Maisel looked at Morrie. "It's too late, isn't it?" He answered calmly. "We can't do half and half. We can shut off the computer and queue up the tapes by hand, using a stopwatch. Like in the old days. You'll have to be live in all of your on-camera commentary. Hell, the commercials too and you know how many fifteen-second buys there are during Current Events. It'll be a nightmare." "Then it'll be a nightmare." the anchor woman said. "But, Piper," Maisel said, "we can slot something else." She said evenly, "Lee, every TV guide, cable guide and newspaper in America shows that we're running a new Current Events tonight. You know what kind of questions it'll raise about the program if we go to a rerun or slip in something from syndication?" "We'll say technical difficulties." "There are no technical difficulties on my show." "Piper-" Rune began.
But Sutton didn't even hear her. She and Maisel hurried off and Rune, uninvited, stayed behind, in her cubicle. She curled up in her chair, the way Courtney did sometimes, drawing her legs up. She thought of all the work she'd have to do over again. She felt numbed, stunned, like somebody had died.
Uh-uh, she thought. Like someone was about to die.
Randy Boggs.
At 7:58 P.M. Lee Maisel was sitting in the huge control booth overlooking the Current Events set. The booth was filled with three times its normal staff (most of whom were from the Jim Eustice crew and had experience with the rare and demanding art of live production). Maisel hadn't done live producing for years and he sat forward, sweating and uneasy, like the captain of a torpedoed ship still doing battle with an enemy destroyer. He was holding an expensive digital stopwatch in his hand, gripping it tightly.
Maisel and Sutton had managed to write half the Guardian Angels piece and get it, handwritten, into the TelePrompTer, but at 7:56 they'd had to break off. So Sutton had said, "I'll ad-lib." Maisel called over the loudspeaker, "You got a ten-second countdown and a five-second cheat. . ." Sutton, in full makeup, under the hot lights, gave him a fast nod and sat down in the black leather chair behind the desk bearing the Current Events logo. A technician clipped the lavaliere mike onto her lapel and inserted the small earphone into her left ear, the one hidden under the flop of hair (where it was less visible and no one would absently think she was wearing a hearing aid). Maisel called, "All right, this is it."
She gave another nod and fixed her eyes on the TelePrompTer that a floor producer pointed at. In the control booth Lee Maisel shut off the loud speaker and began talking into the microphone that would carry his words to Sutton's and the rest of the crew's earphones. He glanced at the big clock on the control room wall and began counting down. "Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one . . . Graphics up now . . . Theme running . . ." Exactly four seconds later, he said, "Graphics dissolve, camera one fade in ... Theme down . . . Okay, Piper, you're . . . on."
Piper Sutton's eyes locked directly into those of ten million people. She gave a sincere smile and said in the low comforting voice that so many people had come to trust more than that of their own spouses, parents, children and friends, "Good evening. Welcome to Current Events for Tuesday, April twentieth. I'm Piper Sutton . . ." The program began.
Exactly fifty-six minutes later, the credits rolling at a breakneck pace, viewers around the country stood or stretched, arguing about some of the stories or critiquing Piper Sutton's fashion selection of the week or wondering which sitcom to turn to now, all unaware that they'd just seen TV history.
Morrie Weinberg oversaw the passing of the scepter back to the computer and the fifty-million-dollar system began sending the spurious art of television advertising into American households. As soon as the studio mikes were shut off, the newsroom applauded. Sutton was far too diplomatic to ignore it and she gave a brief smile and offered a bow -not a curtsy - to her audience. Maisel left the booth and walked straight up to her, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek. Both Dan Semple and Jim Eustice had been watching from the control booth. They now joined her. Eustice shook her hand formally and complimented her then left with Maisel. Semple kissed Sutton quickly and the two of them walked into the corridor.
Not a single one of them glanced at Rune, who sat in her desk chair and stared at the monitor where her program would have run. The next morning, Courtney woke her up by climbing into bed. "Can we go to the zoo?"
Rune had collected the girl just after the program was over the night before. They'd gone home, had tuna sandwiches for dinner and Raisin Bran for dessert. They both went to bed at ten. Rune rolled over and sat up. "The what?" "The zoo." "First, coffee, then we'll think about the zoo." "I want some juice. Coffee's icky."
Rune was feeling better now that she'd gotten some sleep. The horror of last night had faded. True, the tapes had been stolen but there were some upsides to what'd happened. For one thing, it was clear proof that somebody else had killed Hopper. Randy obviously hadn't stolen the tapes; the real killer must have. Also, there was now another dimension to the story: Somebody's breaking into a major television network studio and stealing a news program -that was a story in itself. Anyway, it turned out that the damage wasn't as bad as she'd thought. All that was missing was the master tape and the dupes and the tape of Bennett Frost. Bradford, bless his heart, had managed to find copies of almost everything else. The program could be remixed from that material although she'd have to retape Bennett Frost.
What worried her most was that Randy was still in danger. But then she wondered if maybe the story didn't have to run to get his release process started. True, the impact wouldn't be so neat - her story actually getting him released. But what had her goal been anyway? To get him out. No, Current Events could easily redo the story after he was released. That might be a nice touch. She'd add footage of him wandering around New York, a free man. Maybe reuniting with his brother or sisters.
In the galley, Rune poured cranberry juice for Courtney and made her some instant oatmeal. "I want to go to the zoo." "Okay, honey, we'll try. But there's something I have to do first. We're going to go visit somebody. A man." "Who is he? Is he a nice man?"
"Not really," Rune said and looked up Fred Megler's address in her book. "Poker," Megler said. "I thought there was that show running last night. What happened? I missed poker to stay home. I really hate to miss poker." He lifted up a series of soda cans, looking for one that was full. "It got stolen." "Stolen? Somebody stole a TV show?" "The tape. It got lifted. "No shit?" Then he winced and glanced at Courtney. "Shit," the little girl said. Rune said, "I'm going to do the story over again. But I was thinking maybe you could start the - the what do you call it? To get Randy out?" "The motion papers." "Right. I thought you could get Mr Frost to go into court and . . ." She paused. Megler's face was blank for a moment. "You didn't hear?" "Hear what?" "The accident?" His voice, thin as his body, rose, sounding as if everybody in the city were supposed to know. Oh, no. Rune closed her eyes. "What happened?" "Frost slipped in the bathtub. He drowned." "What? Oh, God . . . When did it happen?" "A couple days ago." Megler found a nearly full can of Diet Pepsi. His face brightened at the discovery. "Sure is a good thing you made that tape of him. Otherwise we'd be up . . ." He glanced at Courtney. "... you know which creek without a paddle."
23
Allah tells us: Those who do good will find the best reward in heaven, and more. Neither dust nor ignominy touch their faces. Such are the rightful owners of the Garden, and they will abide therein.
Late Thursday morning, Severn Washington was waiting for Randy Boggs to come out of the library. He sat on a concrete step and read the Koran. He frequently did this. Like praying five times a day and ritual washing and forsaking liquor and pork, reading the holy book gave him great personal satisfaction. He kept it with him at all times.
The typeface of the copy he owned was dense. Under the repeated touch of his huge, nubby fingers the delicate onionskin paper of the small volume had become even more translucent than when it was new. He liked that. He had an image of Allah reaching down and making the book more and more invisible every time Washington read it. Eventually it would become transparent, would become just a spirit - vanished and gone to heaven.
And then Washington would follow and his sins - all of them (the liquor store shooting in particular) - would be forgiven; his new life would begin.
Washington didn't want to go too fast, however. There were certain aspects of his present life that he'd come to enjoy. Even here, in Harrison. Prison life wasn't much different from that in his prior residence. Instead of a brick project, he had a stone cell block to live in (a building that wasn't graffitied and didn't smell of shit). Instead of his common-law wife's bland macaroni and chicken and potatoes, he had the Department of Corrections's bland macaroni and hamburger and potatoes. Instead of hanging out on the street and doing occasional construction work, he hung out in the yard and worked in the machine shop. Instead of getting dissed and threatened by dealers and gangs, who had MAC-10s, he got dissed and threatened by the Aryan Brotherhood, who had clubs and shivs. On the whole, it was better inside. Maybe you didn't get paychecks but you didn't need paychecks like when you were doing straight time.
He had friends, like Randy Boggs. He had his Koran. No, couldn't complain. He looked down at his holy book once more.
. . . If Allah afflict thee with some hurt, there is none who can remove it save Him,' if He desireth good for thee, there is none who can repel His bounty. He-
The sentiment in that passage was the last thought Severn Washington ever had. And the last sound he ever heard was the hiss of the steel barbell pole that swung into the back of his head.
He didn't even live long enough to hear the delicate flutter of his Koran as it pitched from his convulsing fingers and lay open on dirt, the book which it turned out wasn't going to precede Washington into heaven after all.
The conversation was hushed. "Whatever you thinking, man, fuck it," said Juan Ascipio. "We had to do the nigger. I told you . . ." He was talking rapidly to one of his Hispanic brothers in the area beside the library where they'd just dragged Washington's body. ". . . we move on Boggs, put the bar in his hand and knife in the nigger's. Looks like the nigger wanted to fuck Boggs and Boggs moved on him, and then the nigger did Boggs." "I know, man," the second man said. "Hey, I'm not saying nothing." "You don't look happy, man, but it had to be that way." "Yeah. It's just, man, they know it's us." "Fuck," Ascipio spat out. "What they know ain't what they can prove." "After the first time, man. They know it's us. He coulda talked." "Motherfucker didn't talk. He coulda said who it was did him. He didn't say nothing." Ascipio laughed. "Yeah." A third man loped back to them. "Boggs -he's in there by hisself." Ascipio laughed again.
Randy Boggs liked the library. Reading was one of those things you don't think anything of until you actually did it. When he was Outside there were some things he'd do for the peace of it. Like sitting with a quart of beer for the evening, listening to cicadas and owls and the surf of leaves and the click of branches. That was something he could do practically forever. Which seemed like doing nothing but was actually one of the most important ways a man could spend time.
That was how he now looked at reading. Most of the books here were pretty bad. Somebody - a school, he guessed - had donated a lot of textbooks. Sociology and psychology and statistics and economics. Boring as dry toast. If that was what people learned in college no wonder nobody seemed to have any smarts.
And some of the novels were a bit much. The older ones - and the library here seemed to have mostly 1920s and '30s books - were pretty dense. Man, he couldn't make heads or tails out of them. He had to slug his way through, just like the way he'd clean a floor: scrape, then sweep, then mop, then rinse. Inch by inch. Then he found some newer ones. Catch-22, which he thought was really okay. He grinned for five minutes straight after finishing that one. Then somebody mentioned Kurt Vonnegut and although there were none of his books in the prison library a guard he'd become friendly with gave him a copy of Cat's Cradle and a couple others as well. Whenever he saw the guard, he'd wink and say, "So it goes." Boggs loved Paul Theroux's travel writing. He also tried John Cheever. He didn't like the short stories but the novel about prison really struck home. Sure, it was about prison but it was about something more than prison. That seemed to be the sign of a good book. To be about something but about something more too, even if you didn't know exactly what. The book that girl reporter had given him wasn't so good, he'd decided. The writing was old-fashioned and he had to read some sentences three, four times in order to figure out what was going on. But he kept at it and would pull it out occasionally and read some more. He wanted to finish it but the reason was so he could talk about it with Rune.
That got him thinking about that girl again and he wondered why her program hadn't run on Tuesday. Rune
hadn't called to say anything about it. But then he wasn't sure what day she'd said. Maybe she'd meant a week from Tuesday. She'd probably said "next" Tuesday, instead of "this" Tuesday; Boggs always got confused with "next" and "this."
Damn, that girl was something else. Here, he'd spent months and months trying to figure out how to get out of prison, thinking of escaping, thinking of getting sick, thinking of appealing, and then here she comes and does it for him and it doesn't cost him anything in grief or money. He-And that was when he heard the noise and felt the first hum of fear.
