An intelligent man is going to pick up an awful lot of earnest bullshit and portentous psychobabble if he watches TV his entire life; and Wayne, as Bruce was discovering, was a very intelligent man.
Because Bruce knew that Wayne was right. Right, right, RIGHT. A villain could get turned into a hero inside a single soundbite. And, as in Bruce’s case, a hero could end up a villain.
He attempted a defence of sorts. ‘Oh yeah. Well, what happens when I go on the TV tomorrow and retract everything? When I tell the world you forced me into accepting responsibility?’
Scout didn’t think Bruce was giving Wayne sufficient credit for his brilliant plan. ‘You might be dead by then, Mr Big Shot,’ she said. ‘You might be dead any time.’
Wayne laughed. ‘You tell him, baby. But frankly it don’t matter what you say tomorrow, Bruce – always assuming you’re alive to say it. By tomorrow our little story here will have a life of its own. Every talk show, every paper, will be asking the question “Who’s guilty?” Whatever you say tomorrow won’t wipe out today. This is the image, man. This is the defining moment, the one they’ll all remember – bigger than the Rodney King video, bigger than O.J.’s committal, bigger than the Kennedy motorcade.’
‘Hey, don’t undersell yourself, Wayne,’ said Bruce through gritted teeth.
‘Come on, man! It doesn’t get any better than this. The king of Hollywood, two mass murderers, a dying Playboy centrefold, a rinsedout old hag of an exwife, a spoilt, sexy little weeping teen… blood, guns… we’ve got it all. Nobody will ever forget this. It’ll be burnt into their minds for ever.’
Wayne walked up to Bruce and put his face right up close. ‘And every time anyone sees you, Bruce, they’ll remember this image above all the others. They’ll remember you with your arms round me and Scout, your daughter weeping, your girlfriend bleeding at your feet. And you saying, ‘ America, wake up! We sow a wind and we reap a whirlwind. These two poor benighted sinners could be kin to anyone of us. They are my kin. My son and daughter. I begot them. My sins were visited upon them…’
‘Now, how ‘bout that drink?’
Chapter Thirty
Oliver and Dale had been in their studio conference room, preparing to present that morning’s edition of Coffee Time, when the call came.
‘I need highprofile personalities central to the action,’ the head of NBC News and Current Affairs had demanded, ‘anchoring not from the studio, but from inside the story. The nation needs a friend in that house.’
Murray had already won the battle to be the station which would provide the crew for Wayne ’s broadcast. ‘We were the company of contact and we should have priority,’ he had pointed out rather pompously to the other networks, adding, ‘What’s more, if you don’t let us do it I shan’t tell you what their demands are, so the people you send in will get it all wrong and get killed.’
Having achieved the priority he desired, Murray had only to persuade Oliver and Dale, in whose celebrity the station had so much invested, that they should be the station’s representatives at the centre of the drama. He didn’t have much time. Wayne had demanded only a camera operator and a recordist, there had been no talk of presenters. Dale and Oliver would have to do the work of the technicians. They would need to be told how to use the equipment and the minutes were ticking away.
There was of course much to tempt the two slap covered hairspray heads into accepting the job… It was a tantalizing prospect, to be elevated in a moment from famous person who reads an autocue and interviews celebrities, to news hero of the decade.
On the other hand, the people inside the house were mass murderers.
‘You’re sure he guaranteed safe conduct?’ Oliver asked. ‘I’m only concerned for Dale, you understand.’
‘Absolutely safe conduct,’ the chief assured them, ‘and I trust him. Why would he harm you? He needs you. The guy is feeding off the media. With our cooperation he’s a star, a superstar. Without it he’s just a nobody who’s going to get the chair. He needs us as much as we need him.’
Dale and Oliver exchanged nervous glances. It occurred to them both that a person who craved fame could get quite a dollop of it by murdering the Coffee Time team on live TV. On the other hand, what an opportunity! They would be fearless seekers after truth, war correspondents, risking all to bring the numberone story of the decade into the nation’s lounges.
Their boss pressed home his advantage. ‘I’m telling you he’s given us an unequivocal guarantee.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But listen, we don’t have to tell the world you got that guarantee. We can let the world think you’ve gone in there with no guarantee of your safety at all, because that’s how much the people’s right to news and current affairs means to you.’
‘Wow,’ said Dale.
‘ “Wow” is right. They’ll probably give you the medal of honour,’ the chief added.
‘And of course we do have a very real duty to the public,’ said Oliver, who was ever conscious of his selfappointed status as one of the nation’s premier moral guardians.
‘So that’s settled,’ said the chief. ‘The equipment is fairly simple. I’ll get one of the guys to run through it with you, and after that all you’ve got to do is take your clothes off and we’re cooking.’
He nearly got away with it. For a moment he thought he had.
He hadn’t.
‘Take our clothes off?’ Dale stared, aghast.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s no problem,’ said Murray, trying to hustle them along.
‘You mean change our clothes, surely,’ said Oliver. ‘You mean you want us to put on combat fatigues, no doubt.’
Like all news reporters, Oliver relished the idea of donning a flakjacket and looking like a soldier.
But the Chief of News and Current Affairs did not mean change their clothes. ‘I mean you’ll have to take your clothes off. The guy’s worried about concealed weaponry. What’s the big deal?’
‘Ahem,’ said Oliver, clearing his throat nervously, ‘I think the question is one of presentation.’
Dale and Oliver looked good and were proud of it. Their image was the classic template of the news anchor team, the standard by which all other news anchor teams were judged: he silver and dignified in his late fifties, she cute and feisty in her midthirties. In the studio, with their makeup, hairspray and designer power clothing they looked, quite simply, superb. The American dream behind a desk; like some splendid ambassador and his gorgeous second wife.
The problem was that underneath the story was rather different. As, indeed, it normally is.
He, for instance, wore a corset. She was midway through a cellulitereduction programme. He had two massive and unpleasant hernia scars. She had an insane tattoo on her thigh, smudged by botched efforts to have it removed.
He suddenly remembered that his housemaid was sick and he was into the second day of his last, rattiest pair of jocks. It suddenly occurred to her that she was planning an aprèsshow tryst with her new lover, the second assistant floor assistant. She had therefore come to work wearing a pair of lacy scarlet splitcrotch panties with a heartshaped hole cut out of the bottom.
‘Hey, we can get you new underwear for Christ’s sake,’ Murray said. ‘We can put makeup on your blemishes.’
‘I don’t think so, boss,’ said the head makeup artist, who was hovering in the background. ‘Oliver and Dale use quite a lot of foundation on their faces. If the same proportions are applied to their whole bodies, I don’t think they’ll actually be able to walk.’