S3, E3 | Late Night Money Chaser

\ Monday, June 4th, 2007 /
\ 12:13 pm est. - 9:13 am pst. /

“It’s just a power move- something to hold the west at bay” Olivia replies, fidgeting with a pencil as she sits to the right side of an expansive table the rest of her producers occupy, “it’s an empty threat that teams will only use to fear monger.” With her one running shoe-covered foot propped atop an empty seat a short distance from the chair she occupies at one end of the conference table, Taylor lifts an uncapped pen a few inches away from her face.

“Are you trying to insist that our competitors are putting out inferior coverage solely based on keeping people around through the ad breaks?” the well-experienced anchor asks sarcastically, concluding her point amidst a chorus of humoured chuckles, “blasphemy!” Playing into the amusement of the newsroom, Olivia shrugs her shoulders and leans back in her seat, the point made clear enough to satisfy her as the rest of her peers have their fun.

“If you guys keep making claims like those, I might start having to negotiate myself out of this deal” Grant jokes, keeping the mood light, “there wasn’t just one reason I left CSN, that departure had levels.” With the white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, Vince sits with one arm resting against the side of his chair, his left leg kicked over the right as he proposes an intriguing question toward the opposite end of the table from Taylor.

“Would you bring anyone from the CSN desk over here if you had the chance?” the stock market-follower inquires with a capped pen pressed against his bottom lip, “I’m not saying you had to poach them from there, but if you found out they were let go, was there anyone from over there you ever looked at and thought ‘I always thought they were cool’?”

Fascinated with the mental experiment proposed to him, Grant pushes back in his seat slightly and stares off at the distance, the foot he rests against one of the seat’s wheels propping one leg higher than the other. “I’m sure there were a few people I wouldn’t mind walking into the newsroom to see again” the anchor answers honestly, “the first people that come to mind was this producer Holly.”

“Holly Hooper?” Keith quickly wonders aloud, looking in the direction of the D.C-originated anchor closest to his left side, “she married her field correspondent, right?” With his finger pointed at the man, Grant nods in assurance at the suggestion, “Tate McPherson, yup” he replies without pause, “they were the life of the party, I’d love to work with both of them again. And since it’s easier to promote producers than guys in the field, hiring her first would be the key to netting him in too.”

“I don’t think that’s true” Abby replies with lips puckered and her face scrunched, one arm draped over the table’s surface. “Finley hired me after two years doing field reporting at a local station in Sarasota” the woman recalls, eyes wandering from one end to the other by the time she finishes speaking, “they made me an associate producer after six months and I worked there for another year or so before I came here.”

“Abby, it’s okay to admit you owe your life to LMC for saving you from those bad people at Finley” Marcus jokes, again leaving the table entrenched within shared laughter, “they can’t hurt you anymore!” Already with a crumpled ball of paper within her reach, an equally-amused Abby tosses the discarded sheet in the man’s direction as he braces for an impact much greater than the one anyone reasonably expects.

With spirits still high and the brunt of their meeting already having mostly concluded, Shane speaks out from the group to raise a different conversation for the colleagues to have. “Whilst we’re on the subject of saving people from the horrors of places like- ugh- the Finley Network, let’s give it up for our very own Taylor English!” the sweatshirt-wearing gentleman proclaims, putting his hands together in the woman’s direction.

“Our very own Taylor has saved Vince- our dearly beloved little man- from the egregious world of the New York real estate market!” Shane announces, earning both his intended applause and laugh-filled cheer, “thanks to her generous efforts, this handsome little lad and his family will nevermore be forced to spend eighty thousand dollars on the installation of a sink or something stupid like that!”

Keeping her laughter to herself, Taylor plays along with the good nature of the man’s remarks and gestures her fingers as if she were tipping her cap, a pair of thumbs-up’s given to the man she prepares to leave her luxury apartment in the possession of. “I’m five-foot-nine and I can install my own damn sink, thank you very much” Vince quips back, a half-smirk held on his face as the show’s anchors quietly watch on in delight, pleased in the light-hearted nature of their subordinates.

“I’m sure you can, buddy- but would Whitney let you?” Shane responds, his hands settling upon the man’s shoulders as he proposes the question, a pause offered in between its vocalisation and the answer given. “No” Vince replies with a deflated tone, the retort only bringing the raucous laughter to an even higher level.

“Well, now that you won’t have to spend your evening installing sinks, I propose a group dinner!” Shane exclaims, throwing his hands out at either side as the newsroom’s focus draws toward him, “everyone here’s been kicking ass and now we’ve got a reason to celebrate! Friday night, I’ll make the reservations for that steakhouse downtown!”

“I know we pay you well, but exactly what incentives did you negotiate into that contract we don’t know about?” Taylor quickly asks aloud, watching her E.P’s face widen with realisation, a pause taken as his finger slowly drifts toward her direction. “Good point, I can’t afford that!” Shane rebukes, watching the blonde woman with brown highlights fail to subdue her laughter this time around, “instead, I’ll make the reservation for that steakhouse and put it on the company card!”

Holding her side as it begins to pain her from the group giggle-fest, Taylor leans back in her seat as her free hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Alright, you’re all dismissed!” she bellows, remaining seated for a few moments as the crowd begins to disperse, returning to their respective stations to continue with their work, prepared to go about their next ten hours with certainty that their homes will call for them upon the day’s completion.

With a crooked smile on his face, Vickers walks toward the group of departing producers as the meeting concludes, his hand stretching out to hold the door open for the last few employees before entering on their behalf. “You do realise that you don’t have a company credit card, right?” the heart attack survivor inquires, looking at the man still wearing the scar of his headbutt from just days prior.

“How can we not have a company credit card?” Shane replies after a pause, shaking his head in disbelief at the revelation, “we’re worth- like- twenty billion dollars!” Shaking his head with one hand extended toward the executive producer, Vickers’ stance adjusts. “No, no, no- I didn’t say we didn’t have a company credit card, I said you didn’t” the man replies, watching the physically-superior and strategically-inferior gentleman tilt his chin toward the sky in defeat.

Reaching into his back pocket unprovoked, Vickers opens his wallet and rummages through a few sheets of reflective plastic, the gesture only noticed by Shane once a card flies through the air and into his possession. “Consider it a way to make us even for that headbutt I can see you’re still feeling the effects of, champ” the older man remarks, adjusting his suede suit jacket to the side as a way of returning the wallet to his back pocket.

“What headbutt?” Shane replies, earning a wider smile from his superior from the endearing way of implying the event had already slipped his mind in return. “You’ve been doing a fine job in the control room. Keep it up” Vickers proclaims, patting the younger man on the back as he passes him, wanting to leave him with his props before he can fully exit the room. In silence, the executive producer smiles and bows his head before stepping away, leaving the room for the trio’s use.

“What’s up, Sam?” Taylor inquires, stepping out of her chair to follow the man toward her boyfriend’s side of the table, taking a seat in the chair her father figure of sorts pulls out to offer her. “I just wanted to let you know that word has begun dropping of Ross’ intention to sell” Vickers responds, stepping around the male anchor that remains seated before taking to the side opposite him.

“I don’t exactly know if it’ll be a bloodbath to get some- or even all- of his shares, but I know there are already a few people with interest” Vickers explains, slowly lowering himself into the chair his hands wrap around the sides of, “and they all have the capital for such an acquisition.” With eyes narrowed, Grant looks toward the surface of the table that sits before him with his knuckle pressed against the side of his mouth, letting the conversation persist between those to either side.

“Are these people the kinds that we should worry about?” Taylor queries, watching the man wince as his eyes drift toward the depths of the enclosed space they sit within, pondering the answer to her question. “As people, I’d say there are a good couple that I prefer not associating myself with” Vickers retorts, his arms crossed atop the table as he nods to himself reassuringly, eyes settling back upon his longer-tenured anchor, “no one that would come in and shake things up.”

Lowering her eyes, Taylor keeps her thoughts to herself as Grant takes over the conversation, his voice the first to emerge amidst a momentary pause. “Ross mentioned Lehman and JPMorgan Chase when he was here-” the man interrupts, the reflexion in his voice much lower than that of his contemporaries, “any word on whether or not they’re throwing their hats into the rink?”

“I doubt it. JPMorgan might, but I doubt Lehman will with what I’m hearing internally” Vickers answers, patting the table as he continues to shake his head, “I think we’re in the clear of those guys, the rest are who I’m not so sure about.” Unable to take anything more than the simplest of satisfaction for the reply he receives, Grant sits further back in his seat as the room goes quiet, an odd and misplaced feeling left to linger as if there was more that was meant to be said- but is unspoken.

= Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward =

\ Tuesday, June 5th, 2007 /
\ 12:24 am est. - 9:24 pm pst. /

His arm hanging off the side of the bed he lies atop in little more than a pair of plaid boxers and a white t-shirt, Aiden presses his face into the soft cushion of his pillow as his face tightens. “God fucking damnit” the man groans, his voice muffled by the puffy support his head is meant for before joining the rest of his face in freeing itself from its burial place. Turning to face Carly’s side of the bed, the eight o’clock producer peers toward the digital clock set up on the distant table.

“Twelve twenty-five” he murmurs to himself, coupling his hands together and pressing them against his face, the inability to sleep for much longer than an hour or so at a time proving to annoy him more with each day it occurs. Angrily screaming obscenities at himself inside of his head, Aiden’s thoughts soon eventually fall silent, not even the internal sound of his voice whaling him with insults able to persist amidst the sudden realisation he comes to in a brief moment of clarity.

Letting his palms fall from his sweat-covered face, Aiden’s eyes take to the space beside him beneath the covers, his view of the tabletop clock having never gone unimpeded before. “Carly?” the man whispers through the darkness, soon reaching for the dial to the nearest lamp and flooding the room with a warm, yellow embrace. Empty instead of its usually-filled position, his girlfriend’s side of the bed appears vacant, untouched by the woman he’d knowingly gone to sleep the prior night without.

Knowing himself to be alone, the man’s eyes wander throughout each corner of the room, checking every space made available to him in spite of knowing for certain that she will not be found. Falling to his lap with a thud, the man’s hands hit his legs and fall to each side of his now seated-upright posture, back pressing against the headboard as his sights take to the picturesque view the closest window affords him of Roosevelt Island.

Jostling her keys gently within the deadbolt of her apartment’s front door, Carly parts the divider between herself and the small foyer standing between her and the living room. Before her hand can be presented with the chance to free the metal teeth from their place within the lock, the eight o’clock anchor's eyes set upon the occupied recliner in the room just ahead, the figure sitting within it perfectly presented through the light he sits beside.

“What are you doing up?” Carly inquires, peering past the walls standing to each of her sides and toward her boyfriend’s groggy position in the distant seat. With his legs propped up by the footrest, Aiden’s blank stare at the distant wall- its blank facade given character by only a three-piece glossy statue anchored to the plastered division- never wavers in spite of the question asked.

“I have trouble sleeping” the accomplished producer responds with minimal emotion, his face only turning toward his girlfriend’s direction after a few seconds of mutual silence, “you already know this.” Still standing in front of the door with her keys yet to be freed from the deadbolt, Carly nods slowly to herself in reply to the man’s answer, a brief glance taken toward the spotless kitchen just to her right side.

“That’s right, you do” the woman answers, her frazzled tone obviously hiding a deeper reaction than the curious one she presents the man across from her. With his lips pressed together, Aiden looks at the woman’s body, investigating everything from head to toe within his own mind, speaking only to himself as the quietude continues. Contained by a leather strap, Carly’s feet sink into the soles of a six-inch high pair of heels, her bare legs running up to where her dress ends.

A shade of black just light enough to reflect the smallest amount of light, the mid thigh-high dark dress runs up the length of her body, accentuating her curves at every opportunity before ending short of her shoulders. Providing the slightest glimpse of the woman’s cleavage and leaving her shoulders uncovered, the choice in clothing leaves little to the imagination, and yet leaves Aiden’s mind running over endless speculation he can’t help but bring himself to voice.

“Where did you go?” the man wonders aloud, still staring at the wall ahead with an emotionless void of a stare, met initially with a lack of an answer strong enough to return his attention onward. “I went out to the bar with some friends” Carly replies, still remaining within the door frame as she just now frees her primary key from the deadbolt, slowly letting the entrance shut behind her.

Nodding to himself with his eyes squinted, Aiden’s sights redirect themselves back toward the distant wall across the room from him, unable to find their way back toward the woman. “Is that a problem?” Carly soon wonders aloud, only able to catch her boyfriend’s lips puckering together before noticing the rest of his head answer her with a simple shake of refusal.

“Nope” Aiden replies, his arms resting to each of his sides, fingers draped over the ends of the armrests, “I just found it odd for you to be out so late when you were here before I went to bed.” Moving as if she were the prey to an animalistic predator, Carly gently makes her way further into the home, letting the leather strap of her purse fall down the length of her arm before joining the rest of the accessory in falling limply onto the stone-finished countertop.

“It was a last-second thing” the anchor retorts, placing the palm of her hand against the drywall-covered concrete pillar at the intersection of her kitchen’s archway and adjacent island. “A last-second thing?” Aiden replies, turning his head toward the woman once more with an intrigued look in his eye, face leaning toward his left shoulder as the woman leans against the support column.

“Yes, a last-second thing” Carly reiterates, jostling her head as her free hand swipes a few hairs away from her face, “she called about an hour after you went to bed. I got my stuff and I left.” With his eyes lowered, Aiden takes his right hand and lowers it past the armrest, adjusting the crank at the chair’s side to let his feet collide with the ground, freeing them to join him in departing from the chair.

“Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess” the man responds in a tone that doesn’t exactly imply he’s as convinced as he lets on, “it just seems odd that you put on this whole get-up to go out in the span of- a few minutes or so.” Standing from his seat, Aiden gracefully turns toward the chair’s direction and begins stepping toward the hallway separating their living room from the shared bedroom.

“What are you saying?” Carly asks back, interrupting the man’s attempt at leaving with the question, seemingly inquisitive about the deeper motivations that he holds away from her ear’s reach. With his head hanging, Aiden’s pause leaves him stranded in the centre of the walkway, standing right in front of his girlfriend with eyes on the bedroom in the dark reaches of the corridor he’d yet to traverse.

“It’s just odd that you can take an hour and a half in the morning to get ready for work, but when a friend calls you out, you’re able to put on all of this in just a couple minutes and slip out without a peep” Aiden answers honestly, motioning his hand toward the elegant ensemble her clothes combine into, “it just seems odd- that’s all.”

“It sounds like you’re not telling me something” Carly replies, making her voice heard the moment he comes to a subtle conclusion, a defensive tone beginning to come over her reflexion. “If there’s something you want to say to me, just come out and say it” the woman adds on, watching the man’s disappointed visage meet her as his head tilts to the side, “whatever this is- I’m not a fan of it.”

Placing his hands on his hip as he nods to himself, Aiden feels a range of emotions beg for him to stand on the side of releasing them, though he ultimately chooses to keep the peace whilst it is still to be had. “I’ll see myself out then” the man finally remarks, making the conscious choice to depart the situation before it can escalate as he begins for the door.

“What are you doing?” Carly interrupts, asking the question aloud just as their paths cross, her boyfriend’s figure stopping beside her as his answer is called for once more. With his stoic face supplanted upon the heavy front door, Aiden soon turns to look the woman he steps past in the eyes, answering her honestly mid-pause before proceeding onward, “I’m going out to the bar with some friends” he replies, resuming his forward progress and closing the door behind himself without another word.

Left entirely alone, Carly lets her hand fall from the plaster-covered pillar at the archway’s end as she stares at the entrance, half-heartedly expecting the man to re-enter as if the odd interaction had never occurred in the first place. With squinted eyes, the moments turn into genuine seconds without the man’s return, the shake of her head preceding her first steps in the man’s path.

Pulling the door open, Carly looks down each end of the hallway the man would have ventured toward, unable to decipher in which direction he would have headed and incapable of following him any further.

|

\ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 /
\ 11:04 am est. - 8:04 am pst. /

“I’m sorry, Mr. Vickers- there was only so much I could do” Nicole remarks, standing in the doorway of her understanding employer’s office. “I don’t blame you for Ms. Lloyd’s lack of civility, don’t you worry” Vickers replies, using his retort as a backhanded quip at the woman’s unannounced visit, “unfortunately, some people just don’t take others into account and people like us just have to deal with them.”

Adjusting her jacket, Robin crosses her legs professionally and folds her hands atop her lap, both elbows pressing into the supports to either side of the man’s desk chair. “This uncivilised drop-in is the only reason you can afford to fill your veins with all the expensive booze in the world” the company’s owner replies, wearing a smug look as the man chuckles to himself, walking for the pair of empty chairs in front of his desk.

“Whether it’s you or your ex husband, why is everyone taking my chair other than me?” Vickers inquires aloud, unbuttoning the shoulder-padded blazer as he lowers himself into the seats his office intends to offer for guests to occupy. “Because I pay you well enough to buy a comfortable chair” Robin replies, returning the playful backhand to the man initiating the conversation with a smile, “I can show up and take your chair for the same reason I can show up unannounced- I own your ass.”

Enjoying the banter as nothing more than their usual back-and-forth, Vickers laughs to himself with the widest, child-like smile as he sits back in his seat, letting the humour settle before turning his attention toward the reason for the woman’s appearance. “I’m going to assume there’s more to this than a simple request to have lunch?” the company’s president inquires, head leant to the side as the woman bows her head, “something tells me it has more to do with our little situation?”

With a smile appearing in the corner of her mouth, Robin’s eyes remain glued to her longtime friend’s welcoming demeanour, “are you saying you don’t want to take a ride to Wendy’s?” she wonders aloud, trying to keep a fair amount of levity present. “As great as their burgers are, I’m not supposed to eat red meat for the next few weeks” Vickers responds, hiding his annoyance for the restrictions his heart attack had made necessary for him, “spill the beans.”

With her teeth falling behind glossy lips, Robin stares toward the ground once more as her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, distant sights accompanying her internal strife. Letting free a sigh, the company’s owner lifts her attention back toward the company’s president as her shoulders fall slightly, “Burt Russo wants in” she confesses, watching the disappointed look take her friend’s face within its grasp, shuffling his expression into one of disheartened annoyance.

“I thought Burt was one of the few Ross wasn’t willing to sell to?” Vickers wonders aloud, watching the woman’s head shake at him. “No, he said it would take a miracle for him to sell to Burt” Robin corrects, pushing herself up in the seat she claims as her own for the time being as her hands uncouple, one reaching up to support her head, “well, it seems like a miracle is in store for all of us.”

“How much is he offering?” Vickers quickly inquires, aware of that question being the difference between hope being justified and such a desire proving fruitless. As her visage sours, Robin’s eyes take toward the windows of her friend’s office, watching droplets of rain slowly run down the glass panes separating his inner sanctum from the gritty city streets beyond them.

“Five-point-five billion for all twenty” Robin answers, immediately watching the closest man to her place on the ladder stare at her with the widest eyes she’d seen on him yet. “You’re fucking kidding” Vickers says as his face goes stiff, following the lead of his posture in leaning forward, closer toward the woman than it had been at any other point in the conversation, “how the hell does he even have that much liquid capital?”

“I don’t know, but he has it. He has it, and he’s willing to put every last dollar into buying a fifth of the company” Robin answers, hands gently pressing into her legs as the man whose chair she occupies turns his focus toward the distance, trying to process what such a conclusion means for LMC going forward. “Well what the hell are we going to do?” Vickers soon inquires, knowing that they’ve now been forced to take action with the field becoming more well-illustrated.

“Robin, there’s no way we can let the founder of Finley take on any percent of this company- let alone a fifth of it” the president continues to assert, a declaration his only superior is already more than well aware of. “I know that, and we’re not going to. It’s not what we’re going to do, it’s what I’m going to do” Robin retorts, stepping out of the man’s seat and pressing her foot firmly into the ground, standing defiantly in the face of being presented with such crucial opposition.

“I’m not gonna mince words, and I’m not gonna waste my breath. I’m getting my books in order and I’m picking out every last dollar I have-” Robin replies, one finger aimed toward the ground she refuses to let fall into any hands other than her own. “You’re gonna find five and a half billion dollars and make sure that gutless sack of donkey shit never steps foot in your fucking building” Vickers declares, watching the finger the owner holds toward the ground shoot toward his direction.

With her teeth pressed together and lip curled, Robin nods to the man with certainty as she growls her reply, wasting no breath and not mincing a single word as promised.

“You’re goddamn right I am.”

== Tonight at 9 ==