"I don't think it'll fly. That's my opinion." He gestured minimally with his hands tightly in front of him.
"Fine, Jack," O'Herin said, "and we respect that opinion very highly. But with respect to the public facade you'll go along with us on this, right?"
"Sure." He seethed.
"We're going to want you to do an interview. There's a talk show that is watched by all the media people called 'Chicago Sunrise,' you may have seen it. Little gal named Christa Summers does it over on Channel Thirty-one. They have a local celeb of some kind, a political figure, athlete, whatever—and usually at least one guest journalist to ask questions. Nicely moderated show—no hatchet jobs or any of that—very uptown, upscale kinda' thing. We want you to go on the show and let her interview you about the killings."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"That or you sit and give interview after interview to every big paper and radio and TV reporter in the Chicago land area. Or hold a big ball buster of a press conference where you'll have to field all kinds of cheap shots from the hardballers. Nail yourself to a cross. You don't want to do that. This is the best way, by far. Nice safe interview. You do it one time and cover all the bases. Then it's all old news and nobody's on our case anymore."
"Until the next time he kills somebody and rips the heart out."
"We face that problem at that time. Okay?"
"You're calling the shots."
"Good man. Now let's go over a few points about how you solved the Sylvia Kasikoff case. . . ."
The interview, which would be played back on videotape the following morning around eight A.M., was recorded in a large studio over at the television station that night at seven. Eichord rode to the interview with Rolly Margulies. He resisted being made up by the makeup lady and went to the greenroom to be briefed a final time on some of the questions that Christa Summers would be asking him. He was the focus of twelve eyes as he sat listening to the woman read off a clipboard taking him through some of the Q&As. There was a floor-director type, a station executive of some sort to whom he was never introduced, Christa herself, Rolly, a "gofer" who waited in attendance, and the woman who took him through the basic questions until he had somehow satisfied the twelve eyes that there were going to be no unpleasant surprises.
The greenroom was actually beige. The main studio where he was taken for the taping was blue. It resembled a huge, bright blue warehouse, the floor a litter of cables, cameras, cigarette butts, and the other garbage that a tide of humanity had washed up to the riser on which the show "Chicago Sunrise" took place. As soon as he stepped up on to the riser, a large wooden platform containing the set for the show, a bank of piercingly hot spotlights blinded him, instantly drenching Eichord in fear sweat.
But the big surprise would not hit him for several minutes. The big and most definitely unpleasant surprise for Jack was in the person of one "Uncle George," the character who would act as his Grand Inquisitor before the grueling interview session was over. Uncle George was one of the strange, aberrant, bizarro improbabilities that somehow managed to surface on isolated major-market television stations across America. He was the backlash, perhaps, to all the cutesy, wimpy anchorpersons with their blow-dried hair and capped teeth and soulless on-cam personalities. Uncle George Kcscztska was a tough, ugly, sadistic, kick-ass old curmudgeon who had become one of Chicago's favorite television stars quite by semi-accident.
It all began when Channel 31 ran one of its Editorial Echo features about how far too much abuse was heaped on the IRS. It was written and voiced by the station manager, one Harlow Boggs, who actually hated the internal-revenue folk like most everyone else did, but who had designed the editorial to evoke a strong viewer response. He hadn't envisioned one George Kcscztska, pronounced Kicks-zitsca, who would come slinking out of the woodwork just quivering at the chance to get some free TV time under the FCC fairness doctrine.
Kcscztska did a pretape interview that met the standards-and-practices requirements, but then when it was time to tape his Editorial Echo something happened. A question, as always, of chemistry. Something lit up inside the old misanthrope. And when that red light blinked over the camera and he took his hand cue from the floor man, this television novice just knocked everybody out with his total poise, burning intensity, and searing intelligence.
He called his guest editorial rebuttal "An Open Letter from Uncle George to Uncle Sam," and by the end of sixty seconds airtime he had made both the United States government and Channel 31 look like the imbecilic institutions they truly were. And a certain segment of the viewers just went ape over it. The switchboard was flooded with calls, many of them wanting more of Uncle George. And so a TV star was born in the Windy City.
Back in the greenroom nobody had bothered to Warn Eichord that this old, ugly geezer who called himself Uncle George Kick-Ass-ka or whatever was about to do a "Bed-Sty Ninety Percenter" on Jack. A Bed-Sty Ninety-Percent stomping being the old-time gang vernacular for a little boot party where the stompee is left alive, but just barely. Uncle George was going to do such a J.O.B. on Jack he'd be a drenched, trembling sack of protoplasm by the end of the taping session. All they told him was that he was the guest reporter or interviewer who would come in with a few "follow-up questions and remarks" when Christa had finished with the main interview segment.
Eichord was a bit wet-palmed and dry-mouthed, but not too shaky. Then a tall, thin woman wearing jeans and high heels, with one of the truly sensational rears in all of Christendom, came and smiled at Jack and made a move with a long, Dragon Lady fingernail, indicating that he should follow her and she said:
"It's time," with that little tilt of the head and funny smile and odd tone of voice that people always use when they lead the little kid in to have the impacted molar cut out. That same tone when the secretary at the IRS tells you the auditor is ready for you. The little look you recall from childhood when the principal finishes talking to your folks and it's your turn. The little quasi-friendly tilting tone that never fails to engender a rapid palpitation or at least a stab of apprehension.
He expected to be a little warm under the lights but it was actually rather cool in the studio. As he shivered reflexively he felt himself suddenly bathed in fear sweat, stage fright, and an unexpected, massive, drenching paranoia from left field. And as he tried to pull his socks up, adjust his tie, and blot his forehead a monitor beside him came to life with a shot of him wiping perspiration and he could hear the loud bark of audio on the cameraman's earphone as a recorded announcement introduced:
"'Chicago Sunrise'! Starring Christa Summers—with her special guest, noted serial-murder expert Jack A-cord, who will talk about solving the Lonely Hearts Murders! And our guest interviewer for Hotseat Spotlight, the inimitable Uncle George! And now . . . for Lakefront Furniture City, he-e-e-e-e-r-r-r-r-r-r-r's Christa!"
Real original, thought Eichord as the red light on Christa's camera winked on and she was already asking him something and his mind kicked in just in time to catch, "Ay-cord or I-cord, so which is correct?" She was smiling with teeth that looked like they'd been carved from a single piece of white plastic.
"It's Eichord but—" "The German diphthong, I should have known." She had a sort of semi-breathless style, and she was quite attractive and show bizzy. And the combination gave her most mundane pronouncements an aura of discovery, and Eichord wished he could come back with some brilliant rejoinder but unfortunately he hadn't the vaguest notion of what a German diphthong was. And the only thing that came to mind was a dildo with a French tickler on it and he was sure that wasn't what she wanted to hear so he only smiled idiotically and perspired profusely as she continued talking.