Chapter Nine: Agendas

He was at the office by 8 AM, excited by the staff ideas and mixing them with his own. At nine he had the staff compiling information that he might need and just before ten a.m. as Ian and Wella walked into the meeting; he felt scared but confident, ready and excited.

With the exception of Wella, he was without a doubt a good thirty years younger than everyone else in the room. Wella was the only woman and the only person of color, but not the only assistant.

Tolan quickly took charge, introducing Ian to everyone, most of whom he had already met. First on Tolan’s agenda, to Ian’s chagrin, was Ian. He started out by asking Ian to give his take on the current line up and what he would do to increase market shares in key demographics.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Wella scratch her forehead. He understood the signal. Ian cleared his throat and calmly said, “Thank you sir, but being the new guy here, I would prefer to sit back and learn for right now.”

Tolan nodded his head, but Simon Kent, a rotund man with Truman Capote’s body and Tallulah Bankhead’s voice, spoke up. “Please, Ian, we are all anxious to hear what your initial reaction is. Frankly, we are all on pins and needles.”

Wella’s eyes connected with his and she tapped her pencil on the pad in her lap. Ian thought in his head, “Proceed with caution.”

“Actually…” The old man with the cane, seated to Jack Tolan’s right leaned forward. “I’d like to hear what you have to say myself, young man.”

Simon Kent had to quickly hide the sour look that had taken over his face. The old man had been introduced to Ian as David Turner, the “T” in HRT. Ian had seen him walking in or out of the building. Until a few moments ago, he had no idea who he was other than the old guy he’d felt sorry for every time he saw him staring at the paintings in the main lobby looking forlorn.

Ian wasn’t about to say no to the man who founded, developed and still controlled a rumored 51% of the company. He stood and buttoned his coat, “If you insist. Let’s just point out the obvious; I am the youngest and most unseasoned here.”

There were a few grunts and a small titter from Kent. “I believe in being straight forward and in all honestly until I started working here the HRT schedule never interested me at all. Being a member of the most highly sought after network demographic that is a major concern.”

There were harrumphs and Kent piped up, “So if you were in charge you would just dump the whole schedule.”

“Absolutely not, only cable networks can afford niche programming, as one of the big guns we must appeal to our base and slowly attract other important demographics as well. If we simply up ended the current schedule we would insult our current base and drive them away with no guarantee of having another solid demographic regularly tuning in.”

Max Logan, one of the board members present, snarled, “And what do you believe is our base audience young man?”

Wella handed him a folder, which Ian opened and referred to, “According to the latest research we appeal to the older market, not a broad base, but the one with the most consistent viewing habits. We cannot lose them, but we must start slowly seed viewers with contemporary counter programming, cultivating younger viewers and growing them into a consistent audience.”

It was simple, but the other men seemed to approve. He still needed to get them to let down their guard and take him seriously without giving the impression he planned on always remaining silent and going with their flow.

“Rather than spouting my own agenda, I simply desire to allow my team’s work to speak as a whole. Hopefully, in time, you will see that we are striving for quality programming, not event programming, as we feel that quality will get all demographics to sit up and take notice, and make them continually tune in.”

Kent turned to his fellow execs, “And I’m sure Mr. Justyn will be presenting us with lots of high quality explosions and sex.” He laughed and others joined in.

“I’m all for pushing the envelope Mr. Kent, but only when necessary. And my idea of quality goes back to the foundations of this network. At one time HRT set the standards. We were the bar that every other network struggled to achieve. At one time every television set in American tuned in at least once a night to HRT because they knew if they wanted to see the best, HRT was where to find it.”

The smirk disappeared from Kent’s face and several others leaned in to listen to Ian. “What you will find from my department is, what will hopefully be a successful attempt, to give America, and foreign markets, what they want to see with the best possible artistic and production values we can offer. We will not be presenting copycat programming and poorly developed material created around the flavor of the month. My team, as well as the rest of HRT, will only be seeking out and developing our own unique style and once again be making every one else turn to us when it comes to quality entertainment.” Ian took his seat.

The room applauded. Kent half-heartedly clapped his hands and turned to Tolan who stood. “Well thank you, Ian. That’s exactly what we all needed to hear.”

Ian tried to gage David Turner’s reaction without staring at him. From the corner of his eye, he could see the old man smiling. Wella reached under the table and squeezed his thigh. He kept his own smile inward. He’d spoken from the heart and he felt good about it.

“Yes, very pretty words, young man.” Kent not so subtly condescended. The smile inside of Ian, quickly faded.

“Now to the matters at hand….” For the next few minutes the group talked about the problems in the schedules and possibilities to fix them. The line up was as aging as the networks demographics. There were major concerns as ratings overall continue to drop rapidly.

Simon Kent, to his own delight, had the floor. “...And it is my pleasure to officially announce a little coup that I am quite proud of.” He looked around the table, enjoying the fact that he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Yesterday afternoon, contracts were signed and…” Kent waited for the nonexistent drum roll.

“…Jeff Torkelson is officially ours!” He beamed, pulling his hands together at his chest as though he’d just open the door to the hunk in his “Mystery Date” game. This was no mystery and no surprise to Ian.

Ian had gotten wind of the negotiations. It was a good move for the network. Torkelson was one member of the biggest sitcom ensemble hit on any network. The show had run ten years, and the highest paid actors on television decided as a whole to end the hit while it was still on top. “Good for Kent”, Ian had to admit.

“Now…” Kent grasped the attention back after the round table finished expressing their excitement and patting him on the back. “He was expensive, but this a guaranteed hit for the fall…”

“This fall?” Ian let slip out, and out loud.

Simon Kent lowered his eyes and kept a pasty smile glued to his face. “Of course, strike while the irons still hot.” When the shocked expression on Ian’s face remained unchanged, the doughy man put his hands on his hips and demanded, “Have you got a problem with that?”

“No.” Ian said after Wella tapped on her pad again.

David Turner stepped in. “Actually I have a problem with it.”

Ian thought Simon Kent would die of a heart attack. “Sir?” He managed to squeak out.

David Turner didn’t stand. He motioned for Kent to have a seat and leaned forward on his cane. “I think my reaction is the same as young Justyn here. Great, we’ve scored a coup, but for the money we are paying, I think we should take our time and make sure what we develop is worthy of the talent and the money. I think we should announce the contract but hold off until next fall to air the series.”

Simon crossed his chubby fingers on the table. “Dave, I have to admit I felt it was a bit of a rush, too, but a September premiere was part of the contract. I was worried, but what Torkelson’s people have in mind is a continuation of his character, most of the same writers and most of the same team.”

Unfortunately Kent looked at Ian and Ian wasn’t able to hide his look. Ian smelled a bomb, a very expensive nuclear explosion. The ratings for Torkelson’s ensemble show were enough to keep it number one, but the creativity and quality was wearing thin. The ensemble made the right decision, and Ian had the feeling Kent had just shackled them to the cold leftovers of what was once a great feast.

“What?” Kent demanded.

“I apologize, Mr. Kent.” Ian snapped to attention. “The program developer kicked in and I was coming up with possible concepts they might be working on for the show, and wondering where the best place in the line up might be for those ideas.”

“The series will air in its usual time slot, only on our network.” He sneered.

“The Thursday night tent pole?” Another aghast voice spoke up.

Ian was sure that Kent’s initial reaction was to cut whoever made the comment off at the knees, but when he realized it had come again from Turner himself, he took a moment to carefully word his retort.

“Of course, Dave. It will be the most talked about new series of the fall, guaranteed to be number one; the same team, the same character, the same star. It needs to not only be on the most watched night of television, but with its pedigree it will easily hold up the rest of the evening’s schedule.”

“In other words…” Turner didn’t look happy. “It was part of the contract.”

Kent cleared his throat. “Yes, Dave, but its slam dunk.” He slowly turned his head and looked at Ian. “Am I not right, Mr. Justyn?”

Ian suddenly felt like the prettier poor girl that got too close to the popular rich girl’s table in the cafeteria. Fortunately, he was used to that and knew how to react. “Yes, sir, Jeff Torkelson will give HRT a slam dunk Thursday nights at 9 P.M. in September.”

Kent smiled. He knew he was right, and so did Ian. Ian also had the feeling that by October, ratings for the Torkelson spin off would be at most tepid. “Fine”, he thought to himself, “by that time I’ll have another show ready to take its place.”

Tolan finally took back over, moving on to the next order of business. Both Ian and David Turner remained silent, but the old man kept glancing over at the younger, seeming to gage his reaction to anything and everything. Simon Kent remained an obnoxious power mouth, wresting away as much control as he could from Tolan.

“And finally, we will be announcing shortly the cancellation of “Sebastian Manor” and adding that hour to “America Alive!” Tolan added as almost an after thought.

This was what Ian had been waiting for. He turned to Wella, who dropped her eyes and nodded ever so slightly.

“Excuse me if I am speaking out of turn,” Ian timidly asked, “Is that a done deal?” He couldn’t help but see Kent, shooting him a look that could only be interpreted as deadly.

“Well, no, but I think we are pretty unanimously in agreement…” Tolan answered.

“I understand that, but are we sure that that this the best move?”

Kent rolled his eyes and plopped his puffy hands on the table. “It makes perfect sense. “Sebastian Manor” is a huge disaster…”

“Despite a pedigree…” Ian interrupted to Kent’s annoyance.

“Soaps are losing ratings, and we expect to let “The Best of Everything” go when its contract is up, as well. Soaps are dead. Let the affiliates have the time.” Kent waved his hands in the air.

“Actually…” Ian stood, “if I may…?”

“Please, proceed…” Tolan took a seat and looked at David Turner, sitting there with intrigued pleasure on his face. Kent practically spit on Ian as he began handing out copies of the information his staff had compiled.

“If you will take a look at this data, we may want to reconsider before any formal announcements are made. While “America Alive!” is our highest rated daytime show, it is also by far our most expensive and adding the 9 am hour will actually triple the cost.”

Ian referred to his own notes. “That extension would be competing with Regis, Ellen and a host of others that will clobber us in ratings. According to this research most of our affiliates wouldn’t even pick up that final hour, as they have established hits guaranteeing them market shares up to five points higher than our peak at 7 am.”

“So essentially, you believe that we’d just be losing another hour to the affiliates?” Logan queried.

“Absolutely, and it would be the most expensive loss on our schedule, day or prime.” Ian added.

“Well…” Kent snorted, “That will be saving the network a lot of money and many headaches sooner than later.”

“Actually, if you will pick up the copies behind the previous data, you will see that more than sixty percent of the money earned from daytime comes from our two soap operas, plus the fact that in foreign markets they regenerate the same amount of money, while “America Alive” has no foreign market value whatsoever.”

“We are all aware of that fact,” Tolan remarked, “But as Simon pointed out, soaps are a dying breed, it makes more sense to just get out and take the hit, rather than continue to see our market shares dry up.”

“Jack, that seems true on the surface, but you have to look a little outside the box…” Ian saw Wella pull on her ear, meaning he was beginning to step over the line. “I’m sorry let me rephrase that…”

Kent pounded his fist on the table, “I don’t think I care to be told what I already know, by a boy whose only job here seems to be to get attention by wiggling his fanny in public!”

“Excuse me?” Ian’s buttons had been pushed and Wella could have gouged her eyes out and she still would not have been able to stop her boss now. She just sat back and hoped he didn’t hang himself.

“If you were paying a little more attention to what was going on in the industry instead of ogling my tight little ass maybe HRT wouldn’t be in the decline it’s in.”

There were a couple of nervous giggles, and Kent stood up. “I don’t have to listen to this!”

“Sit down! I respected you enough to let you insult me from the moment I walked in and by God you wee little man, you will sit down, shut up and listen to what I have to say!”

Kent turned to see if Tolan, or any one, would back him up. He slowly sat down in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “By all means, proceed.”

“Throughout the world, and even in US prime time, soap operas are the highest rated and most profitable programming. You can quibble about those dollars, but we seem to be forgetting that daytime drama is great seeding ground for the network and the entertainment industry as a whole. You would be hard pressed to name one major actor, writer, producer or director working today that didn’t spend some time there.”

Ian allowed a moment for the executives to process those statements. David Turner nodded his head, and Ian took that as a sign to proceed. “As a whole, we simply haven’t kept up with the public. Daytime is still playing to a 1960’s audience that no longer exists. The story telling is slow and shoddy, and we need to beef that up. You can tune into almost any soap once a week and still not miss many details. When it comes to “Sebastian Manor” you can tune in once a month”

Tolan turned to the older man on his right, “Is that guy still tied up naked in the chair?”

Ian answered for him, “Yes, as he has been for thirteen weeks now. What we need to do is reinvent or at the least modernize our daytime dramas. Find the fine line in the speed of storytelling that makes you not want to miss the episode, but not tune out completely if you do because you won’t be able to catch up. With that will come the ratings, the profits and the industry will start looking back at us to set the standard. It’s a small step, but it’s a step.”

Kent smiled, “Very impressive, Mr. Justyn, but you have left out one glaring detail.”

“Which would be?”

“A daytime soap opera has not been launched successfully since the mid-sixties.” Kent smiled and patted his chubby little hands together.

“Wrong again. In the late seventies, CBS launched “The Bold and the Beautiful”, not initially successful, but they stood behind it and in three years, rather than the average five, it became the number two daytime program, as has been for the last ten years, right behind “The Young and the Restless”, which was launched in 1972, the last immediate hit launched in daytime drama.”

“Can we afford to take that time, though?” The older gentleman asked.

“I don’t think we can afford not to try, and we can ease the cost of doing so by launching it with our Fall line up. If we push it with our Prime Time programming we'll be giving it the aura of glamour and excitement, something not usually associated with soaps. All we would have to do is be able to back up that aura.”

Ian closed his folder, “I apologize, Mr. Kent, for my outburst. You will find me very passionate about what I believe in and ready to fight for it until the last drop of blood is spilled, much like yourself.”

Kent nodded his head, and least feigning acceptance of Ian’s apology.

“Well, I think we have a lot to think about, but I think we all are probably thinking the same thing. There’s not much time to develop and launch a new daytime drama, so we’d better get cracking.” Tolan said to the table.

Kent smiled, “Oh Jack, why don’t we just put it in the obviously capable hands of Mr. Justyn? We’ll give him a head start on profitability by handing all of daytime to him; just fold it into his team, as he says.”

There were snickers around the table. David Turner, sat forward. “Kent, I think that’s a great idea.” He turned to a stunned Ian and mumbled, “Probably the only really good one he’s had all day.” He looked directly at Ian. “Son, do you think you can handle that?”

“I…uh…”

Turner leaned back in his seat. “I think you can.”

Jack Tolan looked at Ian. “Son, that baby is all yours now.”

“Uh...thank you, sir.” Wella almost had to pick him up off the floor, but first she had to pick up herself.

Ian looked over at Kent, whom to his surprise was smiling, not gloating. “Yes, young Mr. Justyn. I think we all look forward to seeing just what you do with something you obviously feel so passionate about.”

Neither remembered much of the rest of the meeting. They adjourned for the day just in time for a late lunch.

Ian ran straight to the can and vomited. It went well, but he didn’t expect to just be handed the daytime division like that. It was unheard of. He looked at the toilet and mumbled to himself. “Well now is time to shit or get off the pot.”

And Tuesday raced into Wednesday; the staff doubled in size over night, moving into a bigger suite on a higher floor. Ian took meetings and looked at contracts and weighed options. His staff brought him facts and figures, suggestions and ideas. By the time 5 PM rolled around Ian was exhausted, but exhilarated.

He spent the night looking over more contracts, demographics and ratings. He took notes, and forced him self to watch an episode of “Sebastian Manor”. He got on the Internet and read fan pages. He perused websites on Hollywood, pleased that most of the buzz about HRT seemed positive, for a change.

He sat on his back porch by the pool and distracted himself with conversations with Reece and Kellen, who came over when Ralphie suddenly appeared by the pool. He chatted with Saxon on the phone, fine tuning details of Sunday night and then hauled him self up to bed, falling asleep surrounded by even more contracts, spread sheets and spec-scripts.

First thing Thursday morning, Ian said good morning to portraits that stared at him from the foyer of the lobby, asked the man behind the desk about his grandkids as he signed in for the day, and dashed in the elevator just as the door was closing.

“Running a little behind schedule are we?” came the knowing nasal tone in the other corner of the little box.

“Good morning, Kent.” Ian said as he hit the floor button. It lit up. “Crap.” He hit a second button.

“Can’t remember where you’re going, dear?” The wee little man tittered.

Ian turned to him and smiled. “I’ll have to stop and think for a few days before I hit that button. They’ve moved my office to a different floor. I’m so used to hitting ‘4’ by rote.”

Kent looked at the higher number. “Closer to the top, I see.”

“Much harder crash to the bottom.” Ian said with little emotion, just a fact.

“Yes.” They remained silent for a moment. “I don’t like you.” Simon Kent decided to announce.

“Don’t really care.” Ian said back. The doors to his floor opened. The put his hand on the doors to hold them open, and turned to Kent. “I am truly sorry that you seem to think that I’m out to do whatever it is you seem positive I’m doing, but if you think the fact that one of the popular kids on the playground doesn’t like me is going to make me cry and stay off the monkey bars you’ve made a big mistake.”

Kent thought a moment. “Duly noted.”

“Look, in a few minutes, my team will have it’s morning power meeting. Why don’t you come join us? We could use the input of someone who’s been around awhile and would be able to give us a perspective that we probably haven’t thought of.”

The man smiled. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“Kent, do you think I consider you my enemy?”

He grin got larger, “I would if I were you.”

Ian shook his finger at him releasing the elevator doors. “If I considered you my enemy, that would mean I acknowledge your right to exist in the universe...dear.” The elevator doors shut on the shocked face on the little man in the little box.

Ian looked at the foyer of what was now his “floor”. He didn’t just have an office now, he had a whole damn floor. It boggled his mind. He hitched up his backpack and smiled at the perky little redhead behind the foyer desk.

“Good morning, Haley.”

“Morning, Ian. Shall I alert the team for the morning meeting?”

He picked up a stack of messages she scooted toward him. “Yeah, ‘bout say half an hour?” She nodded her head and started to pick up the phone. “Anything noteworthy in here?” He held up the stack of pink papers with scribbles on them.

“I put them in what I thought might be order of importance. I hope that’s okay.” She held the phone to her shoulder.

“Fine…uh…Reader’s Digest?”

She giggled. “Jenson Michaels confirming for 11; Saxon Allen for lunch, Lance wants a meeting about the requests you made for Fridays PC and the rest are just random.”

He nodded his head. “Thanks.” Haley pushed a couple of buttons and relayed his message to a staff member as he leafed through the memos and began to walk off. Ian nonchalantly told her to get rid of the gum and started to breeze past when it hit him. He stopped and stretched out his hand. “Let me see the magazine…”

“What magazine?”

“Haley, you know what magazine…” he held out his hand to her.

“Ian, I couldn’t help it, there’s this great article…it won’t happen again.” She put the magazine in her desk drawer.

“Haley, I don’t care if you read the frigging karma sutra at your desk as long as the phones get answered and you get the messages out promptly. I really want to see the magazine. Hand it over.”

“Really?”

“Give it!”

She opened the drawer and handed it to him. “They have this really great article my girlfriend was telling me about….”

Ian ignored her. “I’ll bring this back.”

“Oh…okay…” Haley picked up the phone, “HRT, Ian Justyn’s office….”

Ian tucked the magazine under his arm, and as he walked by Wella’s desk, he didn’t bother to mention that she was chatting with Blake who was sitting on her desk. “Wella, Blake, either one or both, get me Pearce Warner on the phone right now. I don’t care if he’s having sex with President Bush while Nancy Reagan watches. I need to speak to him personally, now!”

Papers flew and rolodexes started rolling. It was “The Advocate” tucked under his arm and on the cover was Pearce Warner, the person he needed to change the dynamics and direction of “America Alive!” Ian smiled to himself.

It seemed like hours, but it was only a matter of minutes when Blake entered his office and said the best that he could do was to leave a message. He asked Ian if he wanted him to leave his private phone number. Ian nodded his head in disappointment, and smiled, “Guess that magic book doesn’t have everything in it after all.”

Blake smiled. “I’m workin’ on it, boss man.” and quietly shut the door.

“Damn it,” Ian said to himself. He knew he had to act fast. It would be expensive, but he had to have Pearce Warner. He had been considered a rising star in the journalism war. His on the field reports from the war in Iraq were unparalleled. He was stunningly handsome, which made him a favorite with the women, and his Q with men was even higher than some action superstars.

Nine months ago, Warner had contacted the FBI. A man was trying to blackmail him, a man he had met on Internet personals site for hook ups. Although Warner had never shown his face to the guy, he managed to either figure it out or made a good guess and started demanding money or go public.

According to the interview in “The Advocate”, although scared of his homosexuality going public and its effect on his career, he refused to be blackmailed and went to the F.B.I. to set up a sting. Within 24 hours the word had spread and every newspaper across the globe reported the incident. To Warner’s relief it didn’t seem to have any effect on his popularity.

However, it had had an effect on his position at the network he worked for. He found himself with far less gritty assignments, and even they started growing few and far between. The article ended with Warner’s admission that he had been told when his contract was up the network had chosen not to pursue renewal.

And Ian wanted him. He wasn’t sure he could get him, but he knew enough to know that most major network news departments would consider him poison. He also knew that every cable company with half a nickel would be after him. Ian hoped that he could convince him to come to HRT. Finding him before he closed another deal was the hard part.

He pounded his fist on the desk. Would the man return a phone call from someone who wasn’t in a news department, and would he even be interested if he did? His best bet was to talk to him personally. He almost hoped Warner had caught him on You Tube, and peaked his interest enough to at least return a phone call. At least that would make that embarrassing moment that seemed to be lasting an eternity worth it—a little.

Then it dawned on him. Blake was not only one resource he had. The other happened to be a former Miss America with a penchant not taking no for an answer. He flipped his cell open,once he remembered what he’d done with it, and hit the speed dial.

It had barely rang when he heard Tippy say, “Baby Doll, this better be good, I’m the middle of the most wonderful massage. You better be putting out some time soon to make this interruption of pure heaven worth my while.” Which was followed, of course, by a giggle.

“Tippy, if you can fill this request for me, I will do anything you want—and I mean anything.” And he meant that last part to sound really, really dirty.

“Oh sugar….” He heard her yell, “Colton get that sex toy out of the dishwater and get ready to have some fun!” She put her cell phone back to her lips. “And exactly what can I do for you, Baby Doll?”

“Pearce Warner. I need Pearce Warner.”

“Okay.” She said flatly. “I call you right back.” And hung up the phone.

Ian was stunned. Could it have been that easy? Was Mamie Rae Tipton God? Would he soon find himself at the receiving end of some plastic thing recently sanitized by Cascade? If Tippy could deliver Pearce Warner, he was willing to give it up.

He started to hyperventilate a bit, so he turned and opened his office window, taking deep breaths. He looked down at the street, and saw a familiar figure leaving the building. “What the…?”

That couldn’t be Clare. Could it? He bent down to try and get a better look at the woman hustling across the lot and into parking. The woman was so far away, but that walk….

His cell phone rang.

“Tippy?”

“At your service. Pearce owes me one and now so do you. He’ll call you with in the hour. I’ll think of something special.”

Ian laughed with joy and giddiness, “I bet you will.”

“Bye sugar and sugar? Tippy teased. “Someday your tushy is all mine, bye bye.” Ian heard her giggle as she ended the call.

This time though Tippy was wrong, it wasn’t within the hour that Warner called, it was almost immediately.

“Ian Justyn? This is Pearce Warner; a mutual friend asked that I call you as soon as possible.” Ian would have recognized that deep, smooth voice anywhere.

“Yes, Mr. Warner, thank you for calling so quickly.”

The voice chuckled, “Well when Tippy calls….as I am sure you know. She said you were her neighbor?”

“Yes, I have that honor, and most days I enjoy it.” They both laughed.

“Now what may I do for you, Mr. Justyn?”

“Actually, I hope it’s what we can do for each other, and please call me Ian, I’m very uncomfortable with the whole mister thing…”

“I understand, Ian, I hope you will call me Pearce.”

“Certainly, Pearce. I apologize up front. I normally don’t use friends for business contacts, and I am hoping you’ll forgive me. Obviously, I wanted to get as close to the head of the line in handing out job offers.”

There was a moment of silence. “Well, I must say I am very flattered but I was not aware that you were a part of HRT’s news division, I understood you to be in development.” Being a good newsman, Warner…Pearce…knew what was going on, but then again maybe he didn’t.

“True, and I am assuming the possibilities of your interest in what I have to offer will be minimal at best, but I am praying that you will at least hear me out.”

Ian heard Pearce take a deep breath. “I wish I could say that I was fielding exciting offers right and left, but only the former would be true not the ladder.”

“I’ll just spit it out then, since this may very well be one of those offers that only I will find exciting. I want you to join “America Alive!”

Ian expected Pearce to laugh, and wasn’t prepared for the flat, “Well at least it is a news format, and I am actually flattering you when I say that I assume you save money by broadcasting in monotone…”

“Hmmm…not a bad idea.”

Pearce laughed. “I am surprised that a major network is even interested. I’m a newsman Ian, and I know that I’ve been caught with my pants down in the football locker room.”

Ian decided not to pussyfoot, “Pearce, I don’t care. I have a morning news show that’s about as exciting as a cockroach race. I know it’s not exactly hard news, but I think if the two of us put our heads together, we can make it something worth while before my bosses start chasing us around with a can of Raid.”

Pearce’s response was more laughter. “You’re sense of humor is adorable.” He said. Ian knew his face must be beet red. “Look Ian, you are just too much fun, so I am going to be honest with you. I’m being courted with everything from my own live talk show to spreads in Playgirl magazine…”

“You, too?”

“Well, my friend, the You Tube things are really…nice….”

“Oh shit.” Ian said unfortunately out loud bringing even heartier laughter. “Pearce, just don’t say yes to anything until I’ve had a chance to bounce some ideas around with you. I just want you to hear me out. I’m not the only one who does his research, Pearce.”

“So you know about my deadline with CNN? I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“There is no such thing as a real secret in this town, Pearce.” Ian lied.

“It’s a good deal, Ian…I think it’s going to be my best offer and I am charmed enough by you not to waste your time.”

“Pearce…the CNN deal can’t possibly be the best offer you’re going to get because I’m not I involved in it. If you want proof, just call our mutual friend for my references.” Evan Ian wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was having trouble being vague since he didn’t want to let Pearce know that he hadn’t the foggiest what the CNN offer was or even his for that matter, but he knew he could come up with it by the time he got a meeting with him.

“Okay fine, I’ll hear you out. I’m in Vegas so I’ll give you a call sometime when I get back.”

Ian realized that this was a very possible gentle brush off, so he had to make Pearce Warner determined to take a meeting. “Tell you what, Pearce, have a good safe flight, take your time getting home, get relaxed, get comfortable and think about carte blanche.”

“Carte blanche?” Pearce said. “You can do that?”

“I’m in charge of daytime programming. Think about it. You choose the story, how it’s presented. No one to answer to from your hot little hands to the air waves of America. I can give you…anything…you …want…” Ian let his voice trail off.

The phone line was silent. Ian started to sweat. He knew it was a big risk, but he also knew that it was screw or be screwed time.

“…uhm….”

“The ball’s in your court, Pearce. Catch you whenever you have the time, if you really want it.” And Ian closed his phone as quickly as possible.

He marched out of his office and gathered the troops. He needed to find out what CNN’s offer was, and if it was a serious offer. He was possibly offering more than he could, but his gut was told him that this man was the key to fixing one of his major problems. He just hoped his brain would tell him how to get from Point A to Point B.