"Right," I said. "I already had that feeling."
"So she finishes her bit, and she's all excited, and then Toby takes her to show her his dressing room, this big air-conditioned van. We all knew what was happening, or at least we thought we did. Then she started to scream. Everybody could hear her."
"No melodrama," Stillman said, looking at his fingernails. "Not everybody could hear her, there were lots of people who didn't hear anything at all. Just tell the story."
"Well, there were cops there. There always are when you're on location. We had to go into the trailer."
"Because of the cops," I said.
"Beg pardon?" Dixie's eyebrows rose.
"You mean you wouldn't have gone in if there hadn't been cops around?"
Cohen made his helpless gesture again. He'd had a lot of practice. "Sure, we would have. I didn't mean that. We're not ghouls, you know. But cops being there made the whole thing more, well, urgent."
"More urgent than what?"
"Than it would have been otherwise," Stillman said smoothly. "Lord's sake, Mr. Grist, Toby wasn't killing her."
"Just a little fun," I said, thinking of the photo albums. I pulled my car keys from my pocket, and Stillman followed them anxiously with his eyes. "You know, this is a terrific office," I said, jingling the keys. "And I suppose that means that you guys aren't dumb. All things considered, though, I don't know why I shouldn't just get up and go to the beach. At least I'd know what I was doing there."
"Come on, Dixie," Stillman said. "Tell Mr. Grist why he's here."
Cohen looked like a man who'd just been given a choice between the rack and electric shock therapy. "Because of Toby," he finally said. "Because we need some help with Toby."
"Toby's the one who needs help," I said. "And I'm not qualified to give it. I'm not sure anyone is who doesn't have twelve letters after his name and three or four degrees on the wall."
"You have a number of degrees," Cohen said. Someone had been doing homework.
"Sure," I said apologetically. "Dramatic literature, history, comparative religion, I forget what. But none in psychiatry."
Cohen grimaced. "Psychiatry takes time. We don't have any. We don't need a shrink, we need a keeper."
"Dixie," Stillman said. "Not a keeper, Mr. Grist." He extended a well-buffed hand and formed a word in the air. The word seemed to be shaped vaguely like a fish. "A consultant. Is that polite enough? A person who can help Toby, who can talk to him when he's about to do something self-destructive."
"Self-destructive? Toby's a human wrecking ball. I've seen enough buildings get knocked down to know that the wrecking ball usually comes out okay. It's everything else that gets leveled."
It was Stillman's turn to sigh, and he did it eloquently. "We're trying to tell you something," he said. "Don't interrupt, don't say anything for a minute, all right? There's a business opportunity here for you. At the moment, Toby's behavior is of very special importance. At this precise moment. We see you as a key, Mr. Grist. We'll pay a great deal to someone who can keep things on track."
"I still don't actually know what you're talking about. And even if I did, I haven't heard any money mentioned, except in the abstract."
"A thousand dollars a day," Stillman said. "Is that concrete enough for you?"
Now it was my turn to swallow. If Stillman and I kept gobbling up Cohen's mannerisms, there wouldn't be anything left of him but his sweater. I wondered if it would fit me. I looked at the two of them. Stillman returned my gaze, all frank and hearty and man to man. Cohen was still focused on the ceiling he wanted to float through. It seemed to be my line.
"Toby's been punching out women for at least three years, according to you. Why the sudden concern?"
They looked at each other again, but more confidently. "What do you know about syndication, Mr. Grist?" Still-man said.
"Nothing."
Stillman settled himself in his chair. "Syndication is the real bottom line of a series," he said in a loving voice. "It's why they get made in the first place. After a show has been on the air for a while, especially a hit show, it becomes valuable in a new way. Throughout its first run, it's produced for the network. The network pays what's known as a license fee. That means that the producer, say me, for example, gets paid a certain amount for every episode that airs. Say it's a million dollars." He drew an imaginary line on his desk with his index finger. "Are you following me so far?"
I nodded.
Stillman warmed to the task. "Fine. Let's say, just to pick another figure, that the series is supposed to cost nine hundred thou per hour." He drew another line. "That means a profit of a hundred thou for each show, right?"
"I can subtract."
"That's the problem," he said, making an imaginary X with his finger to cancel out the imaginary lines. "It's all subtraction. Half the episodes cost more than the license fee. Talent trouble, bad weather, weak scripts, the wrong director-any number of things can put a show over budget. In the long run, even with a hit series and a lot of creative bookkeeping, you wind up breaking even. Or, even worse, in the hole." He described a large circle on the desk's surface for my benefit. "The big eggola," he said.
I stayed put. The highly suspect smell of money filled the room.
"But," Stillman continued, smiling seraphically, "when the series is finally finished on the network, the producer can sell it to stations all over the country. One station at a time or ten stations at a time. Most of them aren't network affiliates, of course. They're independent stations, some little, some big, some rich and some poor. But they've all got money to spend. They need something to put on the air, and they're ready to pay for it."
"How much?"
He buffed his immaculate nails on his nautical sweater. "Well, that's the art of it," he said complacently, someone who had been fed all the answers. "Knowing how much a show is worth. The best guess I can make is that High Velocity is worth about three hundred thousand dollars an hour." He almost resisted the impulse to clear his throat.
I cleared my own throat. "How many hours?"
"Six seasons, Mr. Grist. One hundred and eighty hours."
Math was never my strong point. "That's, um. ."
"Fifty-four million dollars."
All three of us were silent, I hoped for different reasons.
"Fifty-four million dollars," Stillman said dreamily. "That's essentially free money. The talent has gone home. No more dealing with actors, no more hassling with writers, directors, or network people. It's in the can. All you have to do is take it to the bank."
Stillman turned his hands palms up, the picture of calm reason. I envied his calm. Fifty-four million dollars would have kept the entire state of California in new shoes for a decade.
"And you sell all six seasons at once?" I said, just to make Stillman move his hands.
I won. He put his palms together. "If you've got the cojones," he said with subliminal pride. "You gamble that you've got a hit, and you hold off on the early seasons because you can get more money for the whole package. Also, maybe you don't want to spend the rest of your life hondling with some station in East Gonad, Arkansas. If you guessed right, you dump the whole package on a syndicator and let them do the work. And you get the whole"-he swallowed-"fifty-four million in one sweet lump."
"Fine," I said. "It's a lot of money. What's it got to do with me?"
"Dixie?" Norman Stillman prompted.