Hard News

syndicated news services but so far all we’ve had are a couple of junior reporters call Publicity for statements. Nobody on Wallace’s or Rather’s level. Nobody from
Media in Review
. It’s a pain in the ass but I don’t think it’s critical.”
    Sutton kept her eyes on Rune as she said, “I’ve already gotten a call from Semple.”
    Maisel closed his eyes. “Ouch. I thought he was in Paris.”
    “He is. The
Herald Tribune
picked up the story in their third edition.”
    Dan Semple was the current head of Network News. He’d taken over when Lance Hopper was killed. He was, give or take a few miracles, God. One of the reasons that Hopper was so sorely missed was that he was an angel compared with Semple, who was known for his vicious temper and cut-throat business practices. He’d even punched a junior producer who’d carelessly lost an exclusive to CNN.
    Maisel asked, “What was his reaction?”
    “Not fit for human consumption,” Sutton said. “He’ll be back in a few days and he wants to talk about it.” She sighed. “Corporate politics … just what we need now. And with the budgets coming up in a month …” Sutton looked at the newspaper, gestured at it then glanced at Rune. “But the big danger of this is what?”
    Maisel was nodding. But Rune didn’t get it.
    “I …”
    “Think,” Sutton snapped.
    “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
    Maisel supplied the answer. “That another magazine or feature program’ll pick up the lead and bring out the story at the same time we do. It’s a news policy—we don’t spend time and money on a story if there’s a chance we’ll be preempted.”
    Rune rocked forward in the chair. “It won’t happen again. I promise. I’ll be so skeptical you won’t believe it.”
    “Rune,” Sutton began.
    “Look, what I’ll do is ask people when I interview them if anybody from any other station has been asking them questions. If they have been I’ll tell you. I promise. That way you can decide if you want to go ahead with the story or not.”
    Maisel said, “The only weapon journalists have is their minds. You’ve got to start using yours.”
    “I will. Just like the Scarecrow.”
    Sutton asked, “The what?”
    “You know,
The Wizard of Oz
. He wanted a brain and—”
    “Enough.” Sutton waved her hand, managing to make her face both blank and hostile at the same time. Finally she said, “All right. Keep on it. But if anybody beats us to the punch—I’m talking
anybody:
a rap station, MTV, Columbia’s student station—we drop the project. Lee?”
    “Okay with me,” Maisel said.
    Lighting another cigarette, Sutton nodded and said, “All right. But this was your last strike, babes.”
    “I thought you got three,” Rune said, standing up, retreating to the door.
    Sutton tossed the lighter onto her desk; it skidded into a crystal ashtray. “We play by
my
rules around here. Not the American League’s.”
    THE CHAMELEON SAT ON THE WALL, AT AN ANGLE, FRO -zen in space, hardly breathing.
    Jack Nestor lay in bed and watched it.
    He liked chameleons. Not the way they changed color, which wasn’t so spectacular when it came right down to it. It was more the way they were fragile and soft. He sometimes could get up real close to them—the ones around the Miami Beach Starlite Motor Lodge were used to people. He’d pick one up and let it walk along his massive, tanned forearm. He liked feeling the baby-skin of the lizard and the pleasant tickle of its feet.
    Sometimes he’d plop one down on his dark blurred tattoo, hoping it would turn to that deep blue color, but it never did. They didn’t change to flesh color either. What they did was they jumped the hell off his arm and scurried away like long roaches.
    Nestor was forty-eight years old but looked younger. He still had a thick wavy mass of hair, which he kept in place with Vitalis and spray. It was dark blond though contained some timid streaks of gray. Nestor had a squarish head and a hint of a double chin but the only thing about his body that bothered him was his belly. Nestor was fat. His legs were strong and thin and he had good shoulders but his large chest sat above a round belly that jutted out and curled over his waistband, hiding his Marine Corps belt buckle. Nestor didn’t understand why he had this problem. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down to a proper meal, roast beef and potatoes and bread and vegetables and pie for dessert (he thought it was probably