one on TV."
"Okay."
"You only have to remember one thing, Jason," I said. "It's not brain surgery. It's just television news."
If you get the punchline to this joke, you probably understand the mission statement of the Consolidated Broadcasting Network's entertainment division:
What do a Mississippi divorce and a tornado have in common?
Somebody's gonna lose a trailer.
As networks go, Consolidated Broadcasting is not what you'd call the purveyor of highbrow programming.
If your idea of a big night is a six-pack and a bug zapper, you're part of our target audience. Congratulations!
(Of course if you're reading this, and your lips don't move when you read, you're obviously not. I am presuming the only books in the homes of CBN viewers are sitting next to a box of Crayolas, so I feel pretty safe in sharing our secrets.)
CBN prime-time shows have simple formulas. Every show needs at least one, and preferably more, of the following:
—Women with multiple tattoos, a bad dye job, and a lit cigarette at all times.
—A male star with so many body piercings it looks as though the phone rang and he answered the staple gun.
—A home with wheels, that may, or may not, change locations due to a storm. (The network once actually created a spin-off series in this manner when the Georgia mobile home of one secondary character sailed away in a hurricane and landed on a beach in Boca Raton.)
—A truck, vintage Trans-Am, or Camaro, preferably having one door of a different color than the rest of the vehicle. One part of the car should be held together with duct tape.
—At least one character with missing teeth. If there is just one missing tooth, the character should use the space to spit tobacco juice.
—The word "confessions" or "naughty" in the title. (Both were used in one series titled, "Confessions of Naughty Trailer Park Queens.")
And if you live in a state in which you can be arrested for driving without a gun rack, we want your eyeballs every night after you bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan.
Well, that was CBN's strategy.
Until today.
Since even the sophistication challenged haven't been tuning in and the network could possibly have fewer viewers than PlayStation at any given moment during prime time, the powers that be at the network have called a meeting to discuss the future. Two days ago Madison told me, "Changes are coming, but in a good way."
That's usually the equivalent of a Sicilian kiss in broadcasting, so for the past forty-eight hours I've been hitting the liquor cabinet like Neely on a weekend bender, while looking around corners for hit men with dark shirts and white ties lurking in the shadows. Even though Madison assured me that I was in no danger, you always worry in this business that someone is going to send you a dead fish wrapped in a newspaper. You're only one bad ratings book away from decapitation.
But then Madison threw a curveball at me, and told me to summon the gals to New York for an eleven o'clock meeting. Again, no other information.
So we're here, at one end of the conference room, ten minutes early, trying to place bets on a: what the network is going to do in prime time; and b: what this meeting has to do with the news division. (Well, three of us are here; we're waiting on Rica, whose plane was late, but she'll be here shortly.) Jillian has been driving herself nuts, speculating, while burning through calories at an alarming rate. Neely took the more casual approach.
"Hey, a free trip to New York is just another excuse to get together with you guys," she said, sipping a bottle of sparkling water.
"What time's happy hour?" asked Jillian, drumming her fingers on the table, as she grabbed another jelly donut from the large basket in the middle of the table. (The girl can eat all day, by the way, and never gain an ounce.)
"If we're not having lunch with corporate, it's in about an hour," I said.
"By the way Syd, how's your new hire working out?" asked Neely.
"Jason? Terrific. He picked up the prompter really quick," I said.
"Not what I meant," said Neely, as Rica blew through the door carrying her briefcase.
"Made it," she said, as she dropped her valise on the floor and brushed a few strands of hair from her face. "Did I miss anything?"
"Just more endless speculation about our possible futures," said Jillian. "Where the hell else can we work and get the benefits package we've got?"
"Anything new since I left LA?" asked Rica.
I shook my head. "Nada. You know as much as I do. But I'm betting—"
The giant wooden doors swung open and Madison Cartwright entered the room, followed by an entourage of sharply dressed women in their thirties and forties that I recognized as the corporate staff.
With one exception.
They circled the table and all took their seats as Madison stood at the front of the room. The exception, a sharply dressed striking brunette in her middle thirties, sat in the chair to her immediate right.
"You recognize her?" whispered Jillian, just before shoving the remainder of the donut into her mouth.
I shook my head.
"Thank you all for coming such a long way on such short notice," said Madison. "I know that you've all been trying to figure out what's in the works for the past few days, and I'm sorry to have been so vague, so I won't keep you guessing any longer. Let's start with the entertainment division. You may have noticed that Carlie Hammersmith, the head of prime-time programming, is not here. She tendered her resignation this morning."
Jillian leaned into my ear, so close I could smell the strawberry jelly on her breath. "I told you heads would roll."
"But fear not," continued Madison. "The rest of you are not in any danger of losing your jobs. In fact, quite the opposite. You're all about to play bigger roles in this network. To tell you about that, I'm going to turn the meeting over to Amanda Bain, who has been named our new head of the division and will totally revamp the prime-time line-up, which will hopefully give you a much better lead-in for your local newscasts. She has fifteen years experience with the major networks in Hollywood, and I know she'll do great things for us. Let's give her a big welcome."
The slender brunette with Carolina-blue eyes stood up and was greeted by polite applause. Her shoulder-length straight cut curved in around her chin and framed her thin, oval face while dusting the shoulders of her deep red business suit. (Well, the suit part was business. The very short skirt was pleasure.) Her dangly hoop earrings looked more appropriate for a night on the town instead of a day in the boardroom, but they worked with the outfit.
"She's one of us," whispered Neely, noting the woman had a body like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, though she wasn't terribly tall, maybe five-five. She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of her chair, revealing a tight, eggshell silk blouse. The outfit screamed "woman in charge."
"And she brought her own party hats," Neely added.
"Oh yeah," I said, noting the chilly air and her lack of a bra had provided two impressive points to the front of her blouse.
"She could dial a phone with those things," whispered Rica.
"Like you couldn't," I said.
"Thank you so much," said Amanda, who took Madison's place at the front of the room as my boss stepped aside. "Madison is right about one thing, and I hate to throw stones at my predecessor, but our prime-time programming couldn't be any