“When I thought it was journalism,” he said. “Not…”
Bill laughed, shaking his head with wonder at his own inventiveness.
“I gotta play these tapes for you. It’s classic.”
David came around the desk.
“Stop talking.”
“Where are you going?” Bill asked.
“Don’t say another fucking word to anyone,” David told him, “either of you,” and walked out of his office.
Lydia was at her desk.
“I’ve got Sellers on line two,” she said.
David didn’t stop, didn’t turn. He walked through rows of cubicles, sweat dripping down his sides. This could be the end of them. He knew it in his bones, didn’t even have to hear the rest of the story.
“Move,” he yelled at a group of crew cuts in short-sleeved shirts. They scattered like rabbits.
Mind racing, David reached the elevator bank, pushed the button, then, without waiting, kicked open the door to the stairs, went down a floor. He stalked the halls like a spree killer with an assault rifle, found Liebling in the conference room, sitting with sixteen other lawyers.
“Out,” said David. “Everybody.”
They scrambled, these nameless suits with their law degrees, the door hitting the last one on the heels. Sitting there, Don Liebling had a bemused look on his face. He was their in-house counsel, mid-fifties and Pilates fit.
“Jesus, Bateman,” he said.
David paced.
“Cunningham,” was all he could say for a moment.
“Shit,” said Liebling. “What did that wet dick do now?”
“I only heard some of it,” David said. “I cut him off before I could become an accessory after the fact.”
Liebling frowned.
“Tell me there isn’t a dead hooker in a hotel room somewhere.”
“I wish,” David said. “A dead hooker would be easy compared to this.”
Looking up, he saw an airplane high above the Empire State Building. For a moment his need to be on it, going somewhere, anywhere, was overwhelming. He dropped into a leather chair, ran his hand through his hair.
“The fucktard tapped Kellerman’s phone. Probably others. I got the feeling he was going to start listing victims, like a serial killer, so I left.”
Liebling smoothed his tie.
“When you say tapped his phone…”
“He has a guy. Some intel consultant who said he could get Bill access to anybody’s email or phone.”
“Jesus.”
David leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.
“You have to talk to him.”
Liebling nodded.
“He needs his own lawyer,” he said. “I think he uses Franken. I’ll call.”
David tapped his fingers on the tabletop. He felt old.
“I mean, what if it was congressmen or senators?” he asked. “My God. It’s bad enough he’s spying on the competition.”
Liebling thought about that. David closed his eyes and pictured Rachel and JJ digging holes in the backyard, planting old-world apple trees. He should have taken the month off, should be there with them right now, flip-flops on, a Bloody Mary in hand, laughing every time his son said, What’s up, chicken butt?
“Could this sink us?” he asked, eyes still shut.
Liebling equivocated with his head.
“It sinks him. That’s for sure.”
“But it hurts us?”
“Without a doubt,” said Liebling. “A thing like this. There could be congressional hearings. At the very least you’ve got the FBI up your ass for two years. They’ll talk about pulling our broadcast license.”
David thought about this.
“Do I resign?”
“Why? You didn’t know anything. Did you?”
“It doesn’t matter. A thing like this. If I didn’t know, I should have.”
He shook his head.
“Fucking Bill.”
But it wasn’t Bill’s fault, thought David. It was his. Cunningham was David’s gift to the world, the angry white man people invited into their living rooms to call bullshit at the world, to rail against a system that robbed us of everything we felt we deserved—the third-world countries that were taking our jobs. The politicians who were raising our taxes. Bill Cunningham, Mr. Straight Talk, Mr. Divine Righteousness, who sat in our living rooms and shared our pain, who told us what we wanted to hear, which was that the reason we were losing out in life was not that we were losers, but that someone was reaching into our pockets, our companies, our country and taking what was rightfully ours.
Bill Cunningham was the voice of ALC News and he had gone insane. He was Kurtz in the jungle, and David should have realized, should have pulled him back, but the ratings were too good, and the shots Bill was taking at the enemy were direct hits. They were the number one network, and that meant everything. Was Bill a diva? Absolutely. But divas can be handled. Lunatics on the other hand…
“I’ve gotta call Roger,” he said, meaning the billionaire. Meaning his boss. The boss.