Allan Jefferys

PROLOGUE

It was the anniversary of the finding of the film. Five people in different parts of the country saw the date leap from the calendar and wondered why the memory was so vivid this time. There was no answer; nor did anyone give thought to discussing this date. There was no way to communicate with the one woman in the group. She had simply disappeared. The men were in frequent contact but the finding of the film was never a subject on any agenda.
Still, the memories persisted as each mind drifted backward to that bygone period when television news was a money losing obligation replete with integrity and high purpose—just before it became a cash cow. Memories zeroed in on a special news story.



1

“Stand by to roll 87. . . Stand by cartridge . . . stand by announce.”
“ROLL 87!”
“87 is rolling. . . three. . . two. . . one. . . ”
“TAKE 87! HIT CARTRIDGE! Open the announce mike . . . cartridge under. . .
“ANNOUNCE! Standby Camera l. . .”
The rich timbre of an announcer’s voice overpowered the allegro theme that gushed from the KLH speaker angled down from the ceiling. Two stories below, in the basement of the Alpha Broadcasting Building, a montage of New Yorkers at work and play threaded itself smoothly through the sprockets of Projector 87 and was electronically fed to the on-the-air monitor. Block lettering optically superimposed on the film spelled out what the announcer was reading: The WABS-TV SIX O’CLOCK NEWS was on the air.
“ TAKE 1 . . . CUE BLADE!”
A medium close-up of anchorman Howard Blade replaced the film on the monitor as the theme faded out. Blade fixed his lips in a half smile and rattled off the headlines of the day’s major news stories in a flat mid-western twang totally devoid of humor, excitement or even interest.
In the semi-dark control room above the studio a short stocky man named Jack Heek turned to his neighbor and sneered, “I hope he doesn’t fall asleep before the first commercial.”
His neighbor gave Heek, the new general manager, a wary glance and stated, “He’s a good newsman. He maintains his objectivity.”
“Hmmph!”
The associate director whirled and snarled, “Hey, hold it down back there. We’re trying to do a show.”
The general manager shrugged and turned his attention back to the monitor. Blade was wrapping up the first story and leading into a commercial.
“I’ll have more news in just a moment.”
Five men hunched over a long Formica-covered shelf went into action on Blade’s last word. The Technical Director punched a button that erased Blade from the screen and replaced him with the image of a young actress pretending to be a housewife as she brandished a can of floor wax. Another technician studied an oscilloscope and made a minuscule adjustment in the video level of the film. On the other side of a glass partition, the audio man turned a knob to the left as he lowered the volume of the commercial. The VU meter registered -1 but the commercial still sounded loud and three people in three different homes made themselves a promise to write a letter of complaint to the station. None of the promises would be kept.
“Twenty out,” warned the Associate Director. “Next lower third is Lindsay. Change RP, please.”
“Coming out on Camera 2,” the Director announced. “Put him in the center, 2. Tilt down more. Hold it right there. Stand by to take 2 . . . TAKE 2—CUE HIM!”
Blade made a quarter turn in his chair to face Camera 2 and droned his way through three more stories.

Fifty miles to the northeast of TV-27, in the heart of Connecticut’s affluent Fairfield County, the town of New Canaan busied itself in preparation for the arrival of the first batch of homeward bound commuters. Martini glasses were chilling in refrigerators, charcoal briquettes were heaped high on outdoor grills, steaks were marinating in secret concoctions and wives were changing from blue jeans and tennis shorts to more enticing apparel. Few of the residents were tuned into the WABS-TV SIX O’CLOCK NEWS. The sun was still too high above the white spires of the churches on what the town called God’s Acre to think about watching television. Those interested in learning what was happening to the world were content to await the eleven o’clock news programs or even to hold off until the next morning, where they would scan the headlines of the New York Times that would be deposited in their mail boxes before dawn.
There was one notable exception to this disdain for the efforts of the WABS-TV news team. In a comfortable pecan-paneled den tucked into one of the many rambling colonial homes of this quiet village, a large man sat slumped in a leather chair staring at a 25 inch color television set. He wore a worried expression on his face and seemed to be having difficulty concentrating on the screen. It was unlike this man to find his mind wandering while watching a news program. News had been the mainstay of his life for almost a third of a century.
He did not look like a newsman. He looked like someone who would be more at home on a dairy farm than in a newsroom. His six foot four inch frame was well proportioned and well maintained. His condition was that of a man twenty years his junior. The only intrusion to his appearance was a large bulbous nose— an incongruous interruption to a well tanned face with a firm chin and deep-set blue eyes tucked in beneath bushy eyebrows. He used those eyebrows effectively to punctuate proclamations aimed at his cohorts in the news business. His name was Otto Colbert and he was the president of Alpha Broadcasting News.

“Give him a wrap. ROLL 90!”
The director flicked his eyes toward the blank monitor above a magnetic number labeled FILM 90. The monitor remained blank.
“Where the hell is 90? JESUS CHRIST! I SAID ROLL IT! ROLL 90 . . . ROLL. . . ROLL! Tell those sons-a-bitches in projection to get their heads out of their asses.”
In the vast cavern of a projection room a technician blushed as he realized that he had been thinking of his upcoming vacation. He made a frantic dive for the switch. In the control room the dead monitor came to life with a fluttering 5 . . . then steadied down to display a 4 followed a second later by a 3.
“TAKE 90!”
There had been a nine second delay between Blade’s introduction and the arrival of the film. Jack Heek rolled his eyes toward the acoustic ceiling in a gesture of exasperation at the seeming inefficiency of the control room crew. His neighbor gave him another wary look, started to say something, then changed his mind and kept silent.
Down on the studio floor, Howard Blade blinked awkwardly at the camera until the red light went off. Then he glowered in the direction of the stage manager and growled “Is there some electronic reason why they can’t go to black when the film doesn’t come up? Or do they just relish the thought of watching me sit here with egg on my face?”
The stage manager gave the anchorman a sympathetic shrug, and then cupped his hand around his ear phone as he listened to directions coming from the control room. “Ten seconds, Howard,” he said. “It’s coming out. You have a twelve second roll through on the next story.”
Blade wiped the angry frown from his face and fingered his stopwatch. The roll through meant that the film-would keep rolling off screen while the camera was on the newsman. He had exactly twelve seconds to bridge the story before the film was again punched up. Make it too short and his words would hang in the air for what would seem like an eternity. Stretch the speech too long and the film would be up cut. Anchormen and editors alike disliked roll throughs and only used the device when there was no covering film clip that could be edited into the story.
Blade caught the stage manager’s signal from the corner of his eye, saw the red light glow on the camera and began to talk. The stage manager held up five fingers and then closed them one at a time as he silently counted down the last five seconds of Blade’s speech. The newsman finished on the stage manager’s closed fist cue and the film hit the screen again.
One of the men on the raised platform behind the control room crew leaned over and whispered to the producer, “Why did we have a roll through there? Why couldn’t the reporter do a stand-up at the scene?”
The producer whispered back, “Don’t you remember? We had to pull the crew out for the Brooklyn fire before they could shoot cut-aways. We’ve got to get more crews, Mitch.”
Mitch nodded and turned back to watch the program, trying to separate Blade’s words from the incessant chatter of the directors and technicians. He wondered why he had invited the new general manager to watch the program from the control room. It was a move that usually courted disaster. Tiny mistakes always seemed amplified in this back stage atmosphere. Like that nine second delay. Chances were it would never have been noticed if they had watched the program from the office.
Then he remembered. It had been the general manager’s idea to sit through the show in the control room. Mitch glanced at the bored face of the stubby man. Jack Heek looked more like a drill sergeant than a general manager. He wore his hair in an anachronistic crew cut and carried himself so erect that you tended to forget that he was only five feet four inches tall. He had flown in from San Francisco three weeks ago to take over the reins of the New York flagship station of the Alpha Broadcasting System. The network’s grapevine had quickly filled in the New York team on Heek. He was a tough take-charge type who had made the San Francisco station number one in its market. But a lot of heads had rolled in the process. Rumor also had it that some of Heek’s methods were about as savory as a backed up septic tank.
THE SIX O’CLOCK NEWS moved into its second half. As the Technical Director dissolved to another film story, the producer glanced at the clock on the wall and then checked his script. The show was running behind. He picked up his phone and pressed a buzzer. Three preview camera monitors showed Blade picking up a similar instrument and placing it to his ear.
“Kill pages thirteen and fourteen,” the producer ordered.
“Right,” Blade acknowledged.
“Stand by Camera 3 . . . tell Blade to fix his tie.”
“TAKE 3! Give 90 a good night.”
The Technical Director pressed a floor switch with his toe and leaned into a tiny microphone that arched over the switcher. “That’s a good night, 90. Thank you.”
Blade launched into another story.
“What’s he doing?” The director screamed. “WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”
“Sorry, Larry,” the producer said. “I killed pages thirteen and fourteen. He’s in the middle of fifteen. I forgot to tell you.”
“Thanks a bunch. Nothing like keeping a secret from the director to add spice to the show. That’s just what I need . . . a challenge.”
Jack Heek curled his lip in a gesture of disgust. Although Heek realized that no viewer could possibly have noticed the skipped pages, it was, to him, evidence of sloppiness he considered intolerable— and correctable with the right changes in personnel.

Few of the daily occupants of the thirty-seven-story building that housed Alpha Broadcasting were paying attention to their own local TV newscast. Radio was engaged in its own problems; most of the secretaries, promotion people, salesmen, lawyers, labor relations and personnel workers and the other off-the-air employees had already departed for the day. Those who remained were busy at other tasks. Commercials were being inserted in taped shows due to air later that night. One studio was in full swing as a team from the sports department taped a special on a Grand Prix race that had been filmed earlier in Monaco. In still another studio the first of three network news feeds was already snaking its way across the country on closed-circuit lines. In the network newsroom on the fourth floor writers, editors and desk assistants were racing frantically around as they checked wires for possible updates.
Again, there was one notable exception. In the long corridor-like clients’ booth that overlooked TV-27, a lone girl alternated between watching the squat color set at one end and staring belligerently down toward the studio floor itself. Her eyes narrowed to thin slits of envy as Channel 3’s girl reporter, Betsy Hoopes, took her turn in front of the camera. The girl in the client’s booth saw herself in that role and resented the fates that had thus far kept her behind the camera. Her name was Sheri Gamm and she was the secretary to the WABS-TV Local News Director.

Blade introduced the sportscaster, Harvey Cooper, who spent forty seconds giving baseball scores and two minutes regaling the audience with a long-winded diatribe about the need for changes in baseball’s rules. The sportscaster was an ex-lawyer and never let anyone forget it.
Weatherman Hal Conway followed him. Conway looked more like a Wyoming cowboy than a television personality. He was six feet six and built like a sinewy locust tree but he had dominated the weather scene in New York television for fifteen years. He and his puppet, Angus, were celebrities when TV news was still picking up the crumbs of seven newspapers. Today, Angus was garbed in an old-fashioned bathing suit that accentuated his knobby wooden knees. It was Conway’s trick to tell the viewers that tomorrow promised to be another scorcher.

The majority of the transients stopping at the Hotel Americana chose to ignore New York’s local newscasts. Most of the tourists were still strolling up and down the searing sidewalks in almost masochistic determination to squeeze in every available minute of sightseeing. If they regretted choosing a New York vacation over one at the cooler beaches or mountains, they kept those regrets locked inside them. This was supposed to be fun and they were damned if their holiday was going to be loused up by temperatures in the 90’s.
The business men who called the hotel a temporary home were poring over order blanks, invoices, notes and brochures— angry at the number of prospects who were out of town but happy at last to be ensconced in air-conditioned comfort. They would spend the rest of the hot night working in the hotel, dining in the hotel, boozing in the hotel and, hopefully, fornicating in the hotel.
For the third time there was a notable exception. This time it was a dapper young man who was now letting a smug smirk play around his lips as he checked off the errors in WABS-TV’s newscast. If all went as promised he would soon be earning more than twice his current salary.
It would not be enough to satisfy him.
He would also have power over three times the number of people who now answered to him.
It would not be enough to satisfy him.
He would gain prestige offered to few men in his industry.
It would not be enough to satisfy him.
His name was Anthony J. Hadde and he was the News Director of Alpha Broadcasting’s San Francisco outlet.

Conway finished his weather report and Blade closed out the program with a filmed story about the zoo’s two favorite polar bears. Jack Heek yawned loudly in the middle of it.
As the theme ended and the on-the-air monitor went to black, the Director hit the intercom switch that fed the studio floor and said, “Good show everybody. Thank you. That’s a good night.”
The Technical Director threw another switch that opened intercoms to projection, Master Control and tape facilities. “That’s a good night from TV-27,” he said.
The audio man stood up, stretched and announced, “Time for a taste of the grape. All those interested in the delights of PADDY’S SALOON will please form a single file and follow me.”
“Everybody back at ten o’clock for set-up,” the TD ordered.
The control room emptied quickly as the crew took advantage of the three-hour break between the early and the late news. It was, as the audio man suggested, a time for a taste. Or maybe two tastes. If possible, dinner would be squeezed in. But first, second and third: a taste.
Mitch Bellows turned to the short stocky man and said, “Buy you a drink, Jack?”
Jack Heek gave the News Director a long level stare as though he were turning the offer over in his mind. He rejected it. “Rain check, Mitch, Rain check.”
Mitch lingered in the control room long enough to give the general manager a good head start toward the elevator. Heek had pointedly rejected not only the drink but any discussion of the news program he had just witnessed. The depressing thought that his days might be numbered as News Director brushed across Mitch’s mind. He shrugged off the prospect of being ousted. He had had the same premonitions about each of the last three general managers. Each one had flaunted a big broom. Each had tried to walk tough around the news area and each had finally adopted a hands off policy. News was still a sacred cow.
Mitch was wrong. Jack Heek had no intention of honoring any hands off policy where WABS-TV News was concerned. Heek had plans for the station and the news operation was on top of his agenda of things to be changed.