Ed Gorman: Serpent's kiss

He said nothing, just stared at his folded hands riding on his stomach.

"The consultants told you that you had to fire me but you came up with this dipshit community calendar so you could save my job, didn't you?"

He still said nothing.

"I'm not going to start crying," she said.

He said, "Good."

"Look at me, Walter."

He kept his eyes down.

"Walter, goddammit, look at me."

Like a chastened little boy, he raised his gaze to meet hers.

"Now tell me the truth, Walter. You came up with the On the Town thing, didn't you?"

He just sort of shrugged. "Well."

"You came up with it so I'd at least have some kind of job, didn't you?"

"Well," he said again.

Abruptly she leaned over the desk and kissed him on his forehead. "I really love you, Walter."

And then she sat back down and put her head down and tried very hard not to cry.

"You okay?" he said.

"Uh-huh."

"You want a Coke or something?"

"Huh-uh."

"You want another cigarette?"

She shook her head.

"Why don't you cry?" he said.

She shook her head again. She didn't want to give the bastards the satisfaction.

"I really feel bad, Holland, I really do. If I didn't have child support payments and a big suburban house I can't unload, I'd quit and tell them where to put it."

She had composed herself again. She tilted her head up and looked straight at him purposefully and said, "How come they wanted to fire me?"

"They said you were too old."

"What?"

"They said the men in the focus groups all said they wanted a younger woman in your slot."

"With bouncing breasts and a wiggling backside, no doubt?"

"No doubt."

She made a fist and then lunged for a cigarette and lit it with almost terrifying ferocity. "Those sons-of-bitches."

"Absolutely."

"What do they know about journalism, anyway?"

"Not diddly shit."

She narrowed her eyes and said, "Are you making fun of me, Walter?"

"Nope. Just sort of saying that I have this same conversation every time I have to let somebody go. It's sad-the consultants don't know anything about journalism but they get to dictate to us how we should put our shows together."

"I won't do it. The On the Town thing."

"I know."

"I really appreciate what you were trying to do for me, but I won't do it."

"I don't blame you."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

"Just because I'm two months behind in my rent and because Gil pawned my colour TV set…" Gil was her ex-boyfriend, a would-be actor.

"He did?"

"Yeah. He needed a new suit for an audition."

"Tell him you want your money or your set right now."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"He's moved in with some new girl named Ricky."

He smiled with magnificent malice. "Gil looks like the kind of guy who'd end up with a Ricky."

She slumped in her chair again.

He said, "You all right, Holland?"

She said, "Any cut in pay?"

"In the On the Town thing?"

"Yeah."

"Huh-uh."

She sighed. "God, I'll have to take it, won't I?"

"If your finances are in their usual state of disrepair, yeah."

She sighed even more this time. " 'And on Friday evening, ladies, don't forget our city's first all nude bake-off.' "

He laughed and added his own lewd comment.

"I'm too goddamned old, Walter? I can't believe that. Aren't I attractive anymore?"

He smiled and reached across the desk. She put her hand in his. "You're a damn good looking woman, Holland, and you know it. But these consultants-" He shook his head.

She thought back to her audition reel. She automatically updated it every six months, which is what she'd been doing earlier. Now there was a good reason to box up several dubs and send them out. She'd just been demoted and was lucky she hadn't been outright fired.

"Too old?" she said again, her ego and her self-esteem both reeling at once.

He grinned, looking as he always did when he grinned, like a sarcastic little kid. "Haggard, Holland. Absolutely haggard."

When Chris got back to her cubicle in the newsroom, one of the Channel 3 sales reps was standing there putting the moves on one of the young studio production women. Like most TV reps, his high opinion of himself oozed from every pore in his body. Also like most TV reps, he was chunky, not very bright, and assertive enough to make most people cringe. O'Sullivan hated TV reps. They were always coming to him and seeing if he couldn't somehow plug one of their clients on the news show somehow; or if one of their clients was involved in some bad publicity, if O'Sullivan couldn't go easy on the guy. All this was particularly galling to news directors because station general managers were invariably chosen from the ranks of reps-meaning the same stupidity, the same used car dealer ethics that kept them in money as reps had now got them ensconced in the general manager's chair.

The TV industry was jam packed with former reps who'd taken over the management reins. This said a lot about why the level of programming was so low. (O'Sullivan's favourite joke was, "Know what the three lowest forms of life are? Wife beaters, child abusers, and TV reps." He never tired of telling this particular gag.)

Chris went to her desk and tried to read the morning paper. Thanks to her tears, she almost smeared the type. Also thanks to her tears, her lower lip was trembling. She sat scrunched up tight to her desk so nobody could see her face. When somebody would walk by and say good morning, she'd mutter something that sounded like "Mmwffffr" and hoped they wouldn't ask her to translate it.

She sat this way for fifteen minutes. Or mostly she did. Every other minute or so she'd have this little flurry of optimism and then she'd sit up straight, shoulders thrown back, and make a fist and say (to herself) Fuck TV news consultants; they're little no dick no brain wimps anyway. (She'd recently read one of those books that told you how to Take Charge of Your Life , and this was one of the 'Seven Dramatic Lessons' the back cover copy had promised-Lesson Three to be exact, 'Getting Pissed and Getting Even.')

And then the phone rang.

Her first inclination was not to pick up.

She'd just sound sniffly anyway.

So she let it ring.

Six, seven, eight times.

"Jesus Christ, Holland, are you fucking deaf or what?" somebody shouted over her cubicle.

Those were the dulcet tones of Mike Ramsey, Ace Reporter. He sat in the cubicle next to Chris's. He was living proof that men indeed had periods. Chris estimated that Ramsey was on the rag approximately twenty-nine days per month.

So she picked up.

"Chris Holland. Channel 3 News."

There was a slight pause, then an intelligent-sounding female voice said, "I guess I don't know how to start exactly."

"Start?"

"With my story."

"I see."

"So is it all right?"

"Ma'am?"

"If I just start in, I mean."

"Sure."

"It's about a murder."

And right then and right there, Chris forgot about all the morning's misery.

"A murder?" She was drooling.

"Several murders actually."

"Several murders?"

My God-several murders!

"But the man they accused-he wasn't really responsible."

"He wasn't?"

There was a pause again. "I'd really like to see you in person."

"In person?"

"I couldn't make it till this evening. And even then I'm not absolutely sure about that."

"Ma'am?" Chris said.

"Yes."

"Is this all on the level?"

"Why, of course."

"You know something about the man they accused of these murders?"

"Yes," the woman said.

"Would you tell me who this man was?"

"Of course. He was my brother."

"I see."

"Do you know where the Starlight Room is?"