SPORTS NIGHT – INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES
[DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fiction of based on the television series "SportsNight" created by Aaron Sorkin and produced by Imagine Entertainment and Touchstone Television.]
Chapter Four
If You Want to Make a Chicken, You Have to Lay a Few Eggs
Greg DiPaolo watched Isaac spike his salad fork into a cucumber slice, and lift it to his waiting mouth, which took it in, and then the mechanics of the jaw went to work. He was so deliberate with it, Greg mused, he seemed almost angry at the defenseless pre-pickle. That's when he was sure that something wasn't right in the world. Well, that's what clinched it, anyway.
He decided to find out. "So. What are we doing here, Isaac?" he asked.
Isaac paused in mid-chew, and their aging eyes met. "I thought we'd be able to chat over dinner. You know, old friends and comrades, swapping battle stories and such. Like we've promised to do a hundred times the last few years." He went back to his salad.
Greg chuckled. "That's it?"
"Yes." Isaac didn't look up this time.
Greg shook his head. "Then invite me up to the house. I'm sure we'd have a much better time there. I haven't seen your wife in a few lifetimes. And I bet you haven't either. Plus, if you let me bring Betsy up with me, you might finally break even with her in that gin game you two had running."
Isaac smiled. "I'm down eight hundred dollars."
"Eight hundred and eleven dollars. She faxed me an IOU for you to sign." Greg patted his breast pocket.
"You married a card sharp."
Greg shrugged. "I owed her money."
Isaac nodded. "And you loved her."
"Nothing's changed on either front." Greg looked around, and asked, "So, why are we here?"
Isaac pushed his salad away. "What's with the questions?"
"We've been friends for thirty-seven years."
"Thirty-six. And a half."
"And I like Jerry's, and I thank you for calling me out of the blue to have a decent meal with you, but Isaac," he said, deepening his voice for emphasis, "we're having dinner at Jerry's."
Isaac sat back, silent, so Greg continued. "Whenever you or I needed to have one of our patented 'serious conversations', we came here. This is where we talk. Last time we sat in one of these booths, you were having another blow-out with Luther Sachs. You were fantasizing about beating him over the head with his own focus group research, and then taking that offer from NBC."
"God, that was a long time ago," Isaac sighed.
"Lifetimes, Isaac. Lifetimes. And considering the fact that you're paying for dinner with a CSC credit card – "
"Meant to use my own, forgot it at home."
"- that tells me you decided that staying was worth it. So, Isaac, could we skip the cover story and get down to business?"
Chris drummed his fingertips on the blank desktop blotter. The television monitor was alive, but silent, projecting highlights of spring training baseball games into his field of vision. But he wasn't really noticing the action. He was still thinking about Dan's furious gaze before vanishing behind the set. Like he was a thief.
No, Chris decided. That look was special. One Chris had seen in the eyes of others, but never directed at him. It was a look of hate, all poison and fire and death. Chris briefly wondered if he'd see that expression again tonight, then felt a twinge of shame. Dan Rydell was a professional on the air. Always. It's what made him one of the best anchors in the business.
And besides, Chris wasn't going to be anywhere near Dan's eyeline during tonight's show.
"Thirty seconds to air," the director said over the PA.
Dan dropped into his chair as the announcement ended. "You hear what that – that A-hole – said?"
Casey frowned a bit, pretending to check his notes. "Which A- hole?"
"If you're trying to be funny. . . "
". . . I oughta try harder," Casey said. "Yes. I heard what Murphy said."
Dan was trying very hard to not spit fire all over the desk. "A fan. A fan of the show. Can you believe that? Well, that just makes you the perfect choice, doesn't it, you little – I don't believe he had the balls to say it. I knew he'd say something like that, but to just flat out say he's a fan. . . "
"He couldn't actually be one?"
"Chris Murphy? No. Never in a million years."
Casey fixed his eyes on his friend's. "Dan. I don't want to talk about this."
"About Chris Murphy, you mean."
"About how you loathe him. I've gotten rather tired – in one day, no less – of hearing you bitch and moan about someone who did you wrong at one time in your life."
Dan bit the inside of lip. "It was more than that."
"Ten seconds, guys," the PA announced.
"Who gives a damn?" Casey fairly shouted. Seeing the faces of the crew turning in his direction, he leaned close to his partner, and dropped his voice. "Except you, of course. He's in charge, for however long he's in charge, so get over it and get back to your job, before you lose it. And if you're going to seethe over whatever this crap is about, and not just tell me about it, you might at least have to courtesy to do it somewhere that I'm not." Then Casey shook off his darkened expression, and looked towards Camera Two.
Dan swallowed hard, and took a breath. He wanted to say something, but then the floor director started her countdown to air, and it was too late.
". . .three, two. . ."
Isaac finished laying it out for DiPaolo, and tried to gauge the other man's reaction. Stratosphere's 'fall-in-line' policy earned an empathetic nod. Of course Greg understood micro-managers; they'd shared more than one at one time or another. Bob Epperson's firing scored a wry half-smile; Greg and Bob had been personally acquainted for nearly fifteen years. And naturally, The Replacement Whose Name He Could Not Speak drew a sad shake of the head.
And then Greg suddenly smiled. It was broad, almost delighted. "So I guess the rumors are true."
Isaac's mouth was suddenly dry. "Rumors?"
Greg laughed like he had no choice. "Chris Murphy got his wish, huh?"
Isaac drank from his water glass to keep from choking. "Stop smiling and tell me about these rumors that I've never heard a whisper of," he said between deep swigs.
Dana watched her friends' faces morph from rough and angry to smooth and happy inside a five-second countdown. One of the tools of the good anchor was the ability to put away personal problems in a matter of seconds, and it was an impressive skill. She wished they didn't have to do a show now, though. Every cutaway to a live shot, every commercial break, every taped piece that took them off-camera was going to be potentially disastrous.
She had wanted to jump between them during their huddle, or put them in opposite corners, or hell, send them to their rooms without supper. Anything that would keep them from having to swallow all their anger and frustration with each other, making themselves sick with it.
Hey, if anybody had a right to be sick, it was her. After all, they didn't have to go to the boss's office after this and probably justify every decision that she made tonight, or the night before, or the night before –
"Dana? You okay?" Jeremy asked her.
"No. Someone take over, please," Dana said, her voice raspy, and she leaped from her perch and headed for the door.
"That's the greenest face I've ever seen," Kim said after she was gone.
"Just wait until the show's over," Elliot replied. "Those two in there, they're going to be in the running."
"Good evening from New York City, I'm Casey McCall, he's Dan Rydell, and welcome into this special early edition of Sports Night Prime Time," Casey said. "At the top of the next hour, it's indoor football from the fraudulent tundra of Des Moines, and we'll have a preview of that contest shortly. And later tonight we'll find out about some corners and Cardinals." He turned his eyes to his partner, whose expression couldn't have been more blank.
But Dan took the hand-off, smooth as always. "The Arizona variety may have painted themselves into a contractual corner over a star corner, while the St. Louis breed may have found a replacement for Rey Bebe in their hot corner, because as Patrick Swayze once proclaimed in Casey's favorite movie ever, 'no one puts Bebe in a corner.' But we begin tonight doing what we love the most – talking about ourselves."
Casey felt the words coming out of his mouth before he knew he was speaking. "Continental Sports Channel, which, if you didn't notice, is what you're tuned to right now, has been sold by the representatives of the former owner Quo Vadimus - pending federal regulatory approval - to the Stratosphere Corporation of Denver, Colorado for an undisclosed sum of cash and stock."
Dan noticed the company logos appearing over Casey's shoulder on the monitor. Subtle, he thought. Why don't they just bring out a cattle brand and start burning it into our foreheads?
"Started in 1959 as a pair of network affiliates in Colorado, it has grown into one of the nation's leading broadcast, cable, and satellite companies, owning and operating a dozen broadcast television stations in the United States, as well as over sixty radio stations, ten cable and satellite channels, and its own cable television company," Casey said, finding himself taken aback just a bit. He hadn't realized how big the new boss really was. And for some reason, Casey wasn't scared. In fact, he began to feel a strange comfort. Perhaps it came from the sense that for the first time in a long time, the owner actually understood the business.
That comfort creeped into Casey's voice. "Stratosphere's purchase is still pending FCC and SEC approval, which is likely to be determined within the next six to eight weeks. An official announcement will be held in Denver at Stratosphere's offices tomorrow afternoon at two p.m. Eastern time. CSC will carry that announcement live."
Casey paused, and looked over at Dan. As their eyes met, Casey saw something sad in Dan's expression, unexpressed but plain as day. Then it was gone again as Dan took the hand-off once more, and with a cheery voice, said, "But since we've got a few hours to kill until then, let's turn our attention to the Orioles of Baltimore, and to their revolving-door bullpen."
Chris recognized Dan's expression. It had been meant just for Casey, but Chris saw it, too. He'd seen it before from that same man. And it always preceded trouble.
Chris shook his head to free himself from his own memory. Other than that crack, the announcement had been handled, and just fine. Chris hadn't even digested Casey's delivery when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, as if he had to. "So, Brian," he said into the phone, "I heard the strangest thing on the tee-vee just now."
Greg had been trying to force the corners of his mouth down. He didn't want to seem like he was reveling in Isaac's obvious discomfort. "A year ago Murphy was out in California somewhere, doing management-via- consultation work at one of Stratosphere's cable channels. All the while he's watching CSC's decline, and telling anyone who would listen that he wanted to be running CSC. He was shouting from the highest hills that he knew what needed to be done to make the channel fly, and that he'd be willing to do just about anything his employer wanted, as long as he got his shot."
Isaac's throat was still dry and tight. After more water, he asked, "Why wasn't this public knowledge? Or at least, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Greg shook his head. "Stratosphere's bid was low-ball, so nobody thought they were a serious contender. And I guess that Murphy didn't believe that he had a shot at it with them anyway. He was interviewing for jobs at companies that were against Stratosphere's play, with only the barest slip of a promise from anybody that he'd get his shot."
Isaac's eyes were blazing. "And I was kept out of the loop because – "
"There was no loop," Greg groaned. "Murphy would have been at or near the bottom of any list for that job."
"So how'd he end up at the top of Stratosphere's?"
"I don't know that."
"You know everything else," Isaac spat.
Greg shifted in his seat. Something was very wrong. "I know what I heard and it was a lot, but not everything."
"That's what I want." Isaac took another drink.
"Exactly what do you want? How he got his job, who he might have stepped on, who owes him and who he owes?"
"And not one word less."
"How am I going to pull that off? It's a miracle I know what I know."
"You're the best investigator I've ever known. I have faith you've got another miracle in you." Isaac's smile wasn't really a smile.
Greg leaned forward. "Why do you want this, Isaac?" he asked in a virtual whisper. "What good could possibly come of it?"
Isaac's eyes shone with tears, but his jaw was granite. "Chris Murphy is a cancer. We both know it. He causes nothing but misery. I watched him risk other people's lives and careers at various points. He keeps getting free passes and second chances, like this one and the one before that and the one before that. This isn't CNN or ITN or the Washington Post, places where I had only an employee's interest. I helped build CSC. It's my life. I can not and will not allow him to walk into my professional home, take control in a bloodless coup, and set about destroying people I love. He will not get past me again." Isaac was trembling as he sat silent for a moment.
Greg nodded deliberately. "It'll take me some time."
"Then get started," Isaac said. Then he softened his tone. "If you would."
Dana had made the trip. She had coaxed herself out of her chair just as Casey was wrapping the show. She had dragged her unwilling spirit to the sliding doors of the elevator. And she even pushed the button - the one that pointed up, too, not the one that she would have preferred, which led to the lobby and the revolving door and eventually away from here.
Dan had bolted from the set without a word, so he was obviously going to be in a great mood for the late show.
Casey was going out with Sheri tonight. Ick.
And to top it all, she had to take an audience with Chris Murphy, and probably have to watch him sweat to understand her book, and question her choices, and give her nothing but notes that were all sound and fury.
Oh, yes, she thought, the late show was going to be nothing but fun tonight.
Casey found the office dark. Dan had been there, but only long enough to shut off his computer, and probably mutter a few choice curse words. Casey flipped the light switch and the bulbs hummed to life over his head.
Dan's grudges were getting to be as famous as Isaac's, he thought. Casey flopped down onto the couch. It was confusing. He and Dan had been through so much together, good and bad, that he believed Dan would be at least somewhat forthcoming with his reasons for hating Murphy. Casey did know that it was hate. That was all-too obvious. But why?
Casey's cell-phone buzzed. "This is Casey," he said as he picked up.
"And this is Sheri," the soft voice on the other end replied.
"Oh, hi," he said, his mind still on Dan.
"That's all I get?" she asked.
"Sorry, I'm kind of worn out."
"I'm just teasing," she said.
He could almost see that cute little false pout of hers. "I know."
"Are we still having dinner? Because if you don't want to – "
"No. I mean, yes, we're still having dinner. Why don't you swing by here, and I'll meet you in the lobby."
"Sure. See you in, like, thirty minutes?"
"Can't wait," he said. Then he ended the call and wondered where Dan had gone.
Dana seemed so nervous to Chris. Unhappy. From the moment she walked in and sat down, there was nothing but discomfort. She was trying to smile, but her lips wouldn't quite let it stay. Chris wasn't wondering why her cheeks were a bit on the green side – he seemed to be having a similar effect on everyone today – but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. After all, this wasn't his office yet, and if she puked, well, that was something the cleaning crew would hold a grudge about.
She looked like she needed a drink. Then he felt his belly quiver. Her nerves were feeding his. He only hoped she couldn't notice it. He glanced through Dana's show book, absorbing her clipped note-taking, trying to will away the twinges racing through his body. He could do it most of the time, but ever since he walked in the building he felt like he was starving.
Chris hated that sensation.
And he hated knowing that if he couldn't will it away, and soon, he would eventually satisfy it.
Stay focused on business, he thought. On the book. Get through the now.
Dana was on the elevator. Salmon blouse, open just a bit. Black skirt. Pumps.
Casey was on the elevator, too. Blue jeans. Long-sleeve t-shirt. Sneakers.
Outside, a woman talking. "Casey," she was saying. "We're having dinner at Giorgienne. You have to wear a tuxedo."
Dana turned to Casey. Sort of. "A tuxedo? You never have to wear a tuxedo with Dana."
The doors opened. Sheri stands in the lobby, surrounded by a milling sea of blank faces. White coat. Flats. Drilling an oversize molar. "Go back to your office and change into your tuxedo."
"But I'm with Dana," Casey said. Sort of.
Sheri pouts as she drills. "You're with me."
Casey reaches out, and the doors close. Dana's blouse is open a little more.
"You're with me," she said.
They reach for each other. "Casey?" she whispers as their lips are about to touch. "I thought you were already gone."
Casey snapped awake, and looked up at Natalie, who was standing in the doorway. "Nat. Hi. Uh, what time is it?"
"Seven-fifteen. I thought you had a date," she said.
"Yeah. I - I gotta get going," Casey said, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes. "Is Dan around?"
"No. One of the interns said he left the building right after the show. Got in a cab and took off." Natalie frowned. "I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."
"Makes two of us," Casey said.
Dana watch Chris finish flipping pages, and then give her a smile. "I like your show. You do it well, and I don't have any complaints."
Dana furrowed her brow. "Hm?"
"Sports Night took a hell of bouncing on the schedule – getting shifted and shuffled and shafted like it did – and losing eyeballs due to factors that were out of your control, well, that's about as close to Greek tragedy as you can get. I like the prime-time strategy. Takes a lot of guts to face off against the big boys, and it's showing results. You're gaining a toehold, and in limited markets, too. The second live Sports Night getting added a few months ago in its old late-night time slot, another good move. West Coast Update being solid, that's just icing for you."
"Thank you. I don't do Update, but thank you." She could feel her stomach quarreling with itself. He was being too complimentary.
"Well, you're welcome. We're going to continue to move forward. So I need you to be forward-thinking."
"I can do that," she said.
"Good. Because being forward-thinking can be hard if you care about the people around you. And I know you're close to a lot of people at CSC."
"I don't follow," Dana said, even though she knew where he was going. She just wanted him to say the words.
Murphy breathed out like the air was stale. "They put the budget in front of me, when I knew I was getting the job. This is six, seven weeks ago. And I studied it everyday. Read it from cover to cover, highlighted it in five colors, ran the numbers myself, ran the numbers with Stratosphere's accountants, ran the numbers with an independent firm that I'll be cutting personal checks to until I die. And that number-crunching resulted in my having to accept a cold, hard fact: I have to find money in the budget that isn't there. Stratosphere will cover red ink for a while, sometimes a great while, but ultimately, they will do what I won't. If I want to save CSC, really save it, I have to make cuts. Right now. And labor is my number one controllable cost."
It still felt like she'd been slapped. Maybe a bit worse, because she had seen it coming. "Firings?" she asked weakly. "How many?"
"I don't know."
"You have to know," she said, looking at the bare wall. "You've studied the budget, highlighted, spent your own – "
"Ten percent, nationwide."
That was quick, Dana thought. "Fifty-seven people."
"Give or take."
"You said there wouldn't be changes. Fifty-seven people would tend to disagree with you."
"Your show will not change. The format is solid, the technical work is top-drawer - "
"Letting fifty-seven people go might change that."
"You're not wrong." Murphy sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "The worst of it is, some of the people that are going to be let go are going to be people you'd think of as friends. The next few weeks, months even, are going to be – well, it could get downright messy. People will stay, people will go. What you need to understand – and this is extremely important – you don't know anything." Each word dropped like a brick.
Dana's head began to throb. "I know it's just business, and that it has to be done, but giving good employees their walking papers, I don't know if I can do that."
"You're not going to be swinging the axe; I am. And since I've been handed the black hat, you need to wear the white one. You have to be a voice of reason." "The one who makes it a soft landing."
"The softer, the better."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it, I don't take matters like these lightly. I don't want a thousand memos flying around, or secret meetings of staffers late at night, or hushed conversations in the break room. That sort of nonsense drags morale into the mud. We need to rise and keep moving. Doing what I have to do, and telling myself that over and over, that's how I'll deal with feeling like a bad guy."
"And my job is to know nothing."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not."
Chris sighed. "I've been where you are right now. I'm still there. I tend to lean on the advice I got from my grandfather the day I was fired from my first broadcast job. 'If you want to make a chicken,' he said, 'you gotta lay a few eggs.' Maybe he was just giving me tips on animal husbandry, but I like to think he meant that if you want to get anything good in life, you gotta get through the tough parts. And this, it's about as tough as anything I've ever had to do."
Dana considered him for a moment. "So what do you need from me?"
Casey came out of his office, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He didn't really want to wear this particular ensemble, but that was all he had in the desk. His cell phone buzzed, and the number was Sheri's, so she must've made it to the lobby, he decided.
When the elevator doors slid open, Casey saw that Dana was standing there, clutching her show book, looking a little lost, a little lonely, and a lot exquisite. Not in a salmon blouse, of course, but still....
"Hi, Casey," she said with a sad smile.
"Hi," he said gently. "How'd the meeting go?"
"Fine. We're doing fine. I don't know anything." Dana's voice trailed off.
Casey cocked an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," Dana replied. "I'm just worn out from today. Going to dinner with Sheri now?"
"Yeah," Casey said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he was trying to hide them. "She's in the lobby."
Dana tried to smile. "That's nice." And then, she added, "I hate her, you know."
Casey smiled broadly. "Yeah, I know. Me, too."
Dana was stunned. "What?"
"She's so annoying. Not like you," he said, his hands caressing her arms. "She's not half as smart as you. Or a tenth as beautiful," he added, putting his strong left arm around her waist and pulling her close, while smoothing her cheek with his other hand.
She felt her heart pounding against her ribs. "Casey, I can't believe you're saying - "
"Then make me stop talking, Dana. Make me stop," he whispered as he leaned close to her, then kissed her like he used to.
The elevator dinged, and Dana realized that Casey was still across the way. Now he was giving her a strange look. "You okay?" he asked. "You kind of went away for a minute there."
"Really," she said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I must not be sleeping well."
"Okay," Casey said. The doors opened and they saw Sheri, who waved. "There's my dinner date," he said.
"She certainly is," Dana said, trying not to shudder. "See you later tonight."
Casey shouted over to Sheri, "I'll be right there." Then he turned back to Dana. "Dan's in a bad place, I think. Murphy's driving him nuts, and he won't tell me why."
"Dan's famous for his wounds. And a lot of times, they're self-inflicted."
"I know, Dana. But this one, it's not like the others. I'm worried."
Dana nodded. "So am I."
Chris was at his desk when there was a knock at the door. He looked up and saw the pretty Asian-American producer he'd noticed earlier in the afternoon. He'd only seen her in passing, when he was chatting up the embarrassed Jeremy, but he took notice of her smile.
"Mr. Murphy?" she asked.
He shook his head in a parody of sadness. "You make me sound like a grown-up. Please, call me Chris."
She chuckled. "Okay. Chris," she said. "I'm Kim. Some of us on the crew were going across the street for a sandwich, and I was wondering if you'd want to join us. If you want to, of course."
Chris nodded with a smile, which she returned. He noticed that now he was hungry for things he could have. He pretended to look at his watch. "Sure. I've got time to eat." He rose from his chair and followed her out, closing the office door behind them.
Isaac was alone in the booth at Jerry's. DiPaolo had left some time before. He was watching the staff clearing tables. And even though he didn't want to go back to the office, he didn't want to go home either.
He felt trapped. Like he'd started something in motion that he could never stop. And even though he knew in his heart that having DiPaolo investigate Murphy's recent past would be the best thing for CSC, for some reason, a tiny spark of doubt was clinging to his brain, making him feel like a vengeful creep. That was a feeling he didn't want to have.
Especially when he knew that he was in the right.
Dan sat at the bar, whiskey still in the glass. He'd been staring at it for a while now, thinking about whether or not he wanted it. It was pushing seven-thirty. He had to be back at ten for the late show.
The late Sports Night. On the New and Improved CSC. With the bestest, least scumbag-like boss in the whole wide world, Chris Murphy. You can trust him. Trust him with your life. Like Alicia did, not that long ago.
Just the thought of her made him decide that he wanted the whiskey. And when the first shot didn't erase her face, he decided that he needed more.
[DISCLAIMER: The following is an original work of fiction of based on the television series "SportsNight" created by Aaron Sorkin and produced by Imagine Entertainment and Touchstone Television.]
Chapter Four
If You Want to Make a Chicken, You Have to Lay a Few Eggs
Greg DiPaolo watched Isaac spike his salad fork into a cucumber slice, and lift it to his waiting mouth, which took it in, and then the mechanics of the jaw went to work. He was so deliberate with it, Greg mused, he seemed almost angry at the defenseless pre-pickle. That's when he was sure that something wasn't right in the world. Well, that's what clinched it, anyway.
He decided to find out. "So. What are we doing here, Isaac?" he asked.
Isaac paused in mid-chew, and their aging eyes met. "I thought we'd be able to chat over dinner. You know, old friends and comrades, swapping battle stories and such. Like we've promised to do a hundred times the last few years." He went back to his salad.
Greg chuckled. "That's it?"
"Yes." Isaac didn't look up this time.
Greg shook his head. "Then invite me up to the house. I'm sure we'd have a much better time there. I haven't seen your wife in a few lifetimes. And I bet you haven't either. Plus, if you let me bring Betsy up with me, you might finally break even with her in that gin game you two had running."
Isaac smiled. "I'm down eight hundred dollars."
"Eight hundred and eleven dollars. She faxed me an IOU for you to sign." Greg patted his breast pocket.
"You married a card sharp."
Greg shrugged. "I owed her money."
Isaac nodded. "And you loved her."
"Nothing's changed on either front." Greg looked around, and asked, "So, why are we here?"
Isaac pushed his salad away. "What's with the questions?"
"We've been friends for thirty-seven years."
"Thirty-six. And a half."
"And I like Jerry's, and I thank you for calling me out of the blue to have a decent meal with you, but Isaac," he said, deepening his voice for emphasis, "we're having dinner at Jerry's."
Isaac sat back, silent, so Greg continued. "Whenever you or I needed to have one of our patented 'serious conversations', we came here. This is where we talk. Last time we sat in one of these booths, you were having another blow-out with Luther Sachs. You were fantasizing about beating him over the head with his own focus group research, and then taking that offer from NBC."
"God, that was a long time ago," Isaac sighed.
"Lifetimes, Isaac. Lifetimes. And considering the fact that you're paying for dinner with a CSC credit card – "
"Meant to use my own, forgot it at home."
"- that tells me you decided that staying was worth it. So, Isaac, could we skip the cover story and get down to business?"
Chris drummed his fingertips on the blank desktop blotter. The television monitor was alive, but silent, projecting highlights of spring training baseball games into his field of vision. But he wasn't really noticing the action. He was still thinking about Dan's furious gaze before vanishing behind the set. Like he was a thief.
No, Chris decided. That look was special. One Chris had seen in the eyes of others, but never directed at him. It was a look of hate, all poison and fire and death. Chris briefly wondered if he'd see that expression again tonight, then felt a twinge of shame. Dan Rydell was a professional on the air. Always. It's what made him one of the best anchors in the business.
And besides, Chris wasn't going to be anywhere near Dan's eyeline during tonight's show.
"Thirty seconds to air," the director said over the PA.
Dan dropped into his chair as the announcement ended. "You hear what that – that A-hole – said?"
Casey frowned a bit, pretending to check his notes. "Which A- hole?"
"If you're trying to be funny. . . "
". . . I oughta try harder," Casey said. "Yes. I heard what Murphy said."
Dan was trying very hard to not spit fire all over the desk. "A fan. A fan of the show. Can you believe that? Well, that just makes you the perfect choice, doesn't it, you little – I don't believe he had the balls to say it. I knew he'd say something like that, but to just flat out say he's a fan. . . "
"He couldn't actually be one?"
"Chris Murphy? No. Never in a million years."
Casey fixed his eyes on his friend's. "Dan. I don't want to talk about this."
"About Chris Murphy, you mean."
"About how you loathe him. I've gotten rather tired – in one day, no less – of hearing you bitch and moan about someone who did you wrong at one time in your life."
Dan bit the inside of lip. "It was more than that."
"Ten seconds, guys," the PA announced.
"Who gives a damn?" Casey fairly shouted. Seeing the faces of the crew turning in his direction, he leaned close to his partner, and dropped his voice. "Except you, of course. He's in charge, for however long he's in charge, so get over it and get back to your job, before you lose it. And if you're going to seethe over whatever this crap is about, and not just tell me about it, you might at least have to courtesy to do it somewhere that I'm not." Then Casey shook off his darkened expression, and looked towards Camera Two.
Dan swallowed hard, and took a breath. He wanted to say something, but then the floor director started her countdown to air, and it was too late.
". . .three, two. . ."
Isaac finished laying it out for DiPaolo, and tried to gauge the other man's reaction. Stratosphere's 'fall-in-line' policy earned an empathetic nod. Of course Greg understood micro-managers; they'd shared more than one at one time or another. Bob Epperson's firing scored a wry half-smile; Greg and Bob had been personally acquainted for nearly fifteen years. And naturally, The Replacement Whose Name He Could Not Speak drew a sad shake of the head.
And then Greg suddenly smiled. It was broad, almost delighted. "So I guess the rumors are true."
Isaac's mouth was suddenly dry. "Rumors?"
Greg laughed like he had no choice. "Chris Murphy got his wish, huh?"
Isaac drank from his water glass to keep from choking. "Stop smiling and tell me about these rumors that I've never heard a whisper of," he said between deep swigs.
Dana watched her friends' faces morph from rough and angry to smooth and happy inside a five-second countdown. One of the tools of the good anchor was the ability to put away personal problems in a matter of seconds, and it was an impressive skill. She wished they didn't have to do a show now, though. Every cutaway to a live shot, every commercial break, every taped piece that took them off-camera was going to be potentially disastrous.
She had wanted to jump between them during their huddle, or put them in opposite corners, or hell, send them to their rooms without supper. Anything that would keep them from having to swallow all their anger and frustration with each other, making themselves sick with it.
Hey, if anybody had a right to be sick, it was her. After all, they didn't have to go to the boss's office after this and probably justify every decision that she made tonight, or the night before, or the night before –
"Dana? You okay?" Jeremy asked her.
"No. Someone take over, please," Dana said, her voice raspy, and she leaped from her perch and headed for the door.
"That's the greenest face I've ever seen," Kim said after she was gone.
"Just wait until the show's over," Elliot replied. "Those two in there, they're going to be in the running."
"Good evening from New York City, I'm Casey McCall, he's Dan Rydell, and welcome into this special early edition of Sports Night Prime Time," Casey said. "At the top of the next hour, it's indoor football from the fraudulent tundra of Des Moines, and we'll have a preview of that contest shortly. And later tonight we'll find out about some corners and Cardinals." He turned his eyes to his partner, whose expression couldn't have been more blank.
But Dan took the hand-off, smooth as always. "The Arizona variety may have painted themselves into a contractual corner over a star corner, while the St. Louis breed may have found a replacement for Rey Bebe in their hot corner, because as Patrick Swayze once proclaimed in Casey's favorite movie ever, 'no one puts Bebe in a corner.' But we begin tonight doing what we love the most – talking about ourselves."
Casey felt the words coming out of his mouth before he knew he was speaking. "Continental Sports Channel, which, if you didn't notice, is what you're tuned to right now, has been sold by the representatives of the former owner Quo Vadimus - pending federal regulatory approval - to the Stratosphere Corporation of Denver, Colorado for an undisclosed sum of cash and stock."
Dan noticed the company logos appearing over Casey's shoulder on the monitor. Subtle, he thought. Why don't they just bring out a cattle brand and start burning it into our foreheads?
"Started in 1959 as a pair of network affiliates in Colorado, it has grown into one of the nation's leading broadcast, cable, and satellite companies, owning and operating a dozen broadcast television stations in the United States, as well as over sixty radio stations, ten cable and satellite channels, and its own cable television company," Casey said, finding himself taken aback just a bit. He hadn't realized how big the new boss really was. And for some reason, Casey wasn't scared. In fact, he began to feel a strange comfort. Perhaps it came from the sense that for the first time in a long time, the owner actually understood the business.
That comfort creeped into Casey's voice. "Stratosphere's purchase is still pending FCC and SEC approval, which is likely to be determined within the next six to eight weeks. An official announcement will be held in Denver at Stratosphere's offices tomorrow afternoon at two p.m. Eastern time. CSC will carry that announcement live."
Casey paused, and looked over at Dan. As their eyes met, Casey saw something sad in Dan's expression, unexpressed but plain as day. Then it was gone again as Dan took the hand-off once more, and with a cheery voice, said, "But since we've got a few hours to kill until then, let's turn our attention to the Orioles of Baltimore, and to their revolving-door bullpen."
Chris recognized Dan's expression. It had been meant just for Casey, but Chris saw it, too. He'd seen it before from that same man. And it always preceded trouble.
Chris shook his head to free himself from his own memory. Other than that crack, the announcement had been handled, and just fine. Chris hadn't even digested Casey's delivery when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, as if he had to. "So, Brian," he said into the phone, "I heard the strangest thing on the tee-vee just now."
Greg had been trying to force the corners of his mouth down. He didn't want to seem like he was reveling in Isaac's obvious discomfort. "A year ago Murphy was out in California somewhere, doing management-via- consultation work at one of Stratosphere's cable channels. All the while he's watching CSC's decline, and telling anyone who would listen that he wanted to be running CSC. He was shouting from the highest hills that he knew what needed to be done to make the channel fly, and that he'd be willing to do just about anything his employer wanted, as long as he got his shot."
Isaac's throat was still dry and tight. After more water, he asked, "Why wasn't this public knowledge? Or at least, why the hell didn't you tell me?"
Greg shook his head. "Stratosphere's bid was low-ball, so nobody thought they were a serious contender. And I guess that Murphy didn't believe that he had a shot at it with them anyway. He was interviewing for jobs at companies that were against Stratosphere's play, with only the barest slip of a promise from anybody that he'd get his shot."
Isaac's eyes were blazing. "And I was kept out of the loop because – "
"There was no loop," Greg groaned. "Murphy would have been at or near the bottom of any list for that job."
"So how'd he end up at the top of Stratosphere's?"
"I don't know that."
"You know everything else," Isaac spat.
Greg shifted in his seat. Something was very wrong. "I know what I heard and it was a lot, but not everything."
"That's what I want." Isaac took another drink.
"Exactly what do you want? How he got his job, who he might have stepped on, who owes him and who he owes?"
"And not one word less."
"How am I going to pull that off? It's a miracle I know what I know."
"You're the best investigator I've ever known. I have faith you've got another miracle in you." Isaac's smile wasn't really a smile.
Greg leaned forward. "Why do you want this, Isaac?" he asked in a virtual whisper. "What good could possibly come of it?"
Isaac's eyes shone with tears, but his jaw was granite. "Chris Murphy is a cancer. We both know it. He causes nothing but misery. I watched him risk other people's lives and careers at various points. He keeps getting free passes and second chances, like this one and the one before that and the one before that. This isn't CNN or ITN or the Washington Post, places where I had only an employee's interest. I helped build CSC. It's my life. I can not and will not allow him to walk into my professional home, take control in a bloodless coup, and set about destroying people I love. He will not get past me again." Isaac was trembling as he sat silent for a moment.
Greg nodded deliberately. "It'll take me some time."
"Then get started," Isaac said. Then he softened his tone. "If you would."
Dana had made the trip. She had coaxed herself out of her chair just as Casey was wrapping the show. She had dragged her unwilling spirit to the sliding doors of the elevator. And she even pushed the button - the one that pointed up, too, not the one that she would have preferred, which led to the lobby and the revolving door and eventually away from here.
Dan had bolted from the set without a word, so he was obviously going to be in a great mood for the late show.
Casey was going out with Sheri tonight. Ick.
And to top it all, she had to take an audience with Chris Murphy, and probably have to watch him sweat to understand her book, and question her choices, and give her nothing but notes that were all sound and fury.
Oh, yes, she thought, the late show was going to be nothing but fun tonight.
Casey found the office dark. Dan had been there, but only long enough to shut off his computer, and probably mutter a few choice curse words. Casey flipped the light switch and the bulbs hummed to life over his head.
Dan's grudges were getting to be as famous as Isaac's, he thought. Casey flopped down onto the couch. It was confusing. He and Dan had been through so much together, good and bad, that he believed Dan would be at least somewhat forthcoming with his reasons for hating Murphy. Casey did know that it was hate. That was all-too obvious. But why?
Casey's cell-phone buzzed. "This is Casey," he said as he picked up.
"And this is Sheri," the soft voice on the other end replied.
"Oh, hi," he said, his mind still on Dan.
"That's all I get?" she asked.
"Sorry, I'm kind of worn out."
"I'm just teasing," she said.
He could almost see that cute little false pout of hers. "I know."
"Are we still having dinner? Because if you don't want to – "
"No. I mean, yes, we're still having dinner. Why don't you swing by here, and I'll meet you in the lobby."
"Sure. See you in, like, thirty minutes?"
"Can't wait," he said. Then he ended the call and wondered where Dan had gone.
Dana seemed so nervous to Chris. Unhappy. From the moment she walked in and sat down, there was nothing but discomfort. She was trying to smile, but her lips wouldn't quite let it stay. Chris wasn't wondering why her cheeks were a bit on the green side – he seemed to be having a similar effect on everyone today – but that didn't mean he wasn't concerned. After all, this wasn't his office yet, and if she puked, well, that was something the cleaning crew would hold a grudge about.
She looked like she needed a drink. Then he felt his belly quiver. Her nerves were feeding his. He only hoped she couldn't notice it. He glanced through Dana's show book, absorbing her clipped note-taking, trying to will away the twinges racing through his body. He could do it most of the time, but ever since he walked in the building he felt like he was starving.
Chris hated that sensation.
And he hated knowing that if he couldn't will it away, and soon, he would eventually satisfy it.
Stay focused on business, he thought. On the book. Get through the now.
Dana was on the elevator. Salmon blouse, open just a bit. Black skirt. Pumps.
Casey was on the elevator, too. Blue jeans. Long-sleeve t-shirt. Sneakers.
Outside, a woman talking. "Casey," she was saying. "We're having dinner at Giorgienne. You have to wear a tuxedo."
Dana turned to Casey. Sort of. "A tuxedo? You never have to wear a tuxedo with Dana."
The doors opened. Sheri stands in the lobby, surrounded by a milling sea of blank faces. White coat. Flats. Drilling an oversize molar. "Go back to your office and change into your tuxedo."
"But I'm with Dana," Casey said. Sort of.
Sheri pouts as she drills. "You're with me."
Casey reaches out, and the doors close. Dana's blouse is open a little more.
"You're with me," she said.
They reach for each other. "Casey?" she whispers as their lips are about to touch. "I thought you were already gone."
Casey snapped awake, and looked up at Natalie, who was standing in the doorway. "Nat. Hi. Uh, what time is it?"
"Seven-fifteen. I thought you had a date," she said.
"Yeah. I - I gotta get going," Casey said, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes. "Is Dan around?"
"No. One of the interns said he left the building right after the show. Got in a cab and took off." Natalie frowned. "I hope he doesn't do anything stupid."
"Makes two of us," Casey said.
Dana watch Chris finish flipping pages, and then give her a smile. "I like your show. You do it well, and I don't have any complaints."
Dana furrowed her brow. "Hm?"
"Sports Night took a hell of bouncing on the schedule – getting shifted and shuffled and shafted like it did – and losing eyeballs due to factors that were out of your control, well, that's about as close to Greek tragedy as you can get. I like the prime-time strategy. Takes a lot of guts to face off against the big boys, and it's showing results. You're gaining a toehold, and in limited markets, too. The second live Sports Night getting added a few months ago in its old late-night time slot, another good move. West Coast Update being solid, that's just icing for you."
"Thank you. I don't do Update, but thank you." She could feel her stomach quarreling with itself. He was being too complimentary.
"Well, you're welcome. We're going to continue to move forward. So I need you to be forward-thinking."
"I can do that," she said.
"Good. Because being forward-thinking can be hard if you care about the people around you. And I know you're close to a lot of people at CSC."
"I don't follow," Dana said, even though she knew where he was going. She just wanted him to say the words.
Murphy breathed out like the air was stale. "They put the budget in front of me, when I knew I was getting the job. This is six, seven weeks ago. And I studied it everyday. Read it from cover to cover, highlighted it in five colors, ran the numbers myself, ran the numbers with Stratosphere's accountants, ran the numbers with an independent firm that I'll be cutting personal checks to until I die. And that number-crunching resulted in my having to accept a cold, hard fact: I have to find money in the budget that isn't there. Stratosphere will cover red ink for a while, sometimes a great while, but ultimately, they will do what I won't. If I want to save CSC, really save it, I have to make cuts. Right now. And labor is my number one controllable cost."
It still felt like she'd been slapped. Maybe a bit worse, because she had seen it coming. "Firings?" she asked weakly. "How many?"
"I don't know."
"You have to know," she said, looking at the bare wall. "You've studied the budget, highlighted, spent your own – "
"Ten percent, nationwide."
That was quick, Dana thought. "Fifty-seven people."
"Give or take."
"You said there wouldn't be changes. Fifty-seven people would tend to disagree with you."
"Your show will not change. The format is solid, the technical work is top-drawer - "
"Letting fifty-seven people go might change that."
"You're not wrong." Murphy sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "The worst of it is, some of the people that are going to be let go are going to be people you'd think of as friends. The next few weeks, months even, are going to be – well, it could get downright messy. People will stay, people will go. What you need to understand – and this is extremely important – you don't know anything." Each word dropped like a brick.
Dana's head began to throb. "I know it's just business, and that it has to be done, but giving good employees their walking papers, I don't know if I can do that."
"You're not going to be swinging the axe; I am. And since I've been handed the black hat, you need to wear the white one. You have to be a voice of reason." "The one who makes it a soft landing."
"The softer, the better."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"I've said it before, and I'll keep saying it, I don't take matters like these lightly. I don't want a thousand memos flying around, or secret meetings of staffers late at night, or hushed conversations in the break room. That sort of nonsense drags morale into the mud. We need to rise and keep moving. Doing what I have to do, and telling myself that over and over, that's how I'll deal with feeling like a bad guy."
"And my job is to know nothing."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not."
Chris sighed. "I've been where you are right now. I'm still there. I tend to lean on the advice I got from my grandfather the day I was fired from my first broadcast job. 'If you want to make a chicken,' he said, 'you gotta lay a few eggs.' Maybe he was just giving me tips on animal husbandry, but I like to think he meant that if you want to get anything good in life, you gotta get through the tough parts. And this, it's about as tough as anything I've ever had to do."
Dana considered him for a moment. "So what do you need from me?"
Casey came out of his office, changed into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. He didn't really want to wear this particular ensemble, but that was all he had in the desk. His cell phone buzzed, and the number was Sheri's, so she must've made it to the lobby, he decided.
When the elevator doors slid open, Casey saw that Dana was standing there, clutching her show book, looking a little lost, a little lonely, and a lot exquisite. Not in a salmon blouse, of course, but still....
"Hi, Casey," she said with a sad smile.
"Hi," he said gently. "How'd the meeting go?"
"Fine. We're doing fine. I don't know anything." Dana's voice trailed off.
Casey cocked an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing," Dana replied. "I'm just worn out from today. Going to dinner with Sheri now?"
"Yeah," Casey said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he was trying to hide them. "She's in the lobby."
Dana tried to smile. "That's nice." And then, she added, "I hate her, you know."
Casey smiled broadly. "Yeah, I know. Me, too."
Dana was stunned. "What?"
"She's so annoying. Not like you," he said, his hands caressing her arms. "She's not half as smart as you. Or a tenth as beautiful," he added, putting his strong left arm around her waist and pulling her close, while smoothing her cheek with his other hand.
She felt her heart pounding against her ribs. "Casey, I can't believe you're saying - "
"Then make me stop talking, Dana. Make me stop," he whispered as he leaned close to her, then kissed her like he used to.
The elevator dinged, and Dana realized that Casey was still across the way. Now he was giving her a strange look. "You okay?" he asked. "You kind of went away for a minute there."
"Really," she said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I must not be sleeping well."
"Okay," Casey said. The doors opened and they saw Sheri, who waved. "There's my dinner date," he said.
"She certainly is," Dana said, trying not to shudder. "See you later tonight."
Casey shouted over to Sheri, "I'll be right there." Then he turned back to Dana. "Dan's in a bad place, I think. Murphy's driving him nuts, and he won't tell me why."
"Dan's famous for his wounds. And a lot of times, they're self-inflicted."
"I know, Dana. But this one, it's not like the others. I'm worried."
Dana nodded. "So am I."
Chris was at his desk when there was a knock at the door. He looked up and saw the pretty Asian-American producer he'd noticed earlier in the afternoon. He'd only seen her in passing, when he was chatting up the embarrassed Jeremy, but he took notice of her smile.
"Mr. Murphy?" she asked.
He shook his head in a parody of sadness. "You make me sound like a grown-up. Please, call me Chris."
She chuckled. "Okay. Chris," she said. "I'm Kim. Some of us on the crew were going across the street for a sandwich, and I was wondering if you'd want to join us. If you want to, of course."
Chris nodded with a smile, which she returned. He noticed that now he was hungry for things he could have. He pretended to look at his watch. "Sure. I've got time to eat." He rose from his chair and followed her out, closing the office door behind them.
Isaac was alone in the booth at Jerry's. DiPaolo had left some time before. He was watching the staff clearing tables. And even though he didn't want to go back to the office, he didn't want to go home either.
He felt trapped. Like he'd started something in motion that he could never stop. And even though he knew in his heart that having DiPaolo investigate Murphy's recent past would be the best thing for CSC, for some reason, a tiny spark of doubt was clinging to his brain, making him feel like a vengeful creep. That was a feeling he didn't want to have.
Especially when he knew that he was in the right.
Dan sat at the bar, whiskey still in the glass. He'd been staring at it for a while now, thinking about whether or not he wanted it. It was pushing seven-thirty. He had to be back at ten for the late show.
The late Sports Night. On the New and Improved CSC. With the bestest, least scumbag-like boss in the whole wide world, Chris Murphy. You can trust him. Trust him with your life. Like Alicia did, not that long ago.
Just the thought of her made him decide that he wanted the whiskey. And when the first shot didn't erase her face, he decided that he needed more.