Private Scandals

and I’m glad I can continue to do so. It’s a negligible cut in salary, and it is New York. That makes up for a lot, doesn’t it?” She beamed at him, pleased with her own generosity. “And to show you how much I value you, I’ll want you on board for the first special. We’ll have legal draw up a contract, make it official. In the meantime . . .” She rose, crossed to him to take his hand between both of hers in the warm, affectionate gesture of old friends. “You go back and tidy up your affairs in Chicago. I’ll have my real estate agent look for a cozy little place for you and Barbara. Maybe Brooklyn Heights.” She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “And you keep your ears open, won’t you, dear?”
    “Sure, Angela,” he said dully. “Whatever you say.”

Chapter Ten
    L oren Bach’s office capped the lofty silver tower that was home for Delacort’s Chicago base. Its glass walls offered a view that stretched beyond the Monopoly board of downtown. On a clear day, he could see into misted plains of Michigan. Loren liked to say he could stand guard over hundreds of the stations that carried Delacort’s programming, and thousands of homes that watched.
    The suite of offices reflected his personality. Its main area was a streamlined, masculine room designed for serious work. The deep green walls and dark walnut trim were pleasant to the eye, an uncluttered backdrop for the sleek, modern furnishings and recessed television screens. He knew that it was sometimes necessary to entertain in an office, as well as do business. As a concession and a convenience, there was a semicircular sofa in burgundy leather, a pair of padded chrome chairs and a wide smoked-glass table. The contents of a fully stocked refrigerator catered to his addiction to Classic Coke.
    One of his walls was lined with photographs of himself with celebrities. Stars whose sitcoms and dramas had moved into syndication, politicians running for office, network bigwigs. The one telling omission was Angela Perkins.
    Adjoining the office was a washroom in dramatic black and white, complete with a whirlpool and sauna. Beyond that was a smaller room that held a Hollywood bed, a big-screen TV and a closet. Loren had never broken the habit of his lean years, and continued to work long hours, often catching a few hours’ sleep and a change of clothing right in the workplace.
    But his sanctuary was an area that had been converted from office space. It was cluttered with colorful arcade games where he could save worlds or video damsels in distress, electronic pinball machines that whirled with light and sound, a talking Coke machine.
    Every morning he allowed an hour to indulge himself with the bells and whistles and often challenged network executives to beat his top scores. No one did.
    Loren Bach was a video wizard, and the love affair had begun in childhood in the bowling alleys his father had owned. Loren had never had any interest in tenpins, but he’d had an interest in business, and in the flash of the silver ball.
    In his twenties, with his degree from MIT still hot, he’d expanded the family business into arcades. Then he’d begun to dabble in the king of video: television.
    Thirty years later, his work was his play, and his play was his work.
    Though he had allowed a few decorative touches in the office area—a Zorach sculpture, a Gris collage—the core of the room was the desk. So it was more of a console than a traditional desk. Loren had designed it himself. He enjoyed the fantasy of sitting in a cockpit, controlling destinies.
    Simple and functional, its base was fitted with dozens of cubbyholes rather than drawers. Its work surface was wide and curved, so that when Loren sat behind it, he was surrounded by phones, computer keyboards, monitors.
    An adept hacker, Loren could summon up any desired information skillfully and swiftly, from advertising rates for any of Delacort’s—or its competitors’—programs, to the current exchange rate of dollar to yen.
    As a hobby, he designed and programmed computer games for a subsidiary of his syndicate’s.
    At fifty-two, he had the quiet, aesthetic looks of a monk, with a long, bony face and a thin build. His mind was as sharp as a scalpel.
    Seated behind his desk, he tapped a button on his remote. One of the four television screens blinked on. Eyes mild and thoughtful, he sipped from a sixteen-ounce bottle of Coke and watched Deanna Reynolds.
    He would have viewed the tape