Nic Tatano - Boss Girl

Jillian cocked her head to the side. "Syd, are you saying—"

"That's part of my new hiring manual," I said.

"What made you pair him with Caroline Jensen?" asked Neely.

"Do you want to watch women who are younger and prettier?" I asked.

"If you could find women who are younger and prettier than us, no," said Neely, sticking her nose in the air.

"And what do women our age want?" I asked.

Slowly, all three began to nod.

"So, this is our new playbook?" asked Jillian. "Find our own versions of Scott Harry and partner them with a competent middle-aged woman?"

"Exactly. Your guys don't ever have to report, just read. I don't care if you find them at a modeling agency. Hey, the men have been hiring that way for years. If I had a nickel for every beauty queen anchoring on local television I'd be rich. And there are plenty of talented women out there who have been put out to pasture by the old boys club."

"Do we get the same… benefits package… as you?" asked Neely, playfully batting her eyes. "I mean, do we get to check… references … during our job search?"

"Of course," I said. "You don't want your audience buying a product you haven't tried yourself, do you?"

* * *

Nine months later our network, Consolidated Broadcasting, had raised several eyebrows in the industry.

The four top affiliates of a network best known by its programming for the sophistication challenged (a politically correct television term for rednecks) were showing remarkable ratings growth in local news.

Jillian had turned the Windy City on its ear with her hire (after what she calls an exhaustive search) of twenty-eight-year-old J. T. Farrell, a sandy-haired, blue-eyed anchor from East Deliverance, Arkansas who had put himself through college as a male stripper. When pictures of Farrell wearing nothing but a collar and cuffs were leaked to a local tabloid (amazing how that happens, huh?), photos of his perfect six-foot physique (with a discreetly added black bar) were splashed under the headline Chicago Bare. Overnight ratings jumped twenty percent that day, while "Farrell nude" became the top Google search in the metro area.

Jillian paired Farrell with forty-one-year-old Jennifer Lorton, a spunky brunette with devilish green eyes framed by a few character lines. Lorton had been out of the business for three years but got with the program real quick, knocking out a three-part series titled "Sex in a Flash" that featured three local forty-something women and their trophy bucks while discussing the effects of hot flashes on the libido. As a reward, Jillian threw Lorton a bone (sorry, bad choice of words, but accurate) by delegating the reference checking duties of the current search for a weekend anchor.

I'd really thought Rica would have the hardest problem, Southern California being obsessed with youth and all. But the real Silicon Valley surprised me.

Since Angelinos are used to such hard-hitting journalistic fare as "Smiling Naturally White Using Botox" and "Regaining Your Balance After Large Implants", one would think they'd have little use for a female anchor who actually qualified for a ten-year high school reunion. But apparently Hollywood's aging actresses (those over twenty-nine who found roles hard to come by) saw the debut of Rica's new anchor team as a watershed moment. Rica found a Meg Ryan lookalike named Carolyn Baynard, who is in her mid-forties but remarkably well preserved. She's also the master of the double entendre ad-lib, which, when directed toward her co-anchor, sends a clear message to the viewer that the man sitting next to Carolyn is her catch of the day. (The other part of the subliminal message is, "Honey, this could be you.")

Carolyn's co-anchor arrived with a built-in promotional campaign. Rica bypassed the viewing of resume tapes and those pesky journalism requirements, Los Angeles being what it is, went directly to an advertising agency and tabbed well-known underwear pitchman Dirk Anderson. Southern Californians couldn't go a mile without seeing a billboard that featured his ripped abs being caressed by tighty-whiteys that left nothing to the imagination. Thirty-year-old Dirk had amazing chemistry with his co-anchor, and the two were an immediate hit. On one occasion Carolyn said, "Dirk Anderson is on assignment tonight," paused, raised one eyebrow, and had every woman in LA wondering if the guy was under the anchor desk.

His five-part series, "Boxers or Briefs" was simply a no-brainer. But teaching Carolyn how to shop for men's underwear using a tape measure and a balloon was a stroke of genius.

Rica, of course, said his references were perfect, and that he made the gum fall out of her mouth when she had an orgasm. (I'm still not too clear on Brooklyn sex metaphors, but she smiles when she says it.)

Neely took a page out of Rica's book, but reversed things a bit, since Texas is, after all, the beauty pageant capital of the world, as well as the setting for weird cheerleader crimes. For her female anchor she chose former NFL cheerleader Dawn Mullaney, a sultry brunette Texan in her early forties who had retained a body that still cried out for hot pants, boots and a halter top. So Neely got them for her, then sent her to try out for a cheerleading squad with women half her age. Her dance moves had every cowboy wondering if the hitching post outside the barn would be better served standing vertically in the bedroom.

Since Texans like things bigger, Neely reached down into a tiny market and came up with Iowa sportscaster Nick Hallinger, a twenty-nine-year-old former linebacker who had blown out his knee during his rookie year with the New York Giants. At six-foot-five and 240 pounds, Hallinger looked as though he could bench-press Toyotas, but his kind blue eyes and wavy dark hair led you to believe he'd save a stray kitten.

Then Neely took things a step further, deciding to ditch the traditional anchor desk and have both anchors stand during the entire newscast. Dawn barely came up to Nick's shoulder, and between his impressive stature and her killer legs, they looked like the top of a wedding cake. Dawn made it a habit to always sign off first at the end of the newscast, then turn and look up longingly at her co-anchor who told viewers, "Have a great night," before looking down and smiling at Dawn.

As always, a local tabloid managed to dig up pictures of Dawn on a cheerleader swimsuit calendar and Hallinger during a bare-chested weigh-in from a bowl game (there are those damned leaks again!). Under the headline Rah-Rah and Ga-Ga, the photo splash made the anchor team hotter in Dallas than jalapenos.

So at this point you're probably thinking, "Hey, Syd saved her job with great ratings and women over thirty all over the country are rethinking their sex lives." And you'd be right.

But given enough ointment, there's always a damned fly.

It's Scott Harry, the trophy buck who helped save our New York affiliate.

He's in love.

And you won't believe who the object of his affections is.

* * *

"He's in love? With you ?" asked Jillian.

I bit my lower lip and nodded slowly. The endless sound of slot machines provided audio wallpaper as I turned my attention back to the casino buffet breakfast. I shoveled a forkful of pancakes soaked with syrup into my mouth and savored the rush of the sugary sponge. The conversation stopped, I looked up, and saw three women who had stopped eating begging me for more details with their eyes.

"You can't just drop news like that and go back to your breakfast," said Neely.

"Details," said Rica. "Now."

I swallowed, took a sip of water, and looked around to make sure we were out of earshot. Sin City was crawling with television executives for the annual convention, and news like this sure wouldn't stay in Vegas. Two huge old women with fanny packs, who had bathed in Jean Naté , occupied the nearest table and were totally focused on their food, shoveling it in so fast that sparks were probably imminent from their knives and forks, so I figured we were safe.