"Id rather not. "
"Were going down to the beach. I go every night at this time. Its become a new ritual for me. Sort of a fear antivenin. "
"Thats because you have no life. For the next two days, Im here for entertainment. "
Elizabeth dragged her forward. "Hurry up or well miss them. My whales are very punctual. "
Meghann stopped dead. "Whales? Youre kidding, right?"
Elizabeth laughed. Damn, it felt good. "Come on, Counselor. For once, youre going to follow instead of lead. "
Elizabeth stepped into the darkened yard. Meghann stumbled along beside her, grasped her hand tightly. Rain fell hard and fast, turned the yard into a giant mud puddle.
"Be careful, its slippery," Elizabeth said.
They were halfway across the yard when the first call sounded.
"Hurry up," she said. "Theyre here. "
"You need help," Meghann said, spitting rain. "Serious, long-term, probably medicated help. "
Jack arrived at the studio a little later than usual. Hed been out late
last night, tossing back brewskis with Warren at Hogs n Heifers. He barely remembered getting home.
Hed had good reason to celebrate: Good Sports had premiered last week and become an instant hit. Ratings had gone through the roof.
Jack was hot again.
In the conference room, he went straight to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup.
"Good God," Warren said, laughing, "you look like hell. Just cant party like the old days, eh, Jacko?"
Smiling, Jack eased into the leather chair. "Youre looking a little the worse for wear yourself, Butterfingers. Maybe you shouldnt have had that last plate of nachos. "
Before Warren could answer, the door opened. The shows executive producer, Tom Jinaro, walked briskly into the room. His assistant, Hans, trailed along behind, his violin-bow arms loaded up with yellow notebooks and reams of paper.
Tom took his usual seat at the head of the table. A moment later, Warrens assistant came into the room and sat beside him.
Jack sat alone on his side of the table.
Tom looked down at his notes, then up at the faces around him. "Hans thinks we should do something on ephedrine in supplements. Sort of the secret-deadly-killer kind of thing. What do you think, Warren?"
Warren shrugged. "If someone dropped dead, theres probably a story there. "
"Jack? Whats your opinion?"
"Truthfully, Tom, I think its dull as mud. The kind of story that 60 Minutes or Dateline might do because theyre on-air so much. We should be pushing the envelope a little more, making people think. I read this article the other day--I think it was in The Christian Science Monitor, but it might have been the Times--anyway, it was about the troubles in Northern Ireland. Comparing it to the U. S. after September eleventh. The Irish know about living in dangerous, uncertain times. Theres got to be a way to tie it to sports. "
Tom tapped his pen on the table. After a long minute, he said, "Jacks right. I dont know shit from Shinola about Ireland, but its a better hook than some drug no one can pronounce. " He turned to Hans. "You know anything about Ireland?"
Hans frowned, pushed the glasses higher on his Ichabod Crane nose. "Theres a sports camp in the Mideast where they bring Jewish and Palestinian kids together. Maybe theres something like that in Ireland. You know, Catholics and Protestants coming together on the soccer field or some damned thing. "
Tom smiled. "Thats why youre my guy, Hans. Check it out. Give me a report by tomorrow a. m. " Then he thumped his hand on the desk. "Okay, sports fans, lets go through todays script. "
They spent the next two hours reading through and editing the script. Then Jack and Warren went into the studio, where their guest--an Olympic long jumper whod recently been diagnosed with MS--was waiting.
After the show, Jack hung around the studio for a while, talking to the various staffers whod also stayed late. An hour or so later, when the building was nearly empty, he returned to his office.