded my lips and blew off the residue very slowly.
And the fact that I'd won three games of eight-ball in a row, while not getting any chalk on my cleavage, had him impressed. Of course, he might have been a bit distracted and missed just about every damned shot. (Neely has got to get a publishing deal.) He was sipping a beer, which meant he had downed six drinks and been serviced twice like a car at an efficient ten minute oil change shop.
I sank the eight ball in the side pocket and slid the cue stick back into a rack on the far wall. "Okay, I got my pool fix," I said.
"Ready to go back to my place now?" he said, looking like an excited puppy about to wet on the rug.
"Sure, Scott. Rack 'em up. Take me home."
Cue the ring card girl. Round three was coming.
* * *
Scott lay back, totally spent and still half in the bag after drinks number seven and eight. (I'd only been sipping my drinks all night, never actually finishing a single one, so I was still several million brain cells ahead of him.) I leaned up on one elbow and looked down at him while tracing his jawline with one long red fingernail. "So, is my apology accepted?" I asked. "Or must I continue to get on my knees and beg forgiveness?"
He was having trouble staying awake. "Good God, Syd, you've been incredible tonight."
"Wanna go again?"
"You kidding? I think I'm out of bodily fluids."
I laid my head on his chest, looking at him while I ran one hand across his hairless six-pack. "Well, you just re-charge those batteries and maybe I can take care of you for breakfast."
He stroked my hair and looked up at me, deep into my eyes. "It's nice to have you back. I'll try not to push you this time."
"Forget it, Scott. Ancient history. Like I said, I've been a little abrupt with everyone. I think the stress with the launch just caught up with me." I paused for a moment, then threw my first fishing line in the water. "Then, just when I thought it was over we get sued."
Okay, Syd, pay attention. If t
he boy is ever gonna spill, he's going to do it now.
"I was really concerned about you when I read the paper," he said. "And since we're in apology mode tonight…"
The eyes grew sad and looked away. Okay, this was it. There's the wounded doe!
Lock and load, babe.
He looked back at me. "I wanted to say I'm sorry for going to the tabloid."
Aha! Three orgasms and a ton of booze really is the new truth serum!
"Really sorry," he added. "It's been bothering me for months, despite the way I've been acting at work."
Wait a minute. Months? "You mean—"
"I wasn't really trying to get out of my contract, Syd. I love this job. It's the best gig ever. I mean, I get to anchor in New York, and even though I didn't have you I had Madison, and I do like spending time with her a lot. But you hurt me and I wanted to hurt you back. I know that's really immature."
I didn't say anything. His eyes were moist, sincere. Then he totally took the wind out of my sails.
"I felt really bad when I read the paper this morning and they dredged up the story again. I was really hoping it would go away, that maybe over time you'd forgive me. And then some idiot has to file a lawsuit."
Son of a bitch.
Scott's not the leak.
He wiped his eyes, then wrapped one arm around me and pulled me close. "I feel a lot better now that it's off my chest. You wanna go again and let me finish my apology the right way?"
Oh, shit.
CHAPTER NINE
"Oh, shit!" said Rica. "You're friggin' kiddin' me!"
I shook my head as the girls looked at me in amazement from my office couch. "It's not him." I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. "Dammit!"
"Are you absolutely sure?" asked Jillian.
"I did everything but waterboard the man's genitals. If he can keep a secret after five times—"
Neely interrupted. "I thought you said four?"
"Hell, he wanted to apologize to me this morning."
"Boy's got stamina," said Rica. "I'll give him that."
"Oh, shit," said Jillian, her eyes suddenly going wide and telling me she'd just gotten the second part of the equation. "I just realized something. Not only do we not know who the leak is, but now you're back in a relationship with Scott."