"Sure, Angela," he said dully.
"Whatever you say."
Chapter Ten
Loren Bach's office capped the lofty silver tower that was home for Delacort's Chicago base. Its glass walls offered a view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of downtown. On a clear day, he could see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren liked to say he could stand guard over hundreds of the stations that carried Delacort's programming, and thousands of homes that watched.
The suite of offices reflected his personality. Its main area was a streamlined, masculine room designed for serious work. The deep green walls and dark walnut trim were pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop for the sleek, modern furnishings and recessed television screens. He knew that it was sometimes necessary to entertain in an office, as well as do business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a semicircular sofa in burgundy leather, a pair of padded chrome chairs and a wide smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully stocked refrigerator catered to his addiction to Classic Coke.
One of his walls was lined with photographs of himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and dramas had moved into syndication, politicians running for office, network bigwigs. The one telling omission was Angela Perkins.
Adjoining the office was a washroom in dramatic black and white, complete with a whirlpool and sauna. Beyond that was a smaller room that held a Hollywood bed, a big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never broken the habit of his lean years, and continued to work long hours, often catching a few hours' sleep and a change of clothing right in the workplace.
But his sanctuary was an area that had been converted from office space. It was cluttered with colorful arcade games where he could save worlds or video damsels in distress, electronic pinball machines that whirled with light and sound, a talking Coke machine.
Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself with the bells and whistles and often challenged network executives to beat his top scores. No one did.
Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love affair had begun in childhood in the bowling alleys his father had owned. Loren had never had any interest in tenpins, but he'd had an interest in business, and in the flash of the silver ball.
In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still hot, he'd expanded the family business into arcades. Then he'd begun to dabble in the king of video: television.
Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his play was his work.
Though he had allowed a few decorative touches in the office area — a Zorach sculpture, a Gris collage — the core of the room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a traditional desk. Loren had designed it himself. He enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a cockpit, controlling destinies.
Simple and functional, its base was fitted with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its work surface was wide and curved, so that when Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones, computer keyboards, monitors.
An adept hacker, Loren could summon up any desired information skillfully and swiftly, from advertising rates for any of Delacort's— or its competitors'—programs, to the current exchange rate of dollar to yen.
As a hobby, he designed and programmed computer games for a subsidiary of his syndicate's.
At fifty-two, he had the quiet, aesthetic looks of a monk, with a long, bony face and a thin build. His mind was as sharp as a scalpel.
Seated behind his desk, he tapped a button on his remote. One of the four television screens blinked on. Eyes mild and thoughtful, he sipped from a sixteen-ounce bottle of Coke and watched Deanna Reynolds.
He would have viewed the tape without the call from Barlow James — Loren took at least a cursory study of anything that crossed his desk— but it was doubtful that he would have slotted time for it so quickly without the endorsement.
"Attractive," he said into his mini-recorder, in a voice as soft and cool as morning snow. "Good throat. Excellent camera presence. Energy and enthusiasm. Sexy but nonthreatening. Relates well to audience. Scripted questions don't appear scripted. Who does her writing? Let's find out. Production values need improvement, particularly the lighting."
He watched the full fifty minutes, reversing the tape occasionally, freeze-framing, all the while making his brief comments into the recorder. He took another long sip from the bottle, and he was smiling. He'd lifted Angela from minor local celebrity into a national phenomenon.
And he could do it again.
With one hand he froze Deanna's face on the screen; with the other, he punched his intercom. "Shelly, contact Deanna Reynolds at
CBC, Chicago news division. Set up an appointment. I'd like to have her come in as soon as possible."
Deanna was used to worrying about her appearance. Working in front of the camera meant that part of the job dealt with looking good. She would often discard a perfectly lovely suit that appealed to her because the cut or the color wasn't quite right for TV.
But she couldn't remember agonizing over the image she projected more than she did when preparing to meet Loren Bach.
She continued to second-guess herself as she sat in the reception area outside his office.
The navy suit she'd chosen was too severe. Leaving her hair down was too frivolous. She should have worn bolder jewelry. Or worn none at all.
It helped somehow to focus on clothes and hairstyles. Twinkie habits, she knew. But it meant she didn't obsess about what this meeting could mean to her future.
Everything, she thought as her stomach clutched. Or nothing.
"Mr. Bach will see you now."
Deanna only nodded. Her throat tightened up like a vise. She was afraid any word that fought its way free would come out as a squeak.
She stepped through the doors the receptionist opened, and into Loren Bach's office.
He was behind his desk, a sloped-shouldered, skinny man with a face that reminded Deanna of an apostle. She'd seen photographs and television clips, and had thought he'd be bigger somehow. Stupid, she thought. She of all people knew how different a media image could be from reality.
"Ms. Reynolds." He rose, extending a hand over the curved Lucite. "It's nice to meet you."
"Thank you." His grip was firm, friendly and brief. "I appreciate your taking the time."
"Time's my business. Want a Coke?" "I…" He was already up and striding across the room to a full-sized, built-in refrigerator. "Sure, thanks."
"Your tape was interesting." With his back to her, Loren popped the caps on two bottles. "A little rough on some of the production values, but interesting."
Interesting? What did that mean? Smiling stiffly, Deanna accepted the bottle he handed her. "I'm glad you think so. We didn't have a great deal of time to put it together."
"You didn't think it necessary to take the time?" "No. I didn't think I had the time."
"I see." Loren sat behind his desk again, took a long swig from the bottle. His hands were white and spidery, the long, thin fingers rarely still. "Why not?"
Deanna followed his lead and drank. "Because there are plenty of others who'd like to slip into Angela's slot, at least locally. I felt it was important to get out of the gate quickly."
He was more interested in how she'd do coming down the stretch. "Just what is it you'd like to do with Deanna's Hour?"
"Entertain and inform." Too glib, she thought immediately. Slow down, Dee, she warned herself. Honesty's fine, but put a little thought into it. "Mr. Bach, I've wanted to work in television since I was a child. Since I'm not an actress, I concentrated on journalism. I'm a good reporter. But in the last couple of years, I've realized that doing the news doesn't really satisfy my ambitions. I like to talk to people. I like to listen to them — and I'm good at both."