Rune squinted away a few apparitions and sat back in her chair.
The last few days had been a nightmare.
Piper Sutton had been satisfaction-proof. "What's this? What do you call this?" she'd shouted, pacing back and forth behind Rune, who sat terrified, willing her hands not to shake as she typed. "Is this supposed to be fucking poetry? Is it supposed to be art?"
Sutton would walk another ten feet, leaving behind a wake of cigarette smoke and Chanel No. 5.
Nothing she'd write could please Sutton. "Is that a fact? Is it supported? Who's your attribution? ... What the fuck is this? A figure of speech? 'Justice is like a lumbering bear'? Sure, I know a lot of lumbering bears. Our audience is really going to relate to lumbering bears. Just look out on Broadway Rune, you see many bears? Come on, babes ..."
Rune would write some more then Sutton would lean over and look at the word processor screen, focusing on the words like a sniper.
"Here, let me ...," Sutton would say and practically elbow Rune aside.
Tap, tap, tap... The delete code would chop another dozen sentences. Sutton's nails never chipped. They were like red Kevlar.
But finally the story had been finished.
Sutton and Maisel approved the completed script Monday night (the twenty-eighth draft). Sutton had recorded her on-camera portions and sent thos
e to editing, along with the clips from Rune's interviews and atmosphere footage. As she was leaving the studio Tuesday morning at one A.M. Rune asked her, "You, like, always spend this kind of time with producers?"
"No, I don't, like, spend this kind of time. Most producers can spell."
"Oh."
Now, though, Rune had nothing to do but try to stay awake and watch the show itself while she fought the sensation that she was levitating. There were a couple options. Her first choice: She wanted to be home watching it with Healy. But he'd gone to investigate a package sitting in front of an abortion clinic in Brooklyn. Another possibility: There was a bar not far from the houseboat-- Rune was a regular there--and everybody there would be glad to watch her program (fortunately this was Tuesday so no Monday night sports programs would create difficult choices for some of the regulars).
But that involved standing up and walking somewhere. Which at the moment was a feat Rune believed she was incapable of.
So, she sat where she was--at her desk. There was a nice color monitor in front of her and maybe--just maybe--Piper and Lee would come and join her. They'd all watch the show together and they'd tell her what a good job she'd done then take her out for a drink at some fancy bar afterwards.
Her thoughts shifted and she found she was thinking of Randy Boggs. She hoped the guards were letting him watch Current Events. That thought sounded funny--letting him watch, like when she was a kid and she'd begged her parents to let her stay up to read more fairy stories or watch TV.
"Hey, Rune."
She looked up, thinking the hallucinations were getting stranger: Some heavyset guy was disattaching himself from a camera and coming toward her. How did he do that? Like the monster in Alien, climbing out of the pipes to eat Sigourney Weaver.
"Rune," he said again. She squinted. It was Morrie Weinberg, the chief engineer of the show. He wore engineer clothes--blue jeans and a black shirt and a tweed jacket.
"Morrie," she said. He was frowning--the first time she'd ever seen him do this. Engineers are usually Rolaids-poppers but Morrie didn't understand the concept of stress. She had an image of him as a lumbering bear and that made her want to laugh out loud.
"What's up?"
"Your segment."
She giggled. "Uh-huh."
"What happened?" His voice fluttered.
The humor was leaving quickly. "Happened?"
"Jesus, how come you didn't get your segment in? 'Easy Justice.' It should've gone into the computer by three. It was already a day late. We had to have it there by three. You know that."
Her eyes swept around the studio. Was he saying what she was hearing? "I did. I gave it to Charlie around four. But he said that was all right."
Morrie looked at a clipboard. "This is a problem. It ain't in there now. We got eleven minutes of blank airtime starting at eight-oh-four-thirty-six."
"Check again." Her voice was edged with panic.