js&cs.thebridge-第11章

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n　woods。　Dogs　barking。　More　kids。　Noisy　trucks。　Kids；　kids；　kids　。。。
　　Dottie　closed　her　eyes　and　saw　the　list　extending　clear　back　to　infinity。　They'd　never　seen　his　face；　but　his　nasty　nasal　voice　was　woefully　familiar。　Taking　a　call　from　Bernie　was　like　lancing　a　boil　with　your　teeth。
　　She　picked　up　the　phone；　brushed　a　fleck　of　powdered　sugar　from　her　blouse。　〃Metro　dispatch　。。。　〃　she　sighed；　resigned　to　her　fate。
　　〃Dammit；　there's　a　WAR　going　on　down　here！〃
　　Dottie　rolled　her　eyes。　Dave　Dell　looked　up　from　his　desk　on　the　other　side　of　the　glass；　then　caromed　back　in　his　swivel　chair　and　froze：　red　face　grimacing　horribly；　hands　locked　in　a　throttling　deathgrip　around　his　throat。　She　recognized　the　symptoms　at　once。　He　was　having　a　Kleigel　attack。
　　〃Now；　Mr。　Kleigel　。。。　〃　she　began；　stifling　her　laughter　with　professional　aplomb。　She　had　to　be　strong：　Kleigelitis　was　a　terribly　contagious　disease。
　　〃Don't　'now　Mr。　Kleigel'　ME！〃　he　barked；　his　voice　a　razor　of　rusty　tin。　〃They're　having　some　kind　of　shooting　match　down　there。　It　sounds　like　a　drug…related　gang　war　to　me！　I　coulda　been　KILLED；　fercrissake！〃
　　Dave　gave　the　notion　a　vigorous　thumbs…up。　〃Well；　we　certainly　wouldn't　want　that；〃　Dottie　said。
　　〃Yeah；　well；　you　better　get　somebody　out　here　before　someone　DOES　get　hurt！〃
　　〃I'll　send　someone　out　right　away。〃
　　〃You　goddam　well　better！〃　Bernie　groused；　still　chewing　the　bone。　〃I　pay　my　taxes　and　I　…〃
　　〃Someone　will　be　right　out。　Just　sit　tight；〃　Dottie　concluded；　yanking　Bernie's　plug。
　　〃You　fucking　dickhead；〃　Dave　appended；　busting　Dottie　up。
　　〃Your　mouth！〃　she　gasped；　Dottie　didn't　take　to　cussing。　〃Oh　my；〃　she　sighed。　〃It's　too　early　for　that　guy！〃
　　〃You　got　that　right！〃　Dave　nodded；　throwing　his　pencil　up　to　stick　in　the　ceiling　tile。　He　flipped　his　shoulder…length　blond　hair　back　and　assumed　a　more　contemplative　pose：　arms　behind　his　head；　feet　up　on　the　low　bookshelf　that　held　the　code　manuals。　〃So　who　gets　the　honors　this　time？〃
　　〃Bernie's　on　RD　23；〃　Dottie　said。　〃Hellam　Township。〃
　　〃Oooh；　Adam…sixty；〃　Dave　checked　the　roster　sheet　gleefully　to　see　who　was　on　duty。　〃That's　Hal。　Oh；　he's　gonna　love　this。〃　Dave　loved　to　give　Hal　shit。
　　Dottie　time…stamped　the　call　card。　〃Nine　thirty…six。　He's　probably　out　on　rounds　by　now。〃
　　〃Yeah；　sure。〃　Dave　smirked　and　reached　through　the　sliding　glass　partition　that　separated　their　desks。　He　filched　another　donut　hole。　〃Hal's　rounds　are　glazed；　with　sprinkles。〃
　　〃Now；　don't　start。〃　Dottie　glanced　balefully　at　her　own　diminishing　snack　supply　as　she　keyed　the　mike　transmit　button。　〃Metro　to　Adam…sixty　。。。　Metro　to　Adam…sixty；　do　you　copy？　e　in；　please　。。。　〃
　　Dave　leaned　back　in　his　chair；　gazing　up　at　his　still…embedded　pencil。　His　lines　were　quiet。　Later　on　things　would　likely　liven　up：　some　drunk　and　disorderlies；　a　fight　maybe。　Probably　an　accident　or　two。
　　With　any　luck；　the　day　would　not　portend　much　worse　than　a　morning　rant　from　Bernie　the　crank。　Dave　reached　through　the　partition　to　steal　another　doughball。　Dottie　slapped　him　playfully；　kept　on　paging　till　she　got　through。
　　〃Adam…sixty　here；〃　a　voice　came　over　the　radio。　〃What's　up；　dispatch？〃
　　〃Uh；　yeah；〃　she　began。　〃We've　got　a　plaint　on　shots　fired　in　the　Black　Bridge　area　。。。　〃
　　
　　
　　　Nine
　　　
　　WPAL　was　the　area's　NBC　affiliate；　located　downtown　in　a　two…story　brick　building　on　south　Beeker　Street。　It　was　a　medium…market　station；　with　a　staff　of　thirty　and　a　fifteen…hundred…foot　tower　on　nearby　Mt。　Hope；　to　better　serve　the　tri…county　broadcast　area。
　　Most　weekdays；　it　was　a　bustling　little　pressure　point。
　　Weekends　were　another　story。
　　It　was　10：12　a。m。　At　the　moment；　the　Studio　A　control　room　was　a　ghost　town。　John　Bizzano；　the　day　shift　engineer；　slumped　in　the　control　chair；　half…dozing　under　the　funny　papers　as　he　kept　things　nominally　on　the　air。　Sunday　Today　with　Maria　Shriver　played　silently　on　Monitor　One。　CBS　Sunday　Morning　with　Charles　Kuralt　was　on　Monitor　Three。　Jerry　Falwell　preened　in　the　center　on　Monitor　Two；　tumescent　and　smug。　And　nobody　was　watching　any　of　them。
　　Downstairs；　in　the　editing　booth；　the　real　show…The　Kirk　Bogarde　Show…was　on。
　　Mike　Clifford　and　Laura　Jenson　crammed　into　folding　chairs；　facing　the　console　in　a　room　so　small　they　could　choke　on　each　other's　fumes。　Kirk　paced　in　place　behind　them；　excited　by　his　own　televised　presence。　He　was　twenty…five　and　fresh　out　of　Brown；　the　only　son　of　second…generation　monied　liberal　Republicans。　Ma　and　Pa　Bogarde　had　groomed　their　baby　boy　for　success；　and　it　was　damn　well　going　to　happen。
　　Not　that　Kirk　didn't　work　at　it。　His　Protestant　ethics　were　firmly　in　place；　and　he　burned　for　his　shot。　Five…ten；　lean　and　salon…tanned；　he　had　meticulously　cultivated　the　sandy…haired；　blandly　handsome　yuppie…drone　persona　that　the　networks　craved；　retaining　just　enough　edge　to　set　him　apart　from　the　pack。
　　He　wore　khaki　Levi's　dockers　with　red　suspenders；　a　Ralph　Lauren　button…down　shirt　with　the　sleeves　rolled　up　to　masculine　mid…forearm；　and　loafers　with　little　tassels。　He　toned　up　with　Nautilus　and　honed　his　killer　instinct　three　times　a　week　on　the　racketball　courts　at　the　Athletic　Club。
　　Kirk　had　his　program　down：　give　him　ten　years　and　he'd　have　his　own　show；　give　Geraldo　a　run　for　his　mustache。
　　Laura's　ambitions；　on　the　other　hand；　were　substantially　less　showbiz　in　tone。　That　was　probably　why　she　liked　Sundays'　so　much。　NBC　carried　the　AFC　doubleheader；　which　meant　the　six　o'clock　news　was　preempted；　which　meant　no　broadcast　until　eleven　and　a　skeleton　crew　on　board。　It　gave　her　plenty　of　time；　as　weekend　assignment　editor　cum　news　director；　to　catch　up：　to　clean　shop；　to　put　together　the　ubiquitous　〃evergreen〃　segments；　the　human…interest　and　seasonal　filler　that　they　always　needed　and　never　had　enough　of；　in　short；　to　take　care　of　all　manner　of　unfinished　business。
　　And；　of　course；　to　program　the　eleven　o'clock　edition。
　　It　had　been　a　pretty　dead　weekend；　news…wise。　If　nothing　better　happened；　they'd　end　up　carrying　the　network　lead　as　their　own；　an　extra　minute　on　weather　to　cover　last　night's　storm；　and　a　good　eight　minutes　for　sports；　replete　with　the　obligatory　highlights　and　wrap…ups。
　　And；　God　help　her；　the　pulsory　〃local　story。〃
　　She　winced。　At　the　moment；　this　meant　watching　Kirk's　proposed　follow…up　to　the　controversial　〃pooper…scooper〃　ordinance；　just　passed　by　City　Council。　She　listened　as　his　canned　voice　filled　the　claustrophobic　booth。
　　〃　。。。　leading　to　public　uproar；〃　Kirk's　televised　talking　head　intoned；　〃as　residents　face　down　the　rising　tide　of　canine　waste。　The　passing　of　the　legislation　led　to　a　'terrorist　incident'　by　anonymous　pet　protestors　late　Saturday　afternoon；　who　set　a　bag　of　burning　stools　on　the　courthouse　steps　。。。　〃
　　〃Okay；〃　he　said；　leaning　over　Laura's　shoulder；　faintly　brushing　the　fabric　of　her　blouse。　〃Right　here's　where　we　cut　to　the　bag。〃
　　Mike；　in　the　edit　chair；　shifted　between　the　Beta　decks。　The　youngest　cameraman　on　the　team；　he　and　Kirk　were　'PAL's　odd　couple。　He　was　twenty…two；　with　long　stringy　blond　hair　hanging　over　wire…rimmed　aviator…framed　glasses　and　a　horsey；　open　face。　On　slow　days；　he　did　bong　hits　out　in　his　van。　So　far；　it　had　been　a　very　slow　day。
　　〃Cutting　to　B；〃　he　said；　toggling　the　controls。
　　On　the　monitor；　the　image　blipped；　cutting　from　Kirk　and　his　microphone　to　a　close…up　of　a　burning　paper　bag　on　the　courthouse　steps。　Black　smoke　plumed　off　the　flames。　The　color　drained　from　Laura's　face。
　　〃Jesus；〃　she　whispered；　aghast。　〃You　got　footage？〃
　　〃Actually；　it's　a　re…creation；〃　Mike　said；　smiling。　〃We　shot　it　after　everyone　left。〃
　　Kirk　smiled。　Laura　didn't。　The　psychological　room　temperature　dropped　twenty　degrees。　His　voice…over　continued。
　　〃　。。。　while　no　one　knows　what　the　oute　will　be；　one　thing　remains　certain：　the　fight　for　pooper…scooper　repeal　will　go　on　for　some　time　to　e。　From　the　county　courthouse；　this　is　Kirk　Bogarde；　WPAL　Action　News。〃
　　A　slo…mo　close…up　of　the　burning　bag　appeared　on　the　screen；　smoke　wafting　up　as　a　foot　came　down　to　stomp　it。　It　froze　and　held。
　　〃Awesome；