“Broadcast it? Ron Gabriel getting what he’s always asking for? It’s too delicious!”
“Yes, but it could, well... it could reflect poorly on the show.”
Gloria put her napkin to her lips and for a wild instant Earnest thought she was going to devour it. But instead she wiped her mouth and then flapped the napkin in Earnest’s direction, saying:
“Greg... you don’t mind me calling you Greg, do you?”
Earnest hated being called Greg, but he said, “No, of course not.”
“All right, Greg, now listen. It has always been my policy to speak no evil of the people I like. I like Bernie Finger and I love this heavyweight champion you’ve got here....” She nodded in Dulaq’s direction. “And you’ve got a lovely new starlet. She’s going to be a winner, I know. So, no matter how much I loathe Gabriel, I won’t breathe a word about the fight over the air.”
Earnest sighed. “Oh, thank you, Gloria.”
“Nothing to it. You are getting rid of the little creep, though, aren’t you?”
“Oh we certainly are,” Earnest assured her. “He’s on his way out. Never fear.”
Ron Gabriel, meanwhile, had arrived and let himself be led quietly to Les Montpelier’s booth. He didn’t see Gloria, Earnest, et. al., mainly because he was wearing dark glasses and the restaurant’s twilight lighting level was quite dim. As it was, Gabriel had a little difficulty following the head waiter who showed him to the booth. He tripped over a step and bumped into a waitress on the way. He cursed at the step and made a date with the girl.
As he slid into the booth, he said, “I’m not eating anything. They just pumped me so full of antibiotics at the hospital that all I want to do is go home and sleep. Let’s just talk business and skip the socializing.”
Before Montpelier could respond, Elton Good pulled a thick wad of notes from his jacket pocket.
“Very well, Mr. Gabriel. I like a man who speaks his mind. There are eighty-seven changes that need to be made in your script before its acceptable to FINC.”
“Eighty-seven?”
Good nodded smilingly. “Yes. And as you know, heh-heh, without FINC’s mark of approval, your script cannot be shown on American television.”
“Eighty-motherloving-seven,” Gabriel moaned.
“Here’s the first of them,” said Good, peering at his notes in the dim lighting. His smile widened. “Ah, yes... when you have the character Rom standing behind the character Ben, who’s sitting at the command console, I believe....”
“That’s in the second scene,” Montpelier murmured.
“Yes. Rom puts his hand on Ben’s shoulder... that’s got to come out.”
“Huh? Why?”
Good’s smile turned sickening. “Can’t you see? It’s too suggestive. One man standing behind another man and then touching him on the shoulder! Children will be watching this show, after all!”
Gabriel looked across the table at Montpelier. Even though half the writer’s face was covered by dark glasses, Montpelier could read anguish and despair in his expression.
“I shorely do love my wife,” Connors was telling Brenda, between bites of steak. “But, well, hell, honey... I travel an awful lot. And I’m not exactly repulsive. When I see somethin’ I like, I don’t turn my back to it.”
“That’s understandable,” Brenda said. She toyed with her salad for a moment, then asked, “And what does your wife do while you’re away on all these business trips?”
He dropped his fork into his lap. “Whattaya mean?”
Brenda widened her eyes. “I mean, does she fill in the time with volunteer work or social clubs or at the golf course? She doesn’t stay home with the children all the time, does she?”
Connors scowled at her. “No, I reckon she doesn’t. We belong to the country club. And she’s a voluntary librarian, over t’the school.”
“I see.”
He retrieved his fork and studied it for a moment, then changed the subject as he went back to the attack on his steak. “I wanted t’get yore opinion about how many TNT products we can use on the show? As props, I mean.”
“Well,” Brenda said, “the action’s supposed to be taking place seven hundred years in the future. I don’t think too many existing products will be in keeping with the scenario...”
Connors’ face brightened. “They’ll still be usin’ wrist-watches, won’t they? We make wristwatches. And pocket radios, calculators, all sorts of stuff.”
“Yes, but if they’re the same products that are being advertised during the commercial breaks, then the viewers will...”
“Well, spit, why not? The viewers’ll think that TNT’s stuff’s so good people’ll still be usin’ ‘em seven hunnert years from now. That’s terrific!”
“I don’t know if that will work....”
“Shore it will. And I’ll tell yew somethin’ else, honey. I don’t want any shows about computers breakin’ down or goin’ crazy or any of that kinda stuff. We make computers that don’t break down or go crazy and we ain’t gonna sponsor any show that says otherwise.”
Brenda nodded. “I can understand that.”
“And where do you get your hair done?” Gloria Glory was asking Rita.
