S3, E5 | Money as Pure as Grudges Last

\ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 /
\ 11:02 pm est. - 8:02 pm pst. /

“It’s not that I’m against having this conversation over the finest steak in New York, but it’s not necessary to do so” Taylor quips with a smile, the dress she wears reflects the lights of the overhead chandelier hanging atop their mid-room table. “Even by your own standards, it’s not necessary to have an apartment in the city, but that doesn’t stop you from going to look at them” Grant replies, matching the woman’s hearty grin with his own, “why not take down the finest wine while we talk?”

“Because we can do that at your villa instead” Taylor responds, politely handing her menu to the server as he prepares to leave, already having filled their glasses with a vintage blend. “I don’t have a thirty-two ounce steak there- let alone two” Grant replies, playfully jabbing the woman for matching his order exactly. “What? Are ladies not allowed to enjoy red meat?” the chipper blonde retorts, her smile still intact as she lifts her glass into the air.

“What are we cheering for?” Grant inquires, following the well-dressed woman’s lead and lifting his glass into the air, gently tapping his rim against his co-anchor’s as the short lady with the mammoth appetite considers the options available. “To talking about the future” Taylor replies, one leg kicked over the other beneath the table, “with Howard in the rear view mirror, suspensions elapsed and the year already halfway over- it’s about time.”

His lips curled at each end, Grant nods in agreement as he joins the woman in taking a sip of the bright red drink his bank account reacts to as if it were a poke in the side. “Our villa, by the way” the man remarks after a few brief seconds, correcting his girlfriend’s earlier statement to the initial rejoinder of a slightly-perplexed expression, “I know it’s in my name and I own all the land, but I don’t see it as my home any more than it is yours.”

Recalled to the statement she’d earlier made, Taylor bobs her head as the glass in her hand is returned to the table, appreciative of the implication in spite of the incapability she has over fully agreeing with it. “Like I said, if things were to go south-” the woman begins to remark, only for her words to be kept from presenting themselves, her rebuke falling upon adamant deaf ears just as they had earlier in the day.

“Even in the smallest chance- the smallest chance- that things don’t work out between us, the villa-” Grant begins explaining, only to cut himself short and correct himself, “-cabin! It’s a cabin, I don’t know how’ve you gotten me to start calling it a villa- it’s a cabin!” Covering her mouth in a fit of laughter that had nearly prompted her to spit out her second sip of wine, Taylor chuckles quietly to herself as her boyfriend fights through his own amusement to finish his initial remark.

“The point I’m trying to make is that in the small chance- the tiny one- that things don’t work out between us, the cabin is big enough to where we could be on opposite sides and never run into each other” Grant concludes, finally preparing himself for another drink, “but that won’t happen, because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. End of story.”

Though her pupils lower, Taylor’s face remains aimed at her boyfriend’s own, his answer having provoked a moment of self-inquisition upon the woman she wields to present her retort. “Then marry me” she finally concludes, watching her co-anchor follow through on returning his glass to the table, fully aware of what she’d suggested and purposefully unresponsive to it for a moment.

Though her lack of addition to the statement has initially been meant as an invitation for the man to speak, the lack of his voice prompts the woman to continue, providing elaboration in spite of it not being intended. “I haven’t had the easiest road in life. Professionally, romantically, personally- you name it and I’ve seen a few speed bumps” Taylor explains, not wanting to use his lack of an inquiry to prevent herself from being honest, “I’ve seen good things go. I want to be sure of this.”

As she finishes, the nine o’clock anchor watches her boyfriend stand from his seat and step off to the side of the table, his display prompting her to immediately talk him out of it. “No. Don’t propose here ‘cause I won’t accept it” Taylor remarks in good spirits, watching the man pause mid-step, the plan she’d sought to put an end to the exact plan he’d attempted to perform.

“So, do you want me to marry you or not?” Grant queries, still frozen mid-step before being gestured to return to his seat by the woman across the table from him. “What I don’t want is for you to get down on a knee and propose to me just so I don’t go out apartment hunting anymore” Taylor responds, still showing her teeth with the welcoming smile she’s worn throughout the entire night.

“I want to marry you. It’s got nothing to do with the apartment or the villa- cabin, fuck!” Grant explains, cracking the woman up once more with his slip of the tongue, “I know I’d never thought to do it until now, but that doesn’t change how much I want to.” Letting the man speak, Taylor reaches for her glass and takes yet another sip of wine, hearing the man’s explanation before responding in kind.

“If I didn’t suggest you marry me, you wouldn’t have thought to propose” she replies, a correction that her boyfriend can’t necessarily argue otherwise, “even if your intentions are good, that’s not how I’d want it to go.” Resigning to defeat, Grant sits further back in his seat with both hands atop the table, wrists pressing into the edges as he softens his voice to a more subdued pitch.

“How do you want it to go?” he wonders aloud, raising the question for the woman to answer, only for her attempt to fall unsuccessful instantly. “Hi, excuse me- I’m not interrupting something, am I?” an older gentleman with a rather bulbous gut inquires, leaning toward the centre of the couple’s table with his voice at a whisper. Unfamiliar to the pair of anchors, the man wastes little time in pulling a chair from a neighbouring table and occupying their presence.

“Who are you?” Grant wonders aloud first, voicing the same question that he and his significant other share. “Albert Russo, I own the Finley Networks” the man replies dismissively, making himself comfortable in the seat he was not welcomed to. “Anything you might think you’re able to say to us right now would be considered tampering” Taylor warns, not wasting another moment to make her thoughts on the man’s appearance clear.

“I’m not interested in either of your services on primetime” Burt replies, his right arm draped over the table as his left sits on his lap, “talking the two of you out of your gigs at LMC ain’t why I’m here.” Forced to listen more intently in light of their visitor’s thick, Brooklyn-based accent, the couple wait for the man’s continuation in silence, completely dropping their original conversation in favour of hearing out the reasoning behind their guest’s presence.

“The two of you are pretty close to Robin Walker, right?” Burt inquires, watching the brief turn of Taylor’s eyes toward her boyfriend and taking it as an affirmative answer. “Great, I’m gonna need to ask the two of you for a favour. In return, I’ll give you whatever the hell it is you could want” the billionaire remarks, settling the waters in order to make it easier to part the sea he prepares to venture across, “talk her out of matching my offer for her husband’s stock.”

With her eyebrows furrowed, Taylor’s face follows the path her eyes had taken in fixating upon her boyfriend, who remains stoic in his seat- expression unchanged and posture as present-minded as it had been at their third-wheel’s introduction. “Without going too much into detail, there are a few things within LMC- like the mechanisms in a grandfather clock- that I’d like to get a look into” Burt explains, staring at the table his fingers dance across whilst he speaks.

“How would you even have enough in liquid to make that kind of offer this fast?” Taylor inquires, asking the questions her boyfriend chooses not to. “The way my funds are allocated isn’t important to you. What is- would be the things I could make happen for the two of you if you can make this thing happen for me” Burt retorts, puckering his lips and nodding to the woman before taking the same demeanour to her boyfriend, “sound like a plan?”

Through silence with a grimace, Grant turns his eyes toward the woman sitting across from him, her displeased expression more than able to be understood in its portrayal alone.

“Who’s dead!?” Vickers exclaims, watching his premier hosts storm into the luxury flat he calls home with purpose behind every step. “How the hell could you not tell us that the fat dipshit from Finley was putting an offer down for Ross’ shares!?” Taylor exclaims, the first to make it to the apartment’s living room with her boyfriend following closely behind.

“Burt Russo is making an offer!?” Vickers shouts as his hands flip the nearest lightswitch, his youthful vigour incapable of injecting believability into the words he utters. “Oh, don’t act like you wouldn’t have been the first person Robin told!” Taylor barks back, her finger pointed in the man’s direction as the company president’s head lowers, unable to support the ruse he’d attempted to pull.

“Oh, I wasn’t the first! I was the third!” Vickers replies, hearing his first name called out from the young woman’s mouth before defending his claim, “what!? She told her financial advisor and her lawyer before me!”

“Sam, that’s not what I’ve got a problem with!” Taylor corrects, adding emphasis to her frustrations, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell Grant, but I’m fucking clueless as to why you wouldn’t tell me!” Letting out a loud sigh as he presses his hands to his face, Vickers wipes the exhaustion that’d been forced upon his visage in the wake of the anchors’ surprise visit, trying to let the air settle down for a moment before replying.

“She only told me about it last night, and neither of us wanted you to worry about it” Vickers explains, watching his closest confidant roll her eyes and place her hands upon her hips as Grant stands by idle, not taking it as his responsibility to quell the grievances his girlfriend justifiably has. “Ross doesn’t want to sell to Russo anymore than you’d want to work for him. He’d expend all other options first” the LMC president assures, “Robin’s got time to get the funding together.”

“Vickers, Ross just walked up to us- in the middle of the steakhouse- and asked us to convince her not to match his offer” Grant clarifies, letting the news settle with the man across the flat from him. “Well what did you say?” Vickers questions aloud, watching the anchor part his lips to respond before interrupting, “oh my god, why the hell were you two at a steakhouse at eleven o’clock at night!? Are you engaged!?”

“Sam, I’m not that easy!” Taylor shouts back, her retort managing to spark the slightest chuckle out of her boyfriend in spite of the peculiar circumstances surrounding their visit, “and that’s not the point here!” With one hand tucked into his pocket and a waning smirk, Grant extends his free palm toward the president and answers the question asked of him. “We didn’t say anything. We got up and walked out before we could be served” the man confesses, “I hope the fat cunt didn’t eat our tip.”

“Alright, at least it’s pretty clear that Robin’s in the market and Burt would stand no shot at obtaining the shares” Vickers replies, trying to look on the positive side of things before his longtime friend offers a rebuttal. “Yeah sure. Or- and I’m just spit-balling here- he offers even more” Taylor counter-argues, her voice getting softer as she suggests the alternative, “the man is worth well over twenty billion dollars, I think he can afford to outbid her if he wanted to.”

“And you came here more than just to scold me, you came to warn me that he knows about it” Vickers concludes, finally recognising the more crucial aspect behind visiting him with such a confession so early in the morning. Left with their own thoughts, the anchors remain eerily quiet as their superior struggles with the information, realising the wrinkle in Robin’s plan is to be found in the minds of those aware of her interest.

“Shit” Vickers soon murmurs, placing a hand on his hip whilst the other hangs by his side, draped in silk pyjamas that reflect the moonlight peering through the large windows he approaches the view of.

= 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 =

\ Friday, June 8th, 2007 /
\ 5:03 am est. - 2:03 am pst. /

Roaming the eight o’clock newsroom, Shane ventures his way toward the bureau’s depths with an envelope in hand, staring up at the panopticon-like levels of offices above, the stretch it takes toward the heavens nothing in comparison to the reach his own newsroom offers. “Not as impressive, huh?” Doug calls out from off to the side of the workfloor, catching the visitor by surprise.

“No, it’s actually kind of pathetic” Shane replies with a humoured tone, watching the senior producer of eight o’clock nod to himself. “Yeah, once you’re in the big time- all of this is kinda sad” the buff executive producer of nine o’clock continues, watching the man across the room from him stand from his seat and stretch.

“All jokes aside, how long have you been here?” Shane inquires, watching the man’s hands fall to his sides as he departs the desk to approach him, curiously taking note of the sleep deprivation Aiden’s right-hand man at eight o’clock wears, “have you not gone home since yesterday?” With the simple shake of his head, Doug answers the question provided before his voice can catch up with his physical reply.

“I never leave on Thursdays- don’t tell anyone” Doug responds, briefly peering toward the envelope carried in the man that had once held the ‘senior producer’ title not so long ago in the bureau upstairs. “Fridays are usually slow, so as long as I have a few stories locked and loaded that we didn’t spend a whole time on the week before, I’ve got nothing to do on the last day of the week” the eight o’clock lifeline explains, “I go home before the show starts and crash on my couch for a bit.”

“And that strategy works for you?” Shane inquires, eyes pressing close together as he tries to read each twitch in the expression the newer member of the company wears. “I don’t like pushing things off. If I can get something done earlier than it’s due, that’s what I do” Doug reassures, extending his hand toward the visiting employee, “I’ll get him his mail.”

With a squint, Shane reluctantly pulls the envelopes back, hesitant to hand them off to a man he admires the work ethic of, but doesn’t know all that much about. “It’s fine, I always leave his mail on his desk” the executive producer replies, nodding his head as a show of appreciation. “Hey, you do you, man” Doug replies, holding his hands up in a show of surrender at the moment restraint is displayed, “I figured I’d hand it off to him so you could get on with your day sooner, man.”

“I’m sure he’ll be just fine picking it off his desk when he gets in, thanks though” Shane replies with a half-smile, assuming the mixed messages had been an innocent mistake. “When he- Oh, no- he’s in there” Doug corrects, watching his new acquaintance’s head pull back, eyes taking toward the office where a dim light reflects off the glass panels he can’t fully see through.

“He’s- he’s in there right now?” Shane wonders aloud, at first assuming he had misinterpreted what the eight o’clock producer had stated. “Dude, he never left” Doug answers back, reaffirming his claim exactly as it had been taken, “that’s why I offered to take it to him.” With a curious look in his eye, the nine o’clock producer watches a figure step into the end of the glass case room, picking a folder off of a large pile atop one of the chairs in the office’s corner.

“Why wouldn’t he have left with Carly?” Shane asks back, unable to receive much more than a shrug of uncertainty from the producer, “he never showed the other night, so I assumed they’d patched things up.” Grimacing as if he’d suddenly become pained, Doug winces with his teeth on full display as he shakes his head, finally providing his new pal with insight he’s actually privy to.

“If whatever the hell it was between them yesterday was ‘patched up’, that ship’s about to sink fast” Doug corrects, gesturing toward the spherical newsdesk in the office’s corner, “they practically acted like the other didn’t exist.” Beginning to assume he’d read his friend’s absence the morning prior in the opposite way than it was intended, Shane takes his free hand and pats the only other soul in the bureau on the shoulder.

“Thanks for letting me know, man” Shane remarks, appreciative for the help the tired producer could offer, “I’ll have one of my guys upstairs come down and take over for you around noon- you’ve earned a bit of sleep.” Nodding, Doug pats the man on the shoulder in return and lets him walk off, not needing to offer a word in order to present his appreciation for the kind gesture.

“Don’t bother giving me the all-clear to come in, I’m doing so anyway” Shane remarks, opening the door to his friend’s office as quickly as his knuckles had knocked against its exterior. “I was actually going to say don’t come in- I’m busy” Aiden replies, looking at a piece of paper in his hand whilst pressing his back into the chair he occupies, glancing at the envelope his friend drops on his already-cluttered desk, “thanks, bye.”

“Why the hell didn’t you go back to Carly’s last night and why does this office smell like an insomniac’s wet dream?” Shane inquires, peering to the side of his friend’s desk to find a stack of coffee containers. “Again, busy” Aiden responds, dismissing his friend’s questions before leaning into his desktop monitor, bathing his face in light unlike the water his body has gone without being drenched in for longer than a workday’s length.

“If you don’t pull your face out of that screen, I’m gonna break it” Shane warns, watching his friend’s head bow as the man sighs, “your guys on standby don’t see anything worth looming over that screen like a schizophrenia loon.” Clearly displeased with his friend’s interruption, Aiden lets his quiet reply persist for another few seconds as he clears his head, trying to bring himself back into a state worth holding a conversation with.

“I know what you’re going to say and I don’t need to hear it right now, Shane” Aiden soon remarks with more composure than he’d shown to that point, a calmness carried in his tone as he tries to reply amicably. “I wasn’t going to say anything, I was going to ask a question” Shane responds, aware that such a reply does little to change his friend’s immediate reaction, “what happened between you and Carly?”

Letting out a long, drawn out sigh as he leans back in his seat, Aiden looks to his friend with a disheartened visage, eyes lowering just as the man responsible for asking the question does.

|

\ Saturday, June 9th, 2007 /
\ 7:08 pm est. - 4:08 pm pst. /

“Thank you” Ross remarks, handing his jacket to the flat’s owner with an appreciative grin, the plaid article of clothing intended to conceal his disease-plagued body from being too easily noticed. “Did the traffic get you, too?” Robin inquires, strolling out of the kitchen with a large glass of liquor in hand, a string of pearls worn around her neck and atop her dark green sweater, shifting with her every step on the way to the couch nearest to her.

“No, the chemo did” Ross retorts, drawing closer to the nine o’clock anchors as they occupy the seats open beside the LMC owner, “modern medicine has my full support, but it takes longer than the construction crews downtown do.” Finishing a sip from the rim of her glass, Robin leans forward to rest the vessel upon the coffee table just a few feet ahead of her, watching her ex husband take a seat before being followed by his second wife.

“Isn’t there a saying for that?” Grant inquires, taking the seat to the left of his girlfriend, an arm draped across the side of the sofa whilst his free limb sits atop Taylor’s lap, his hand in hers, “if you want something done right, save up a few minutes of wait time? That’s a saying, right?” Shaking her head, Robin’s gesture responds with the same rebuttal the flat’s owner puts into words.

“No, but it’s a fine motto to live by” Vickers answers, taking a glass of expensive wine off his countertop with a pair of glasses in hand, “though, I thank you for making me look more intelligent in comparison just by being present.” With a half grin and nod, Grant lets one of his few superiors take the victory as his eyes drift toward the living room’s depths, the conversation returning from its brief spell of venturing upon other paths.

“Let’s get this show on the road so Ross, here, doesn’t have to waste a minute more of his already-limited time” Robin explains, earning a delicate chuckle from her ex-husband, genuine amusement taken in the light-hearted banter they share, “we already know why we’re here.”

“There’s a difference between why we’re here and what we’re here for” Ross retorts, waving off an offered glass of white wine from the apartment’s owner that his wife soon takes graciously, “we’re here to talk about me selling to you, right?” Her face tightening just slightly, Robin’s eyes veer off to the side as she pauses for a moment, nodding back in lieu of her lack of an immediate response.

“In a way, yes- we are” the twenty-one percent owner replies, her hands coupling together atop her lap, resting on the right thigh that sits crossed over her left, “it’s just not going to be as fast as signing a check and shaking hands right now.” With a squint in his eye, Ross lets the woman’s retort sit with him for a moment before replying with the first question that comes across his mind, Kaye taking the drink offered to her lips as her husband proceeds with the conversation.

“How long are we talking before you have the capital for this deal?” Ross wonders aloud, his patience for the woman’s reply joined by the anchors that sit beside her, both sets of eyes pulling toward her direction with a curious gleam in their eye. “That depends on whether we’re talking the quickest I can get it, or what’s most likely” Robin answers, fingers interlocking with each other as her palms move to the cap of her knee.

“The quickest I can get five-point-five billion would be by December” Robin responds, her head lowering the moment her ex-husband’s visceral expression of displeasure meets her, “the most likely would be by next summer.” Having spent the last few moments hunched forward with elbows pressed into each thigh, Ross’ back meets the comfort of Vickers’ sofa as he pushes himself back, eyes widened and held toward the ceiling.

“Robin, I’ve got a few months at best” Ross soon responds, having spent the last few seconds trying to search for any timeline that could make such an arrangement possible, “that could mean six months, it could mean less.”

“That’s why I’ve had an entire team run through this. Multiple times over, everything I own and what’s most likely to sell fastest. I have the capital” Robin explains, something that none of the flat’s occupants deny, “we can set down the perimetres for the deal now and put it through when I make it liquid.”

Turning his eyes toward the distant window, Ross thinks quietly to himself as his ex-wife continues speaking, trying to state her case. “Isn’t waiting to get a deal done with me optimal to having to make a deal with Burt-goddamn-Russo?” Robin wonders aloud, leaning back in her own seat as the selling man’s sights turn back toward her, “for fuck’s sake, even if I low-balled you, it’d be a better deal than signing off to Russo on principle alone.”

“It’s more than just principle, Robin! I wouldn’t be selling if there wasn’t a reason!” Ross exclaims, raising his voice to the highest octave he can manage in the fragile condition he sits within, the remark prompting all eyes not privy to his situation to take the turn toward curiosity. Hanging his head as he swipes his hand at the ground, the wealthy founder steps to his feet under his own power, hand placed against his forehead as he draws closer to the window.

“Yeah, and you said it was ‘cause Kaye didn’t want you passing down the shares?” Vickers wonders from across the room, standing beside his countertop with the bottle of wine still in hand. Letting out a sigh, Ross steps closer to the window and eventually places his knuckle against the transparent boundary between himself and the glory of midtown Manhattan.

“I’m selling the shares so I can buy out Verosoft” Ross confesses, continuing to stare out at the city and the towers that light its rapidly darkening sky. “Burt’s offering five and a half billion for coverage. The four billion for the worth of the shares, another billion to buy out Verosoft, and another five hundred million to settle whatever lawsuits I’ve already got going on over Tracer Pharmaceuticals” the founder explains, “his offer gives me- or Kaye rather- one-point-five in wiggle room.”

“And that wiggle room is good enough for you to swallow your pride and sell to the same guy that’s made it his mission to trash LMC at every corner he could?” Robin questions aloud, shaking her head as she steps out of her seat, confronting her ex-husband in the centre of the room, “four billion is more than enough to do whatever last-minute purchasing you’ve got to do before adding the farm to that last!”

“So now you’re offering four billion?” Ross questions back, watching the woman shake her head amidst offering a reply. “No, I’m telling you that my money’s purer than anything he can offer!” Robin answers, hands finding their place upon her hips, “but if you want my money before you kick the bucket, you’d have a much quicker shot getting four than five and a half!”

“I’m not buying Verosoft as a stupid gag gift, I’m buying it for the tech I needed to fulfil my obligations in Tracer” Ross explains, hand taking toward his wife’s direction, “I’ll take every goddamn penny I can get to leave her with a clean slate. Settle every lawsuit, keep two companies on the same track and corner the medical tech industry.”

“And my money isn’t good enough to let you do that?” Robin responds, quickly watching her ex-husband lower his face closer toward her own before replying. “You’re money isn’t enough” Ross answers in kind, presenting honesty as he steps past the woman and gestures for his wife to leave the sofa, already well-prepared to depart as soon as they had arrived.

“I don’t have any more time in life to hold grudges- especially when they leave me losing out on one-point-five billion” Ross explains, strolling through the commons area under his own strength before reclaiming his coat and opening the door. “I need the money before October, all five and a half. If you can’t present me with a deal that gets it done, I’m selling” the billionaire concludes, stepping through the front door and closing it behind himself, leaving the discourse to die where he leaves.

Going quiet for a moment, the room sits in silence amongst the four remaining inhabitants, not one of them wanting to be the first to speak before the newest member of the circle falls upon the undesired sword. “Alright, what the hell do we do now?” Grant inquires, watching Robin look at him briefly before taking her sights to the longtime friend that stands across the room from her, Vickers tongue pressing into the roof of his mouth as his lips shift to the side at a loss.

“I’m not sure” Robin replies, crossing her arms as she throws a huff of air from her lungs, a defeated shake of her head all that she can display with certainty.

== Tonight at 9 ==