They clutched each other like eighth-grade girls, their heads cocked together, giggling. Elizabeth led Meghann through the kitchen.
At the front door, Meghann stumbled to a halt. “Outside? It’s raining hard enough to put your eye out.”
“A little water won’t hurt you.”
“I’d rather not.”
“We’re going down to the beach. I go every night at this time. It’s become a new ritual for me. Sort of a fear antivenin.”
“That’s because you have no life. For the next two days, I’m here for entertainment.”
Elizabeth dragged her forward. “Hurry up or we’ll miss them. My whales are very punctual.”
Meghann stopped dead. “Whales? You’re kidding, right?”
Elizabeth laughed. Damn, it felt good. “Come on, Counselor. For once, you’re 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, it’s slippery,” Elizabeth said.
They were halfway across the yard when the first call sounded.
“Hurry up,” she said. “They’re here.”
“You need help,” Meghann said, spitting rain. “Serious, long-term, probably medicated help.”
Jack arrived at the studio a little later than usual. He’d been out late last night, tossing back brewskis with Warren at Hogs ’n Heifers. He barely remembered getting home.
He’d 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 can’t party like the old days, eh, Jacko?”
Smiling, Jack eased into the leather chair. “You’re looking a little the worse for wear yourself, Butterfingers. Maybe you shouldn’t have had that last plate of nachos.”
Before Warren could answer, the door opened. The show’s 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, Warren’s 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, there’s probably a story there.”
“Jack? What’s your opinion?”
“Truthfully, Tom, I think it’s dull as mud. The kind of story that 60 Minutes or Dateline might do because they’re 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. There’s got to be a way to tie it to sports.”
Tom tapped his pen on the table. After a long minute, he said, “Jack’s right. I don’t know shit from Shinola about Ireland, but it’s 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. “There’s a sports camp in the Mideast where they bring Jewish and Palestinian kids together. Maybe there’s something like that in Ireland. You know, Catholics and Protestants coming together on the soccer field or some damned thing.”
Tom smiled. “That’s why you’re 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, let’s go through today’s 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 who’d recently been diagnosed with MS—was waiting.
After the show, Jack hung around the studio for a while, talking to the various staffers who’d also stayed late. An hour or so later, when the building was nearly empty, he returned to his office.
He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone, dialing a number from memory.
She answered on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Sally,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“Jack! It’s great to hear from you. How’re things in New York? I hear your show is popping some killer numbers.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had sounded so genuinely happy to hear from him. “Things are great. Fox thinks I’m a god.”
“We all think that, Jack. It sure isn’t as much fun around here without you.”
“Then maybe you wouldn’t mind moving to New York. I need an assistant.”