Eleventh Hour
Page 35
Detective Flynn flashed his badge and told them that the Big Cheese was expecting them, at which point the woman smiled, checked her board, and said, “Have at it, Detective.”
There were giant murals painted on the studio walls: Marilyn Monroe in Seven Year Itch, Luke fighting Darth Vader in Star Wars, Julie Andrews singing in The Sound of Music, and cartoon characters from The Simpsons. There was also advertising for new shows. Nick stopped a moment to stare at the building-size paintings of Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant.
“They’ve been up forever,” Flynn said. “Neat, isn’t it?”
The head of Premier Studios, who was second only to the owner, mogul Miles Burdock, was on the fifth floor, the executive level of a modern building that didn’t look at all fancy and was close to the entrance of the studio lot.
The Big Cheese’s name was Linus Wolfinger and he wasn’t a man, Pauley told them when he met them in his office on the fourth floor, he was a boy who was only twenty-four years old. He believed himself a genius, and the arrogant Little Shit was right.
“Does this mean you don’t like him?” Delion said.
“You think it’s that noticeable?”
“Nah, I’m just real sensitive to nuances,” 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.”
There were giant murals painted on the studio walls: Marilyn Monroe in Seven Year Itch, Luke fighting Darth Vader in Star Wars, Julie Andrews singing in The Sound of Music, and cartoon characters from The Simpsons. There was also advertising for new shows. Nick stopped a moment to stare at the building-size paintings of Marilyn Monroe and Cary Grant.
“They’ve been up forever,” Flynn said. “Neat, isn’t it?”
The head of Premier Studios, who was second only to the owner, mogul Miles Burdock, was on the fifth floor, the executive level of a modern building that didn’t look at all fancy and was close to the entrance of the studio lot.
The Big Cheese’s name was Linus Wolfinger and he wasn’t a man, Pauley told them when he met them in his office on the fourth floor, he was a boy who was only twenty-four years old. He believed himself a genius, and the arrogant Little Shit was right.
“Does this mean you don’t like him?” Delion said.
“You think it’s that noticeable?”
“Nah, I’m just real sensitive to nuances,” 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.”
