“Ask her if she’d rather get raped some night in the elevator after this guy has knocked out her teeth and broken some of her ribs. Ask her that.”
Kling smiled again. “She might prefer it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Pete, she hates me. She really…”
Byrnes smiled. “Win her over, boy,” he said. “Just win her over, that's all.”
David Krantz worked for a company named Major Broadcasting Associates, which had its offices downtown on Jefferson Street. Major Broadcasting, or MBA as it was familiarly called in the industry, devoted itself primarily to the making of filmed television programs, but every now and then it ventured into the production of a live show. The Stan Gifford Show was—or at least had been—one of the three shows they presented live from the city each week. A fourth live show was produced bimonthly on the Coast. MBA was undoubtedly the giant of the television business, and since success always breeds contempt, it had been given various nicknames by disgruntled and ungrateful industry wags. These ranged from mild jibes like Money Banks Anonymous, through gentle epithets like Mighty Bloody Assholes, to genuinely artistic creations like Master Bullshit Artists. Whatever you called the company, and however you sliced it, it was important and vast and accounted for more than sixty percent of the nation's television fare each week.
The building on Jefferson Street was owned by MBA, and featured floor after floor of wood-paneled offices, ravishing secretaries and receptionists exported from the Coast, and solemn-looking young men in dark suits and ties, white shirts, and black shoes and socks. David Krantz was a solemn-looking man wearing the company uniform, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His secretary showed Meyer and Carella into the office, and then closed the door gently behind them. “I’ve met Mr. Meyer,” Krantz said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “but I believe you and I have only had the pleasure on the telephone, Mr. Caretta.”
“Carella.”
“Carella, forgive me. Sit down, won’t you. I’m expecting a call on the tieline, so if I have to interrupt our chat, I know you’ll understand.”
“Certainly,” Carella said.
Krantz smoothed his mustache. “Well, what is it you want to know?”
“First, did you find out where Gifford went while he was off camera?”
“I haven’t been able to locate George Cooper. He's our AD, he's the man who’d know.”
“What's an AD?” Carella asked.
“Assistant director,” Meyer said. “I talked to him last night, Steve. He's the one who timed that tape for me.”
“Oh.”
“I tried to reach him at home,” Krantz said, “but no one answered the phone. I’ll try it again, if you like.”
“Where does he live?” Carella asked.
“Downtown, in The Quarter. It's his responsibility to see that everyone's in on cue. I’m sure he would know just where Stan went while the folk singers were on. Shall I have my secretary try him again?”
“Please,” Carella said.
Krantz buzzed for his secretary. In keeping with company policy, she was a tall and beautiful redhead wearing a tight green sweater and skirt. She listened attentively as Krantz told her to try Cooper's number again, and then said, “We’re ready on that call to the Coast now, Mr. Krantz.”
“Thank you,” Krantz said. “Excuse me,” he said to Carella and Meyer, and then he lifted the receiver. “Hello, Krantz here. Hello, Frank, what is it? Who? The writer? What do you mean, the writer? The writer doesn’t like the changes that were made? Who the hell asked him for his opinion? Well, I know he wrote the script, what difference does that make? Just a second now, start from the beginning, will you? Who made the changes? Well, he's a perfectly capable producer, why should the writer have any complaints? He says what? He says it's his script, and he resents a half-assed producer tampering with it? Listen, who is this fellow, anyway? Who? I never heard of him. What's he done before? The Saturday Review says what? Well, what the hell's some literary intelligentsia magazine got to do with the people who watch television? What do I care if he's a novelist, can he write television scripts? Who hired him, anyway? Was this cleared here, or was it a Coast decision? Don’t give me any of that crap, Frank, novelists are a dime a dozen. Yeah, even good novelists. It's the guy who can write a decent television script that's hard to find. You say he can write a decent television script? Then what's the problem? Oh, I see. He doesn’t like the changes that were made. Well, what changes were made, Frank, can you tell me that? I see, um-huh, the prostitute was rewritten as a nun, um-huh, I see, and she doesn’t die at the end, she performs a miracle instead, um-huh, well, how about the hero? Not a truck driver anymore, huh? Oh, I see, he's a football coach now, I get it. Um-huh, works at the college nearby the church, um-huh. Is it still set in London? Oh, I see. I see, yes, you want to shoot it at UCLA, sure, that makes sense, a lot closer to the studio. Well, gee, Frank, off the top of my head, I’d say the revisions have made it a much better script, I don’t know what the hell the writer's getting excited about. Explain to him that the changes are really minor and that large stretches of his original dialogue and scenes are intact, just the way he wrote them. Tell him we’ve had pressure from the network, and that this necessitated a few minor—no, use the word ‘transitional’—a few transitional changes that were made by a competent producer because there simply wasn’t time for lengthy consultations about revisions. Tell him we have the highest regard for his work, and that we’re well aware of what the Saturday Review said about him, but explain that we’re all in the same goddamn rat race, and what else can we do when we’re pressured by networks and sponsors and deadlines? Ask him to be reasonable, Frank. I think he’ll understand. Fine. Listen, what did the pregnant raisin tell the police? Well, go ahead, guess. Nope. Nope. She said, ‘I was graped!’ “ Krantz burst out laughing. “Okay, Frank, I’ll talk to you. Right. So long.”
He hung up. The door to his office opened a second afterward, and the pretty redhead paused in the doorframe and said, “I still can’t reach Mr. Cooper.”
“Keep trying him,” Krantz said, and the girl went out. “I’m sorry about the interruption, gentlemen. Shall we continue?”
“Yes,” Carella said. “Can you tell me who was in that booth with you last night?”
“You want the names?”
“I’d appreciate them.”
“I anticipated you,” Krantz said. “I had my secretary type up a list right after you called this morning.”
“That was very thoughtful of you,” Carella said.
“In this business, I try to anticipate everything.”
“It's a pity you couldn’t have anticipated Gifford's death,” Carella said.
“Yeah, well, that was unforeseen,” Krantz said absolutely straight-faced, shaking his head solemnly. “I’ll have my secretary bring in that list.” He pushed a button on his phone. “She used to work for our head of production out at the studio. Did you ever see tits like that before?”
“Never,” Carella said.
“They’re remarkable,” Krantz said.
The girl came into the office. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring in that list you typed for me, would you? How’re you doing with Mr. Cooper?”
“I’ll try him again, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said and went out.
“Remarkable,” Krantz said.