Read Online Allison (A Kane Novel) by Steve Gannon - Free Book Online
Authors: Steve Gannon
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noticing my glance at the empty spot. “If your ratings are down, your picture’s gone the next day. And we call them ‘daytime dramas’ around here,” he cautioned with mock severity.
“I’ll remember that,” I laughed, beginning to relax.
Farther down the corridor the ambiance abruptly changed, the forest-green carpet replaced by industrial-grade linoleum, the acoustic ceiling tiles giving way to a maze of pipes, cables, and ductwork. A misplaced pair of promotional photos from another era—Red Skelton as “Freddie the Freeloader,” and Jack Benny posing with a chimp—were the final attempts at decoration. From there, a labyrinth of passageways branched deeper into the building, their industrial mien reminding me of the interior of a factory, or possibly a ship.
Several turns took us to The Price is Right backstage area, an aircraft-hanger-sized chamber jammed with couches, beds, kitchen appliances, cars, boats, Jet Skis, sports equipment, and an endless array of televisions, stereos, washing machines, refrigerators, and other household items. I whistled under my breath.
“And this is only one of the studios here,” Brent informed me. “Impressive, huh?”
“I’ll say. Is the newsroom like this?”
“I wish,” Brent answered. “We in the news give network a certain stature and prestige, but if the truth be known, we’re fairly low on the corporate pecking order. Actually, make that the bottom of the pecking order. The reality shows, daytime dramas, and game shows are the real money-makers around here, so they get the space. I enjoyed better working conditions at Channel 2.”
“But I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. Just don’t be too disappointed when we get to the newsroom. It won’t be what you expected.”
A quarter hour later, after escorting me through several other studios, an extensive woodworking shop used for set construction, and the CBS employee cafeteria, Brent checked his watch. “Lauren should be done by now,” he said. “I suppose we should head over to the newsroom.”
“Lauren?”
“The bureau chief. Lauren Van Owen.”
My throat tightened.
“Is something wrong?” Brent asked, looking at me curiously.
“No,” I lied.
“People are often surprised to learn that the bureau chief is a woman,” Brent went on, misinterpreting my reaction. “When Sid Gilmore, our old chief, retired six months back, the suits in New York tapped Lauren for his spot. You may remember her. She was a reporter for Channel 2 before an accident ended her on-camera work.
“I recall the incident,” I said, thinking that what had started as a promising morning had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.
* * *
It had been more years than Kane cared to admit since he had ridden patrol for the LAPD Van Nuys Division, but the streets were beginning to come back. After turning left off Ventura Boulevard onto Alonzo, he drove into the chaparral-covered mountains that marked the southwest borders of the San Fernando Valley. New homes with bricked patios and wrought-iron fences flanked the street all the way up, but with the exception of these recent additions, the rugged hillsides of the Santa Monica Mountains still looked the same: steep, dusty, and overgrown with sage, scrub oak, and sumac.
Fifteen minutes later Kane arrived at a cul-de-sac, high above the housing developments and shopping malls of the valley below. Crossing overhead, high-voltage power lines arced up the mountainside, the thick spans of electrical cables glinting in the midday sun. At the pavement’s end, two black-and-white patrol cars were stationed near a dirt fire road. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire prevented access on either side. A young patrol officer, notebook in hand, guarded the open gate. Other officers stood nearby, questioning a group of neighbors.
Kane pulled up to the
“I’ll remember that,” I laughed, beginning to relax.
Farther down the corridor the ambiance abruptly changed, the forest-green carpet replaced by industrial-grade linoleum, the acoustic ceiling tiles giving way to a maze of pipes, cables, and ductwork. A misplaced pair of promotional photos from another era—Red Skelton as “Freddie the Freeloader,” and Jack Benny posing with a chimp—were the final attempts at decoration. From there, a labyrinth of passageways branched deeper into the building, their industrial mien reminding me of the interior of a factory, or possibly a ship.
Several turns took us to The Price is Right backstage area, an aircraft-hanger-sized chamber jammed with couches, beds, kitchen appliances, cars, boats, Jet Skis, sports equipment, and an endless array of televisions, stereos, washing machines, refrigerators, and other household items. I whistled under my breath.
“And this is only one of the studios here,” Brent informed me. “Impressive, huh?”
“I’ll say. Is the newsroom like this?”
“I wish,” Brent answered. “We in the news give network a certain stature and prestige, but if the truth be known, we’re fairly low on the corporate pecking order. Actually, make that the bottom of the pecking order. The reality shows, daytime dramas, and game shows are the real money-makers around here, so they get the space. I enjoyed better working conditions at Channel 2.”
“But I thought—”
“Never mind what you thought. Just don’t be too disappointed when we get to the newsroom. It won’t be what you expected.”
A quarter hour later, after escorting me through several other studios, an extensive woodworking shop used for set construction, and the CBS employee cafeteria, Brent checked his watch. “Lauren should be done by now,” he said. “I suppose we should head over to the newsroom.”
“Lauren?”
“The bureau chief. Lauren Van Owen.”
My throat tightened.
“Is something wrong?” Brent asked, looking at me curiously.
“No,” I lied.
“People are often surprised to learn that the bureau chief is a woman,” Brent went on, misinterpreting my reaction. “When Sid Gilmore, our old chief, retired six months back, the suits in New York tapped Lauren for his spot. You may remember her. She was a reporter for Channel 2 before an accident ended her on-camera work.
“I recall the incident,” I said, thinking that what had started as a promising morning had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.
* * *
It had been more years than Kane cared to admit since he had ridden patrol for the LAPD Van Nuys Division, but the streets were beginning to come back. After turning left off Ventura Boulevard onto Alonzo, he drove into the chaparral-covered mountains that marked the southwest borders of the San Fernando Valley. New homes with bricked patios and wrought-iron fences flanked the street all the way up, but with the exception of these recent additions, the rugged hillsides of the Santa Monica Mountains still looked the same: steep, dusty, and overgrown with sage, scrub oak, and sumac.
Fifteen minutes later Kane arrived at a cul-de-sac, high above the housing developments and shopping malls of the valley below. Crossing overhead, high-voltage power lines arced up the mountainside, the thick spans of electrical cables glinting in the midday sun. At the pavement’s end, two black-and-white patrol cars were stationed near a dirt fire road. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire prevented access on either side. A young patrol officer, notebook in hand, guarded the open gate. Other officers stood nearby, questioning a group of neighbors.
Kane pulled up to the
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