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Authors: Gregory McDonald
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information sheet, and the notes he had made
on
it regarding which bugs he had put where, and discovered he had placed bugs instinctively more or less in accordance with the machine’s priorities.
To keep himself straight at what he was doing, and, in fear of eventually being caught as he let himself into other people’s rooms, he had planted the lower-numbered bugs in the rooms of the more important people: Station 1 was Suite 12, Lydia March and Walter March, Junior; Station 2, the Litwacks, in Suite 5; Station 3, Helena and Jake Williams, in Suite 7; Station 4, Eleanor Earles, in Suite 9. In Suite 3, now empty—it being where Walter March had been murdered—he had placed bug Number 5. And, in Room 77, Fredericka Arbuthnot’s, he had placed bug Number 23.
“My, my,” Fletch said of his marvelous machine, “it walks, it talks, cries ‘Mama!’ and piddles genuine orange juice!”
Hy Litwack spent a long time gargling his famous throat—every bubble and blurp of which Fletch faithfully recorded.
Carol Litwack was saying, “Here you are, the most successful, respected journalist in the country, in the whole world, a multimillionaire on top of that, and you still feel you can’t say what you want to say, what you think is the truth.”
“Like what?” Hy Litwack’s voice sounded tired and bored.
“Well, what you just said about terrorism and television downstairs is not what you’ve said to me about terrorism and television.”
Clearly, Hy Litwack was having a bedtime conversation with his wife which did not interest him much. “I mentioned the possibility that the more publicity we give terrorists and murderers the more other kooks are apt to commit acts of terror and murder for the publicity alone. Too many people want to be on television, even with a gun in hand, or in handcuffs, or lying face down in the street with their backs riddled with police bullets… how much more of my speech would you like me to repeat to you? I admitted all that. I said I worry about it. But I don’t know what to do about it. No one does. News is news, and it’s seldom good.”
There was a feminine sigh. “That’s not what you’ve said to me at all.”
“What have I said different?”
“Hy, you know you have. Time after time you’ve said to me the networks give maximum exposure to acts of terrorism in progress because it gets the ratings up.”
Hy Litwack said, “They make for good drama.”
“People tune in, especially, to see if the hostages or whoever have gotten machine-gunned yet. Or had their heads chopped off. You know you’ve said this.”
“Yes,” Hy Litwack said. “I’ve said this. To you.”
“You didn’t say it tonight. In your speech. An ongoing act of terrorism and the whole network news department comes alive. You rush to the studio, day or night. People switch on their TV sets. Audience ratings go up.”
“I said they make for good drama.”
“The advertisers’ commercials get more exposure,” Carol said. “Here some little nut out in Chicago, or Cleveland, is holding twenty people hostage to protest the establishment in some way, and in boardrooms all across the country the establishment is cheering because the poor little nut is helping to sell the establishment’sproducts to all the other nuts and thus make the establishment richer!”
“Everything makes the establishment richer.”
“You’ve said that. To me. Why didn’t you say it in your speech tonight? Are you so establishment yourself you can’t say what you really think, as a journalist?”
“No,” said Hy Litwack. “But I’m a good enough journalist to keep my cynicism to myself.”
There was what seemed to Fletch a long silence. He was waiting to hear where the marvelous machine would switch next.
He was about to experiment, to see if he could run the machine manually, when he again heard Carol Litwack’s voice. “Oh, Hy. You don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I guess not,” said the
on
it regarding which bugs he had put where, and discovered he had placed bugs instinctively more or less in accordance with the machine’s priorities.
To keep himself straight at what he was doing, and, in fear of eventually being caught as he let himself into other people’s rooms, he had planted the lower-numbered bugs in the rooms of the more important people: Station 1 was Suite 12, Lydia March and Walter March, Junior; Station 2, the Litwacks, in Suite 5; Station 3, Helena and Jake Williams, in Suite 7; Station 4, Eleanor Earles, in Suite 9. In Suite 3, now empty—it being where Walter March had been murdered—he had placed bug Number 5. And, in Room 77, Fredericka Arbuthnot’s, he had placed bug Number 23.
“My, my,” Fletch said of his marvelous machine, “it walks, it talks, cries ‘Mama!’ and piddles genuine orange juice!”
Hy Litwack spent a long time gargling his famous throat—every bubble and blurp of which Fletch faithfully recorded.
Carol Litwack was saying, “Here you are, the most successful, respected journalist in the country, in the whole world, a multimillionaire on top of that, and you still feel you can’t say what you want to say, what you think is the truth.”
“Like what?” Hy Litwack’s voice sounded tired and bored.
“Well, what you just said about terrorism and television downstairs is not what you’ve said to me about terrorism and television.”
Clearly, Hy Litwack was having a bedtime conversation with his wife which did not interest him much. “I mentioned the possibility that the more publicity we give terrorists and murderers the more other kooks are apt to commit acts of terror and murder for the publicity alone. Too many people want to be on television, even with a gun in hand, or in handcuffs, or lying face down in the street with their backs riddled with police bullets… how much more of my speech would you like me to repeat to you? I admitted all that. I said I worry about it. But I don’t know what to do about it. No one does. News is news, and it’s seldom good.”
There was a feminine sigh. “That’s not what you’ve said to me at all.”
“What have I said different?”
“Hy, you know you have. Time after time you’ve said to me the networks give maximum exposure to acts of terrorism in progress because it gets the ratings up.”
Hy Litwack said, “They make for good drama.”
“People tune in, especially, to see if the hostages or whoever have gotten machine-gunned yet. Or had their heads chopped off. You know you’ve said this.”
“Yes,” Hy Litwack said. “I’ve said this. To you.”
“You didn’t say it tonight. In your speech. An ongoing act of terrorism and the whole network news department comes alive. You rush to the studio, day or night. People switch on their TV sets. Audience ratings go up.”
“I said they make for good drama.”
“The advertisers’ commercials get more exposure,” Carol said. “Here some little nut out in Chicago, or Cleveland, is holding twenty people hostage to protest the establishment in some way, and in boardrooms all across the country the establishment is cheering because the poor little nut is helping to sell the establishment’sproducts to all the other nuts and thus make the establishment richer!”
“Everything makes the establishment richer.”
“You’ve said that. To me. Why didn’t you say it in your speech tonight? Are you so establishment yourself you can’t say what you really think, as a journalist?”
“No,” said Hy Litwack. “But I’m a good enough journalist to keep my cynicism to myself.”
There was what seemed to Fletch a long silence. He was waiting to hear where the marvelous machine would switch next.
He was about to experiment, to see if he could run the machine manually, when he again heard Carol Litwack’s voice. “Oh, Hy. You don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I guess not,” said the
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