Howard Engel - The Cooperman Variation

A small-sized Buick rolled up to the entranceway. Ken Trebitsch put on the emergency brake and got out. He was carrying a fat briefcase. He nodded at George but kept on going through the revolving doors and into the lobby, which I could just make out through the glass doors. I thought of all these people dependent upon the whims of executives such as Thornhill and Trebitsch and Vanessa Moss. George put down his coffee. “I gotta go,” he said.

I gathered up my food parcel and Styrofoam cups and headed through the doors to the security desk. I set my burden down and dug out my plastic card. “This is no good without a picture, you know.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to be a regular or even a semi, you gotta get your ID and picture.”

“Where do I get that?”

“Speak to your supervisor.”

“She’s in Los Angeles, and the coffee’s getting cold.”

“Well, I’ll let you past this time, but you need that photo-ID.”

“I’ll remember that, and God bless you.”

“You got attitude, Mr. Cooperman. You want me to call my supervisor? There are four supervisors above him, so your coffee could be good and cold by the time this is straightened out. You hear me?” I bowed to acknowledge I’d been beaten. I’d been hoping to catch Ken Trebitsch in the elevator, but he was long gone now. Speed didn’t matter any more.

Philip Rankin’s chubby hand waved at me as I passed his door with my coffee and Danish. “Dear boy, so good to see you!”

“Why do I suspect that you mean the opposite?”

“Oh, you are learning our ways. Excellent progress in such a short time. How was your weekend in the untamed northland?” I must have looked surprised. “Yes, dear boy, the little northern brooks have been babbling.”

“And so early!”

“Early’s not a dirty word in network television. Has your boss come home to roost?”

“I thought you’d know that already. She’s still in L.A.”

“She’s going to miss all the fun. Pity! Trolleys of boxes headed for Central Records. That’s what we have instead of a morgue. They’ll have her stash of secret ashtrays packed and ready to go by noon.”

“If you’re wrong, are you going to help put her things back where they belong?”

“Mr. Cooperman, I try to make all allowances for your unfamiliarity with our ways. And for your innocence in general of the great wicked metropolis. I was a new boy myself once. But you aren’t paying attention. Why, at this very moment the CEO is closeted with the people most concerned with the future of your employer. Your fates are entwined, I expect. You should follow what’s going on out of self-interest at the very least.”

“Then why are you here and not with Thornhill and the others? Ken Trebitsch just arrived a couple of minutes ago. He hasn’t been closeted with anyone all morning. Maybe he knows that the meeting isn’t as important as you seem to think it is. He has a private informationgathering service, you know.”

“Oh, you know about that?”

“And a bit besides.”

“Ken once operated under a sign that read ‘When I hear the word culture, I reach for my gun.’ I think he’s a retarded National Socialist, a strayed member of the Third Reich. His favourite composer is Wagner. He marches briskly to the tune of the ‘Horst Wessel Lied.’ They moved him to News because he frightened the writers and idea people. News people are made of sterner stuff. You’ve met some of Ken’s associates, I take it? The young men with long hair and a regulation three-day beard? I often wonder how they keep the three-day look. Have you?”

“That green car’s easy to spot. I hope they are better producers than they are thugs.”

“You exaggerate. They’re not thugs, just some of his yes-men, his disciples.”

“Does he have a dozen? That’s the usual number.”

“Mr. Cooperman, it’s instructive to watch a man’s paranoia work its way through an organization like this. Have you observed that Ken never goes anywhere by himself? He attends meetings with a phalanx of supporters. I think he likes the sound of all those leather heels sounding on the terrazzo in unison. I wonder if he sleeps with the light on. What do you think?” Rankin shot me a look with an arched eyebrow. I pretended to catch it. He thought a moment and then went on. “I shouldn’t be too hard on the poor boy. We are still all in shock after Renata’s death. Dreadful! Dreadful! Look how her boyfriend’s taking it. He knocked on my door the other night, wanted to talk.”

“Barry Bosco?”

“Very good. You are keeping your eyes open. Yes, Barry Bosco. He’s taken a rather personal interest in the murder of his inamorata. I don’t think his legal firm will be happy about this if it continues beyond the end of this month. He’s a clever lawyer and all, but no Greenspan or John J. Malone. You might do worse than trying to have a word with him yourself.”

“I’ll remember the suggestion.” The smile Rankin gave me was dismissive. His eyes returned to other things. Just to bug him, I said, “I read a paperback biography about Dermot Keogh over the weekend.”

“Enterprising. What did you think?”

“It was a fast job, not very good. Looked like it was a collection of write-ups and reviews from the papers.”

“That’s exactly what it was, Mr. Cooperman.”

“I’d give another thought about writing your own book on him.”

“Mind your business, Mr. Cooperman.”

Sally came out of the office to meet me when she smelled the aging victuals I was carrying.

“Your senses are in terrific tune. Good morning. I’m afraid that the Danish has become cold and soggy and the coffee cold with a cardboard aftertaste.”

“I’m well acquainted with both. Which are mine?”

“I was waylaid by Philip Rankin down the hall.”

“Yes, he poked his wobbly chin in here too. I don’t know what he’s so worried about. Music can’t win a bigger piece of Entertainment than it already has. Maybe it’s just habit.”

“Any further word from our chief?”

“She’s in La Jolla, meeting with Winkler from Warners.”

“I thought that Warners was in L.A.?”

“Right now, if you ask me, Warners is wherever Winkler is. He has a house on Camino de la Costa. Doesn’t that sound delicious?”

“You’ve tried out his pool?”

“No such luck. I remember typing the address on an envelope. But I can imagine the Pacific across the street whispering to them as they contemplate those three outstanding series that he has yet to deliver for our fall line-up.”

“Has Ted Thornhill been in touch with her?”

“Not yet. He’s still at the message-leaving stage.”

“So the department is still in one piece. The moving vans haven’t arrived.”

“As of this moment, but the day is young. Here, let me get you a napkin before you get cherry jam on your other cheek as well.” Sally jumped up and with a few wellchoreographed motions delivered a few paper napkins to my sticky fingers.

We munched in silence for a few minutes, during which time I gave her the once-over: her seams were straight, her eyes unlined, her makeup minimal. She’d had a good night, and Gordon was leaving her alone. Good. I hadn’t even thought of my black eye this morning. It must be doing well too.

“Sally, do you happen to know what Barry Bosco’s specialty is at Raymond Devlin’s office?”

“Mostly putting deals together, I think. He put together the Reliance Cable deal with Northeastern. He was in charge of the legal side of Global’s acquisition of anchorman Garth Walsh’s contract from CBS. Remember that? He was Mr. Devlin’s right hand in putting the Dermot Keogh Hall project together. He had to keep an eye on his boss, who is the executor of Keogh’s estate.”