Read Online Natural Causes by Jonathan Valin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Valin
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needed you?" She shook her head and
looked down at the plush, white carpet. "That's not fair. I'm
sorry, Quentin. I'm sorry that you're dead."
"Did you go to Mass this morning?" Jack
asked.
"At nine. I lit a candle for him." Helen
Rose sighed. "Oh, well. I guess we'll just have to give Walt
what he wants."
"Helen, he's not the only fish in the sea."
"Then you deal with him," she snapped. "In
case you've forgotten, Jack, I've got the network coming in tomorrow.
We pulled a thirteen last week. A thirteen! What am I supposed to say
to Sally Jackson? 'Sorry, dear, but we don't have long-term to show
you? Or a team to write one?' My God, she'd pull the plug as she left
the room. This is the tenth week we've been below a seventeen. What
am I supposed to do? You tell me."
"The brands are standing firm," Jack said.
The woman grunted. "Yeah, sure. For the next
thirteen weeks. And then what?"
"It's blackmail, Helen," Jack said angrily.
"Oh, wake up, Jack!" she said with disgust.
"He's chief breakdown man. And the subwriters are a bunch of
sheep. They probably will bolt, if Walt tells them to. Hell, what do
they have to lose? We've got a thirteen share! Right now, he's all
we've got. And furthermore, he's got the long-term document."
"Quentin said that he and Walt were working on
the document together."
"I remember," she said. "And Walt
spent the entire afternoon telling me a different story. You know
what? I believe him. And so do you, Jack. You just said so a minute
ago. So let's not have any more talk about blackmail, sweetie. Or
about who wrote what for whom. Let's just get on with it, O.K.?"
The woman turned her head to me. "It's been a
bad day for 'Phoenix,' Harry. A bad day for all of us. I'm sorry for
the shop talk."
"That's all right," I said. I'd found the
little of it that I'd understood interesting.
"Have you seen the show?" she said
pleasantly.
"No."
Her face fell. "He doesn't like the show, Jack,"
she said. "I can tell from his voice--he doesn't like the show."
"Helen," Jack said long-sufferingly.
"What is it? The writing? I'll admit that the
writing hasn't been up to par lately, but that was Quentin's
fault-damn him. Is it the production? We've got a new line
producer, and she just doesn't know how to block a scene properly.
Did you see all those isos today, Jack? Not one two-shot in the lot.
Christ, how is the audience going to get involved, if they can't see
that the characters are involved? Walt went on for an hour about it.
And he's right. He's absolutely right. She's got to go, Jack. Is that
what it is, Harry? Is it the production values?"
She sounded so earnest that I was almost afraid to
tell her the truth. "I don't own a TV."
"Oh," Helen Rose said. Then she started to
laugh in a loud, gutty voice. "That's different."
The waiter came with our drinks. Jack organized the
dinner orders, then the three of us sat down on the white couches.
"Just what is it you're looking for?" Helen
said, taking a sip of her martini.
"I'm not sure," I told her. "I think
I'm supposed to be looking for a scandal."
She snorted with amusement. "Well, baby, you've
certainly come to the right place. We not only produce soap operas,
we live them. Isn't that right, Jack?"
"Some of us do," Jack said.
"Don't be such an old woman," Helen chided
him. "Harry looks all grown up. You're all grown up, aren't
you?"
"Yep."
"So how can I help you with your scandals?"
she said with faint suggestiveness.
"You can tell me about Quentin Dover, since he
was apparently the guilty party."
"Guilty of what?" Helen said. "We're
all guilty of something, you know. What did Frank Glendora tell you
that Quentin was guilty of?"
"Of not comporting himself the way a man should.
I believe that was the way he put it. He'd heard rumors."
Helen raised an eyebrow and Jack nodded at her. "What
a schmuck that Walt is," she said. "Christ, Quentin's only
been dead for four days and he's already taken a shovel to his
headstone."
"So you think Walt is
looked down at the plush, white carpet. "That's not fair. I'm
sorry, Quentin. I'm sorry that you're dead."
"Did you go to Mass this morning?" Jack
asked.
"At nine. I lit a candle for him." Helen
Rose sighed. "Oh, well. I guess we'll just have to give Walt
what he wants."
"Helen, he's not the only fish in the sea."
"Then you deal with him," she snapped. "In
case you've forgotten, Jack, I've got the network coming in tomorrow.
We pulled a thirteen last week. A thirteen! What am I supposed to say
to Sally Jackson? 'Sorry, dear, but we don't have long-term to show
you? Or a team to write one?' My God, she'd pull the plug as she left
the room. This is the tenth week we've been below a seventeen. What
am I supposed to do? You tell me."
"The brands are standing firm," Jack said.
The woman grunted. "Yeah, sure. For the next
thirteen weeks. And then what?"
"It's blackmail, Helen," Jack said angrily.
"Oh, wake up, Jack!" she said with disgust.
"He's chief breakdown man. And the subwriters are a bunch of
sheep. They probably will bolt, if Walt tells them to. Hell, what do
they have to lose? We've got a thirteen share! Right now, he's all
we've got. And furthermore, he's got the long-term document."
"Quentin said that he and Walt were working on
the document together."
"I remember," she said. "And Walt
spent the entire afternoon telling me a different story. You know
what? I believe him. And so do you, Jack. You just said so a minute
ago. So let's not have any more talk about blackmail, sweetie. Or
about who wrote what for whom. Let's just get on with it, O.K.?"
The woman turned her head to me. "It's been a
bad day for 'Phoenix,' Harry. A bad day for all of us. I'm sorry for
the shop talk."
"That's all right," I said. I'd found the
little of it that I'd understood interesting.
"Have you seen the show?" she said
pleasantly.
"No."
Her face fell. "He doesn't like the show, Jack,"
she said. "I can tell from his voice--he doesn't like the show."
"Helen," Jack said long-sufferingly.
"What is it? The writing? I'll admit that the
writing hasn't been up to par lately, but that was Quentin's
fault-damn him. Is it the production? We've got a new line
producer, and she just doesn't know how to block a scene properly.
Did you see all those isos today, Jack? Not one two-shot in the lot.
Christ, how is the audience going to get involved, if they can't see
that the characters are involved? Walt went on for an hour about it.
And he's right. He's absolutely right. She's got to go, Jack. Is that
what it is, Harry? Is it the production values?"
She sounded so earnest that I was almost afraid to
tell her the truth. "I don't own a TV."
"Oh," Helen Rose said. Then she started to
laugh in a loud, gutty voice. "That's different."
The waiter came with our drinks. Jack organized the
dinner orders, then the three of us sat down on the white couches.
"Just what is it you're looking for?" Helen
said, taking a sip of her martini.
"I'm not sure," I told her. "I think
I'm supposed to be looking for a scandal."
She snorted with amusement. "Well, baby, you've
certainly come to the right place. We not only produce soap operas,
we live them. Isn't that right, Jack?"
"Some of us do," Jack said.
"Don't be such an old woman," Helen chided
him. "Harry looks all grown up. You're all grown up, aren't
you?"
"Yep."
"So how can I help you with your scandals?"
she said with faint suggestiveness.
"You can tell me about Quentin Dover, since he
was apparently the guilty party."
"Guilty of what?" Helen said. "We're
all guilty of something, you know. What did Frank Glendora tell you
that Quentin was guilty of?"
"Of not comporting himself the way a man should.
I believe that was the way he put it. He'd heard rumors."
Helen raised an eyebrow and Jack nodded at her. "What
a schmuck that Walt is," she said. "Christ, Quentin's only
been dead for four days and he's already taken a shovel to his
headstone."
"So you think Walt is
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