“Right here, guys,” calls the younger of the two women, who turns out to be the network producer for their shoot. “Line up right along here.”
“Well, facing more this way,” says her middle-aged colleague, a high-ranking Cowboys PR executive who has the swat to call Norm “Norm.” Intense women, these two, competitive, willful, dressed all in black, their faces set with the pinched look of angry vegans. Billy is angling to speak with Dime about the Faison situation, but Norm has glommed onto the sergeant and keeps him all to himself.
“I’ve got serious problems with Hollywood anyway,” says the Cowboys owner as everyone footsies around their marks. “I think they’re way out of step with the rest of the country, the concerns and value systems of mainstream Americans. Someone needs to get out there and start making films that reflect what America’s really all about.”
“I think we need that,” Dime replies. “I think the time is now.”
“Just the way they’ve been giving you the runaround, you start to wonder where their loyalties lie. Whether they really want America to win this war.”
“You start to think they might be a little gutless,” Dime observes.
“Listen, Ron Howard’s made some great films, Splash is one of my all-time favorites. But for him and Glazer—”
“Grazer,” Dime corrects.
“—Grazer to say you have to set your story in World War Two, that’s just outrageous.”
“They’re playing hardball, sir, that’s a fact.”
“World War Two gets its due, there’ve been plenty of great movies about World War Two. The Longest Day, The Big Red One, those are great, great movies. But Bravo’s story is all about the here and now, and I think that context should be honored.”
“I think all of us would agree with you there, sir.”
“Listen, I sure don’t see any signs of Iraq fatigue out there. The vast majority of Americans support this war, and they sure as heck support the troops fighting the war. If anybody has any doubts about that, they should just look at the reception you’ve gotten here today.”
The women herd Bravo into a quarter-circle line with garlands of cheerleaders on each flank. Norm and Dime stand front and center in the starring roles. There is a script, which everyone has memorized. “Hold your footballs up, like this,” the PR woman instructs, clutching an imaginary football to her breast. Though it’s dorkish and lame, the Bravos do it.
“No, lower,” says the producer.
“For Christ’s sake,” moans the PR lady, rolling her eyes.
“Well it just looks unnatural up there. It doesn’t look right.”
“We’re at a football game, hel-lo? It looks completely natural.”
Presently everything is ready for the first take. Norm’s personal videographer stands off to the side, filming Norm being filmed. “Bravo squad would like to wish you and your family a Very HAPPY THANKSGIVING,” Dime booms, then veers off-script: “And to our brother and sister soldiers out in the field, we say PEACE THROUGH SUPERIOR FIREPOWER!” Thus everyone is laughing when Norm, the cheerleaders, and all the Bravos shout, “Go Cowboys!” but the media people are pissed. Excuse me, is that in the script? That is not in the script so don’t say that, you can’t say that, don’t you know you can’t say that? Dime apologizes. He mumbles something about getting carried away. Everyone settles in for take two.
“Bravo Squad would like to wish you and your family a Very HAPPY THANKSGIVING!” Dime starts, and then, oh God, he’s doing it again, “and to our brother and sister soldiers out in the field, we say, shoot first! SHOOT STRAIGHT! PUNISH THE DESERVING!”
“Yaaah, go Cowboys!”
Now the medias are really pissed. “People, we’ve got four minutes to get this done,” the producer lectures them. “I suggest you get serious real quick or we can forget it.” Norm is laughing as hard as the Bravos, but he urges them to settle down and play it straight. “A lot of people out there want to hear from you,” he assures them. On take three Dime obligingly follows the script, but so primed are they for mischief that Lodis and Sykes bust up laughing. Take four goes smoothly until the end, when a fan leans over the front-row railing and screams, “Chicago Bears suck horse cock!”
At this point a short break seems in order. Extra cops are summoned to secure the taping area. Billy keeps trying to speak with Dime, but Norm and the sergeant are talking again. Billy almost butts in — he’s that desperate — but instead forces himself to fall back three paces as an exercise in impulse control. And runs straight into a huddle of cheerleaders.
“Whoa. Sorry!”
The cheerleaders smile and nod. There are three of them, two white and one black.
“Are you guys sisters?”
They hoot.
“Ooooh, how can you tell?”
“We thought it was our little secret!”
“Hey, it’s obvious. You could even be triplets.”
More hoots. As with all the cheerleaders they are stunning specimens of buff femininity, soft where they are soft and firm where firm all in accordance with the Photoshopped ideal of fashion magazines, except these women are real. Jesus. Bullshit spews from his mouth, he has no idea what he’s saying but they’re laughing, so he must be doing all right. The cheerleaders stamp their feet and shirr wintry breaths through their teeth to dramatize how cold they are. “Seniority,” they tell him when he asks why Faison wasn’t included in the Thanksgiving shoot.
“She’s brand-new, and everything goes by seniority. We get first dibs on TV spots based on years of service.”
“So the TV spots are a big deal?”
The girls shrug, make blasé.
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Hurt what?”
“Well, you know. Your career.”
“Ah. I didn’t know cheerleaders have careers.”
“What’s that?” one of the cheerleaders asks, pointing to, almost touching, Billy’s shiniest medal.
“That’s a Silver Star.”
“What’s it for?”
Billy flails. He has no bullshit for this, nor anything else that will serve for polite conversation. “For gallantry, I guess,” he says, then resorts to the language of the actual citation. “For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against an enemy of the United States.”
The cheerleader gives him a blank look. “Cool,” she says, and all three women abruptly turn away. Somehow Billy has killed the conversation. Did they think he was bragging? The medias order everyone back for take five. They find their marks and wait. And wait. And wait some more. Then groan when told there’s a technical problem. They’re instructed to stay put while the glitch is fixed.
“There’s your man,” Norm murmurs, nodding at Albert pacing the sideline with the cell to his face. “Looks like he’s working it.”
“He’s a machine,” Dime says. Standing just to the side and slightly behind them, Billy has no choice but to eavesdrop.
“How long have you been associated with him?”
“Well, officially about two weeks, I guess. That’s when we met him face-to-face. Though we were doing e-mails and phone calls before that, while we were still in Iraq.”
“You’ve got a contract, I’m assuming.”
“We signed some papers, yes, sir.”
“And I assume it’s been a positive experience so far?”