“Rudolph,” Heather said, “save it.”
He tried to pull up his underwear but the elastic snagged on heavily bandaged kneecaps, the product of the disco tryst in the fireplace.
“I am appalled,” Rudy was huffing, “at the idea of videotaping in my surgical suite.” In truth he wasn’t appalled so much as afraid: A video camera meant he couldn’t hand off to the other surgeons and duck out to the golf course. He’d have to perform every procedure himself, just as Heather had demanded. You couldn’t drug a damn camera; it wouldn’t miss a stitch.
“This just isn’t done,” Rudy protested.
“Oh, it is, too,” Heather said. “I see stuff like that on PBS all the time. Once I saw them put a baboon heart inside a human baby. They showed the whole thing.”
“It isn’t done here,” Rudy said.
Heather sat up, making sure that the bedsheets slipped off the slope of her breasts. “Fine, Rudolph,” she said. “If that’s the way you want it, I’ll fly back to California tonight. There’s only about a dozen first-rate surgeons in Beverly Hills that would give.anything to do me.”
The ice in her voice surprised him, though it shouldn’t have. “All right,” he said, pulling on his robe, “we’ll video the surgery. Maybe Robin Leach can use a clip on his show.”
Heather let the wisecrack pass; she was focused on business. She asked Rudy Graveline for a date they could begin.
“A week,” he said. He had to clear his mind a few more times. In another week he also would have heard something definite from Chemo, or maybe Roberta Pepsical.
“And we’re not doing all this at once,” he added. “You’ve got the liposuction, the breast augmentation, the rhinoplasty, the eyelids, and the rhytidectomy-that’s a lot of surgery, Heather.”
“Yes, Rudolph.” She had won and she knew it.
“I think we’ll start with the nose and see how you do.”
“Or how you do,” Heather said.
Rudy had a queasy feeling that she wasn’t kidding.
The executive producer of In Your Face was a man known to Reynaldo Flemm only as Mr. Dover. Mr. Dover was in charge of the budget. Upon Reynaldo’s return to New York, he found a message taped to his office door. Mr. Dover wanted to see him right away.
Immediately Reynaldo called the apartment of Christina Marks, but hung up when Mick Stranahan answered the phone. Reynaldo was fiercely jealous; beyond that, he didn’t think it was fair that he should have to face Mr. Dover alone. Christina was the producer, she knew where all the money went. Reynaldo was merely the talent, and the talent never knew anything.
When he arrived at Mr. Dover’s office, the secretary did not recognize him. “The music division is on the third floor,” she said, scarcely making eye contact.
Reynaldo riffled his new hair and said, “It’s me.”
“Oh, hi, Ray.”
“What do you think?”
The secretary said, “It’s a dynamite disguise.”
“It’s not a disguise.”
“Oh.”
“I wanted a new look,” he explained.
“Why?” asked the secretary.
Reynaldo couldn’t tell her the truth-that a rude plastic surgeon told him he had a fat waist and a big honker-so he said: “Demographics”
The secretary looked at him blankly.
“Market surveys,” he went on. “We’re going for some younger viewers.”
“Oh, I see,” the secretary said.
“Long hair is making quite a comeback.”
“I didn’t know,” she said, trying to be polite. “Is that real, Ray?”
“Well, no. Not yet.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Dover you’re here.”
Mr. Dover was a short man with an accountant’s pinched demeanor, a fishbelly complexion, tiny black eyes, and the slick, sloping forehead of a killer whale. Mr. Dover wore expensive dark suits and yuppie suspenders that, Reynaldo suspected, needed adjustment.
“Ray, what can you tell me about this Florida project?” Mr. Dover never wasted time with small talk.
“It’s heavy,” Reynaldo replied.
“Heavy.”
“Very heavy.” Reynaldo noticed his expense vouchers stacked in a neat pile on the corner of Mr. Dover’s desk. This worried him, so he said, “My producer was almost murdered.”
“I see.”
“With a machine gun,” Reynaldo added.
Mr. Dover pursed his lips. “Why?”
“Because we’re getting close to cracking this story.”
“You’re getting close to cracking my budget, Ray.”
“This is an important project.”
Mr. Dover said, “A network wouldn’t blink twice, Ray, but we’re not one of the networks. My job is to watch the bottom line.”
Indignantly Reynaldo thought: I eat twits like youfor breakfast He was good at thinking tough thoughts.
“Investigations cost money,” he said tersely.
With shiny pink fingernails Mr. Dover leafed through the receipts on his desk until he found the one he wanted. “Jambala’s House of Hair,” he said. “Seven hundred and seventeen dollars.”
Reynaldo blushed and ground his caps. Christina should be here for this; she’d know how to handle this jerk.
Mr. Dover continued: “I don’t intend to interfere, nor do I intend to let these extravagances go on forever. As I understand it, the program is due to air next month.”
“All the spots have been sold,” Reynaldo said. “They’ve been sold for six months.” He couldn’t resist.
“Yes, well I suggest you try not to spend all that advertising revenue before the broadcast date-just in case it doesn’t work out.”
“And when hasn’t it worked out?”
Reynaldo regretted his words almost instantly, for Mr. Dover was only too happy to refresh his memory. There was the time Flemm claimed to have discovered the wreckage of Amelia Earhart’s airplane (it turned out to be a crop duster in New Zealand); the time he claimed to have an exclusive interview with the second gunman from Dealey Plaza (who, it later turned out, was barely seven years old on the day of the Kennedy assassination); the time he uncovered a Congressional call-girl ring (only to be caught boffing two of the ladies in a mop closet at the Rayburn Building). These fiascos each resulted in a canceled broadcast, snide blurbs in the press, and great sums of lost revenue, which Mr. Dover could recall to the penny.
“Ancient history,” Reynaldo Flemm said defensively.
Unspoken was the fact that no such embarrassments had happened since Christina Marks had been hired. Every show had been finished on time, on budget. Reynaldo did not appreciate the connection, but Mr. Dover did.
“You understand my concern,” he said. “How much longer do you anticipate being down in Miami?”
“Two weeks. We’ll be editing.” Sounded good, anyway.
“So, shall we say, one more trip?”
“That ought to do it,” Reynaldo agreed.
“Excellent.” Mr. Dover straightened the stack of Reynaldo’s expense receipts, lining up all the little corners in perfect angles. “By the way, Miss Marks wasn’t harmed, was she?”
“No, just scared shitless. She’s not used to getting shot at.” As if he was.
“Did they catch this person?”
“Nope,” Reynaldo said, hard-bitten, like he wasn’t too surprised.
“My,” said Mr. Dover. He hoped that Christina Marks was paid up on her medical plan and death benefits.
“I told you it was heavy,” Reynaldo said, rising. “But it’ll be worth it, I promise.”
“Good,” said Mr. Dover. “I can’t wait.”
Reynaldo was three steps toward the door when Mr. Dover said, “Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“Forgive me, but I was just noticing.”
“That’s all right.” He’d been wondering how long it would take the twerp to mention something about the hair.
But from behind the desk Mr. Dover smiled wickedly and patted his midsection. “You’ve put on a pound or three, haven’t you, Ray?”
In the elevator Reynaldo angrily tore off his seven-hundred-dollar wig and hurled it into a corner, where it lay like a dead Pekingese. He took the limo back to his apartment, stripped off his clothes, and stood naked for a long time in front of the bedroom mirror.
Reynaldo decided that Mr. Graveline was right: His nose was too large. And his belly had thickened.