“So maybe you’ll patch it up?”
Tobin leaned forward, eyes scanning the pinkish dying sky alight with scattered stars. A traffic chopper did figure eights or some goddamn thing above the silhouettes of office buildings.
Then his eyes lowered to street level again and he noticed that the crowd of reporters was beginning to inch closer.
“Tell me,” Tobin said, “how the hell did you convince them to let you come up here first?”
“I just told them the truth.”
“About what?”
“About your temper.”
“What about my temper?”
“Tobin, no offense, but when you drink you’re an animal.”
“I like a little fun with my drinks.”
“Does throwing somebody through a window constitute a ‘little fun’?”
“Depends on whom you ask, I suppose.”
“I mean, you know your nickname.”
“I hate that goddamn thing.”
“Well, if the shoe fits and all that shit.”
“Just drop it about my nickname, all right?”
Then Tobin looked at the reporters again. Now that they’d seen that Carmichael was having no trouble, they had apparently decided there was no reason to let him have the scoop.
“Shit,” Tobin said, watching them come up and surround the car.
“Is it true you’ve sought professional help to try and deal with your temper?” The first question was asked by a guy who might have been a girl or a girl who might have been a guy.
The second question was, “Did Dunphy call you Yosemite Sam to your face right before you punched him?”
There it was. That silly nickname. Yosemite Sam. As if he could help being five-five and red-haired and ill-tempered.
For the second time, he sank back in the seat and let their questions swarm over him.
He should never have pulled up in a cab. A ten-year-old Chevy would have been much better. Might have inspired a little pity.
“Mr. Tobin, is it true your third wife left you when you pushed the dishwasher down two flights of stairs in your town house?”
2
6:18 P.M.
He stood in the back of the theater. He had been about to walk back to his dressing room when the owner of the company that syndicated the show, Frank Emory, appeared as if by magic and blocked his way.
“Why don’t you avoid seeing Dunphy if you can?” Emory said. “I think things would run a little smoother that way.”
As usual, Emory managed to look both polished and terrified. From his father he had inherited the kind of snotty good looks, now complete with graying hair at the temples, that one usually associates with imperious bank presidents and preppy politicians. Unfortunately, from his mother — Tobin had gotten to know both of Frank’s parents pretty well — he had inherited the notion that everything that hadn’t yet gone to shit was about to. The clearest evidence of that could be seen in Frank’s soft blue eyes. In a head so handsome, they should have looked more confident.
“Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll go right to my dressing room,” Tobin said.
“I’m not taking sides in this,” Frank said, giving every indication that he was about to cry.
Tobin put his hand out and touched Frank’s arm. Frank was a professional fuck-up. He was forty-nine and had gone through four different businesses, each one of which his father had been called in to bail out from near bankruptcy. His father was in pharmaceuticals and had done very well. Praise the Lord. Emory Communications, however, which owned this videotape studio and theater and produced syndicated television shows such as Nashville Calling (kind of live version of National Enquirer and all about people with names like Ferlin and Jake and Dody), was coming off the worst year of its six years of existence. So Frank Emory looked more shattered than usual. Which was why Tobin was patting him on the arm. Tobin wasn’t sure he liked Frank Emory, but at least he felt sorry for him, which was more than he could say for most people.
“Calm down, Frank. I know you’re not taking sides.”
“He’s really going to do it, isn’t he, Tobin?”
“He might be bluffing.”
For just a moment — no more than a millisecond — you could see that Frank Emory really wanted to believe this. Something like a smile lifted his upper lip. But then his mouth abruptly wrinkled into a frown. “There’s no point in lying to ourselves.”
“Maybe he is, Frank. Bluffing, I mean.”
“You’d understand how much was riding on this if you’d seen the new Nielsens.”
“They’re in?”
In this business you awaited Nielsens with no less dread than you awaited biopsies.
Frank nodded.
“Well, how did we do?”
“You did fine. You and Richard, I mean. Number-three show in the syndicated Top Ten.”
“Well, Frank, let’s go get drunk and feel up some women or something.”
“You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d seen how the rest of the Emory shows did.”
“Bad?”
“Tobin, since the ratings came out this morning, three big markets called in to let me know they wouldn’t be renewing at least one of our shows. Philadelphia. Los Angeles. Miami.” He called the names off as if they were valiant soldiers slain in battle. “Not even Nashville Calling did very well.”
“Gee, I thought that show you did on transvestites in country music was interesting.”
Frank could only shake his head at Tobin’s grim humor.
Around them, grips and makeup men and lighting people moved. The young ones moved quickly and with a certain hostility, not unlike that which Tobin had noticed in the limo drivers. The older ones moved less quickly, and with dull resignation. They knew that the rush didn’t matter, that no matter how many things went wrong, shows somehow went on anyway and generally did all right for themselves. Besides, this was the medium that had produced Allen Funt and Michael Landon: It wasn’t the sort of thing you had to take really seriously. It was just television and not even network television, for God’s sake.
“Frank, it’s going to be all right. He’ll calm down.”
Frank said, “There is one thing I’d like to say. I mean, I think we’re friends enough that I can say it.”
“I know what you want to say, Frank.”
Frank raised long fingers splayed in frustration. “Didn’t it occur to you what you might be doing to our livelihood here? Weren’t things bad enough already?”
Frank was whining. Whining had a way of carrying farther than just plain talking. The crew, young and old, both kind of slowed down so they could get a proper earful.
“You know what you’re doing, Frank?” Tobin whispered angrily.
“What?”
“Giving them some nice fodder for the bar tonight. They’ll be discussing this till dawn.”
“Their jobs depend on the outcome of your contract negotiations, too. Face it. They may as well listen. Every one of us has a stake in this show — Richard, you, me...” He waved his hand at the crew. “Them, too.”
Frank didn’t say it, but Tobin could already see Daddy waiting in the wings, pockets stuffed with good green cash, ready to bail out his son.
“Why don’t we talk about all this after the show?” Tobin suggested gently. Frank was going to hell. He somehow had to get his mind off it. “Why don’t you go to your office and have a drink?”
“My wife’s in there.”
“Good. Give you somebody to talk to.”
“She isn’t speaking to me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, we were having lunch at the club when the waiter brought a phone to my table. I got the ratings over the phone. I didn’t bear up well. I... I started crying, Tobin. Right in the middle of the main dining room. With the goddamn snotty waiters standing around and everything. You know how waiters talk. It’ll be all over.”