Barbara Dunlop - Too Close To Call

“Not particularly,” she admitted.

They were going to have to reshoot every clip.

“What if Detective Moonie is older, more worldly-wise, jaded…” Ashley searched her brain for possibilities. Their original idea was definitely not going to fly as comedic.

“If he’s older, we’ll lose the buff bod,” said Rachel. “Pecs sell. You know that.” She stood up and stretched her arms above her head, moving immediately into a graceful toe touch.

“So do tight butts,” Ashley pointed out. “Could we have an older, worldly-wise detective with a great butt?”

Rachel straightened, pulled down her cropped T-shirt and laughed. “I can see it all now, Detective Moonie, health club maniac, near retirement and just in from the mean streets of New York, decides to take a part-time gig as a lifeguard, faces danger, thrills and jokes while chasing bikini-clad women along Malibu Beach.”

“Okay, the butt would be tough to do on an old guy. What if we make him younger? But a geeky, unattractive man who’s fawned over by gorgeous women. Then we’re sure to nail the eighteen to thirty-five-year-old male demographic.”

“The basic premise behind all of your finer adult films.” Rachel crossed to the small kitchen. “Got any wine in here?”

“In the fridge door,” said Ashley. “Maybe we make him gay.”

“Oh, yeah, now that’ll nail a broad demographic.”

“I think women like gay men.”

“As friends, sure. But not as a buff butt fantasy on their television screens.” Rachel popped the cork on the wine bottle.

“Our demographic is men, anyway,” said Ashley. “Hey. What if Detective Moonie is an aging, hardboiled, uptight eastern kind of guy, and his new protégé is a gay, laid-back, California beach boy.”

Rachel stopped, midpour. Her eyes narrowed. “That could be funny.”

Ashley quirked an eyebrow. “Couldn’t it, though? Fish out of water? The women in the episodes would all be attracted to the gay guy, but end up lusting after the older guy with experience.”

“Think we could get Sean Connery for the older man?” asked Rachel.

“You and I are definitely on the same wavelength.” Ashley curled her legs under her on the couch, her synapses starting to hum.

“YJ17546, TRUE NORTH AIRLINES answering,” Wally said into the mike of the radio phone.

Jordan glanced through the office window as Wally hung a suit jacket on the coat hook in the reception area. The coat sure didn’t look like Wally’s style.

One of Jordan’s other pilots was also out in reception, busy explaining the afternoon flight delay to six Japanese tourists. Jordan had arranged a free night’s stay for them in a local hotel, and the interpreter was passing along the news.

Meanwhile, four cameras clicked away, the occasional flash reflecting off the posters on the walls.

“I don’t think you understand just how serious this situation has become,” came an all too familiar voice over the radio.

Jordan caught Wally’s gaze through the open window, then he shook his head and pretended to bang it three times against the office wall.

“Say again?” said Wally into the mike.

“I need, need to be in L.A. by the end of the day. Do you understand that?” Jeffrey’s voice rose. “There’s almost two feet of snow up here, you have all my credit cards and I have to get to L.A.”

“I’m afraid the snow has grounded all of our flights again today,” said Wally. “What credit cards?”

“In my coat. The pilot put me in some kind of giant parka but then left my coat behind. What kind of an outfit is this?”

“The parka’s a necessity in the Cessna. And, I can assure you, your credit cards are perfectly safe,” said Wally evenly, taking down the suit jacket and putting it in his lap.

Oh, boy. Jordan made a mental note to lock Jeffrey’s coat and credit cards up in his office. He also figured he’d better write a memo regarding passenger’s personal effects. Not that anyone had left their clothing behind before. Well, except for the bra in the Cessna that one time.

“And, I understand your frustration,” Wally continued smoothly. “I truly wish I had an easy solution.”

Jordan was going to make Wally employee of the month.

“And, I truly wish you understood the problem!” Jeffrey snapped back.

Wally held the mike toward Jordan, an invitation to take over clearly written on his face.

The tourists watched the exchange with interest, cameras poised in case something interesting happened.

Jordan signaled that Wally should keep talking. He was doing a terrific job.

Wally shrugged philosophically, then mouthed “watch this” to Jordan.

“So, why don’t you explain it to me?” Wally said to Jeffrey. He held up the brochure from the Department of Tourism, pointing to bullet point number five: Let the customer vent when necessary. Ensure you show empathy before giving him any negative message.

Jordan gave Wally a thumbs-up.

“I have an important meeting in L.A. at eleven o’clock Monday morning,” Jeffrey articulated in a staccato rhythm. “If I’m not at that meeting, I will lose my promotion, and most certainly lose the Alaska television series.”

“There’s going to be a television series in Alaska?” asked Wally, his voice betraying a sudden interest.

“Not if I stay stuck in Katimuk, there’s not.”

“What kind of a television series?”

The camera clicking stopped, and the Japanese tourists all bowed to the pilot before filing back out to the bus. A couple took final shots of Wally talking on the radio.

“It would have been called Sixty Below, a comedy about the lives and loves of the people in Arctic Luck,” said Jeffrey.

“Would. Note the word would,” he continued. “I never did get to Arctic Luck, strike one. I can’t take pictures of anything in the blizzard, strike two. And I can’t get to the pitch meeting tomorrow, strike three.”

“Can’t you pitch it by phone?” asked Wally as the door swung shut behind the interpreter. The pilot headed for the hangar.

“Pitch what?” asked Jeffrey. “I’ve never even seen the town. And, no, it’s not something you do by phone. I need pictures, drawings, storyboards.”

“Of Arctic Luck.”

“No. Of San Diego. Of course of Arctic Luck.”

Wally glanced at the wall of the office.

Jordan followed his gaze to the collage on the bulletin board. Sure enough, there were pictures of Arctic Luck, along with every other community in interior Alaska.

“If…uh…somebody else went to the meeting, with pictures and diagrams, could you tell them what to say?”

Wally was offering to go to L.A.? Was he crazy?

“Won’t work,” said Jeffrey.

“Why not?”

“They won’t take the pitch from anybody but me.”

Jordan strolled into the reception area and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to figure out what Wally was thinking. Sure, he could take a four-wheel drive into Anchorage. The jumbo jets were still taking off near the coast. But, what the heck did Wally think he could do in L.A.?

“What if it was you?” asked Wally.

Jordan waved his hands and shook his head frantically. Making promises you couldn’t keep was definitely against the Department of Tourism’s wallet-card advice.

“You’re sending a plane?” came Jeffrey’s hopeful voice.

“No. I’m sending Jordan.”

“Jordan?”

Jordan?

“My boss. The guy who looks just like you.”

“Jordan’s flying up here?”

Jordan’s not flying anywhere.

“Nope. We send Jordan to L.A.”

“What?” Jordan’s sharp exclamation matched Jeffrey’s.

“Holy cow,” said Wally. “Even your voices sound the same.”