Mel Foss shook his head. “There is no good news,” he said. “We’re in trouble.”
Sam waited, saying nothing.
“We’re not going to get a pickup on ‘The Raiders.’”
Sam looked at him in surprise. “The ratings are great. Why would the network want to cancel it? It’s tough enough to get a hit show.”
“It’s not the show,” Foss said. “It’s Jack Nolan.” Jack Nolan was the star of “The Raiders,” and he had been an instant success, both critically and with the public.
“What’s the matter with him?” Sam asked. He hated Mel Foss’s habit of forcing him to draw information from him.
“Have you read this week’s issue of Peek Magazine?”
“I don’t read it any week. It’s a garbage pail.” He suddenly realized what Foss was driving at. “They nailed Nolan!”
“In black and white,” Foss replied. “The dumb son of a bitch put on his prettiest lace dress and went out to a party. Someone took pictures.”
“How bad is it?”
“Couldn’t be worse. I got a dozen calls from the network yesterday. The sponsors and the network want out. No one wants to be associated with a screaming fag.”
“Transvestite,” Sam said. He had been counting heavily on presenting a strong television report at the board meeting in New York next month. The news from Foss would put an end to that. Losing “The Raiders” would be a blow.
Unless he could do something.
When Sam returned to his office, Lucille waved a sheaf of messages at him. “The emergencies are on top,” she said. “They need you—”
“Later. Get me William Hunt at IBC.”
Two minutes later, Sam was talking to the head of the International Broadcasting Company. Sam had known Hunt casually for a number of years, and liked him. Hunt had started as a bright young corporate lawyer and had worked his way to the top of the network ladder. They seldom had any business dealings because Sam was not directly involved with television. He wished now that he had taken the time to cultivate Hunt. When Hunt came on the line, Sam forced himself to sound relaxed and casual. “Morning, Bill.”
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Hunt said. “It’s been a long time, Sam.”
“Much too long. That’s the trouble with this business, Bill. You never have time for the people you like.”
“Too true.”
Sam made his voice sound offhand. “By the way, did you happen to see that silly article in Peek?”
“You know I did,” Hunt said quietly. “That’s why we’re canceling the show, Sam.” The words had a finality to them.
“Bill,” Sam said, “what would you say if I told you that Jack Nolan was framed?”
There was a laugh from the other end of the line. “I’d say you should think about becoming a writer.”
“I’m serious,” Sam said, earnestly. “I know Jack Nolan. He’s as straight as we are. That photograph was taken at a costume party. It was his girlfriend’s birthday, and he put the dress on as a gag.” Sam could feel his palms sweating.
“I can’t—”
“I’ll tell you how much confidence I have in Jack,” Sam said into the phone. “I’ve just set him for the lead in Laredo, our big Western feature for next year.”
There was a pause. “Are you serious, Sam?”
“You’re damn right I am. It’s a three-million-dollar picture. If Jack Nolan turned out to be a fag, he’d be laughed off the screen. The exhibitors wouldn’t touch it. Would I take that kind of gamble if I didn’t know what I was talking about?”
“Well…” There was hesitation in Bill Hunt’s voice.
“Come on, Bill, you’re not going to let a lousy gossip sheet like Peek destroy a good man’s career. You like the show, don’t you?”
“Very much. It’s a damned good show. But the sponsors—”
“It’s your network. You’ve got more sponsors than you have air time. We’ve given you a hit show. Let’s not fool around with a success.”
“Well…”
“Has Mell Foss talked to you yet about the studio’s plans for ‘The Raiders’ for next season?”
“No…”
“I guess he was planning to surprise you,” Sam said. “Wait until you hear what he has in mind! Guest stars, big-name Western writers, shooting on location—the works! If ‘The Raiders’ doesn’t skyrocket to number one, I’m in the wrong business.”
There was a brief hesitation. Then Bill Hunt said, “Have Mel phone me. Maybe we all got a little panicked here.”
“He’ll call you,” Sam promised.
“And, Sam—you understand my position. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.”
“Of course you weren’t,” Sam said, generously. “I know you too well to think that, Bill. That’s why I felt I owed it to you to let you hear the truth.”
“I appreciate that.”
“What about lunch next week?”
“Love it. I’ll call you Monday.”
They exchanged good-byes and hung up. Sam sat there, drained. Jack Nolan was as queer as an Indian dime. Someone should have taken him away in a net long ago. And Sam’s whole future depended on maniacs like that. Running a studio was like walking a high wire over Niagara Falls in a blizzard. Anyone’s crazy to do this job, Sam thought. He picked up his private phone and dialed. A few moments later, he was talking to Mel Foss.