Eleventh Hour

Delion said.
    “The problem,” Frank Pauley said, waving that hand with the four diamond rings on it, “is that the Little Shit is really good when it comes to picking story concepts, and God knows there are zillions pitched each season. He’s good at picking actors, at picking the right time slots for the shows to air. Sometimes he’s wrong, but not that often. It’s all very depressing, particularly since he has the habit of telling everyone how great he is. Everyone hates his guts.”
    “Yeah,” Delion said. “Even as delicate as I am, I can sure see why.”
    “Twenty-four? As in only two dozen years old?” Detective Flynn asked.
    “Yep, a raw thing to swallow,” Frank Pauley said. “On the other hand, most of the top executives in a studio are only around for the short term—maybe three, four years. You can bet their entire focus is on how much money they can pocket before they’re out. This is a money business. There are simply no other considerations. You’ll have an executive producer getting his paycheck, then he’ll decide to direct a show and that means he gets another paycheck. It’s all ego and money.”
    “Why are you telling us all this, Mr. Pauley?” Flynn asked.
    Frank Pauley grinned, splayed his hands. “Hey, I’m cooperating. It’s better if you have some clue what motivates people around here.”
    “You direct shows, Mr. Pauley?” Nick said.
    “You bet. I sometimes also earn a paycheck for inputting on the actual writing of an episode.”
    “Three paychecks?” Nick asked.
    “Yes, everyone does it who can. You know what’s even better? For direction and writing, I get royalties or residuals. I’ve got no complaints.”
    Flynn rolled his eyes, said, “I’ve got to make sure my son is clear on all of this.”
    Delion said, “You’re telling us that money, power, and ego—are the bottom line here in sin city? How shocking.”
    Pauley smiled. “I hesitate to say this so cynically, but I want to be totally up front with you. This is a very serious mess we’ve got on our hands. If it gets out, and you can bet the bank it will, I don’t want to think what’s going to happen. The media will be brutal. I’ve kept quiet about this, just as you asked. To the best of my knowledge, no one involved in The Consultant has left town because the cops were here this morning. Wolfinger is expecting us on the fifth floor. That’s where the Little Shit’s castle is. It was a regular office until Mr. Burdock hired him on. This way.”
    “What do you mean a ‘regular’ office?” Nick asked.
    “You’ll see.”
    “Tell us about Miles Burdock,” Delion said.
    “He likes everyone to think he’s hands-on, that if he personally doesn’t like a show, it’s gone, but to be honest about it, it’s really Linus Wolfinger who’s got all the power around here. Mr. Burdock has so many irons in the fire—most of them international—and hell, you come right down to it, we’re just a little iron. He really likes Linus Wolfinger, met him here at the studio, watched him over a couple of months while Linus did nearly all the planning and execution of one of our prime-time shows when both the producer and the director proved incompetent. Then he promoted him, put him in charge of the whole magilla just like that.” Frank Pauley snapped his fingers. “It caused quite a furor for a while.”
    They went through three secretaries, all over fifty, professionals to their button-down shirts, with not a single long leg showing, and not a single long red nail.
    Frank Pauley just waved at them and kept walking down the wide corridor. Flynn said, “I would have bet no self-respecting studio honcho would have secretaries like these.”
    “You mean like adult secretaries? Linus fired the other, much younger secretary the day he moved in. Fact is, though, everyone needs slaves who will work eighteen-hour days without much bitching. That means young, and so usually the secretaries aren’t older than thirty. That’s why Linus hired three secretaries. Let me tell you, the place really runs better now.”
    Nick said, “How long has Mr. Wolfinger been here?”
    “Nearly two years in his current position, maybe six months before that. Let me tell you, it’s been the longest two years in my life.”
    A man of about thirty-five, so beefed up he probably couldn’t stand straight, put himself in their faces, barring their way. He looked like he could grind nails with his teeth. “That’s Arnold