| |
––––––––
Dietz watched impatiently as BeeBo unzipped his new official Hog Hell hunter’s coat, doffed his blue and red cap, and took a good sixty seconds to squeeze into the provided chair. His massive thighs spilled over both sides.
The tiny office barely accommodated a single person, desk and computer set up, let alone two more grown men. BeeBo’s girth should count as at least two and maybe even three. Thankfully, Grady’s athletic but slight build easily perched on one side of the desk with such grace one would think it had been designed for such a purpose. That left the third vacant chair available.
He’d gotten lucky when Grady answered his plea on a national email list that served as a kind of Craig’s List for the industry. Grady handled all the scut work Dietz hated, and was a problem solver of the highest order, especially the niggling details necessary to make a reality show seem real but run smoothly. The locals couldn’t handle or understand some of the tech issues that challenged original programming. Once they got this next season rolling, worries would be behind them all. Grady understood that.
“Where’s Sunny? And Felch?” He wasn’t too worried about Sunny Babcock. The token girl on the team was little more than eye candy, and never stepped out of line. It made for great TV when she shot the lever-action Winchester deer rifle, never mind that she rarely scored with the cut-down barrel. But the last empty chair in the room looked ominous. Felch’s loose cannon behavior helped make the show a hit but kept Dietz on pins and needles wondering whether he’d continue to produce. “This isn’t an optional meeting.”
Grady sipped his double skinny cafe latte. He was never without coffee, and between that and the energy drinks, the man fairly bounced off the wall. Now he grinned, teeth dazzling in their perfection, and pulled out his ever-present phone and dialed. His teeth were his best feature. That and his wavy blond hair, a style that was too young for him. Somehow he pulled it off along with the yuppie cargo pants and sweater. He disconnected the phone. “Sunny texted, running late. Nothing from Felch. He’s not answering.” He rolled a silver pen in his hand, a nervous habit he might have inherited from giving up smoking.
“I thought you got him a phone.”
“Yep. But Felch hates it, leaves it off most of the time.” He shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ expression. “Promised to be here. Should be here any time.”
“Better be.” Dietz groused, and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. They all played at this like a second rate drama club when it was his life, by God. He needed a shave, hadn’t slept well in days, and wanted to get this meeting behind them. He had to impress upon them the importance of the next two days. How they behaved, and what they said, would make or break the show and they couldn’t go freelancing and shoot off their mouths. That’s what got them into this mess.
Felch needed the dressing down more than BeeBo. The huge man was a cross between Frankenstein’s monster and Jonathan Winters but despite a scary appearance, he only wanted to please. Felch, an Ichabod Crane clone, needed someone to ride herd on his free spirit. Of all the reality stars, Felch needed the money the most but hated the limelight the worst, and routinely dodged anything that didn’t involve wind-in-his-face he-man activity.
Dietz didn’t have time to play nursemaid. Grady handled the talent, got them where they needed to be, so Dietz could manage the money matters. He checked his knockoff Rolex. In six months, the watch would be real. With diamonds.
“That reporter came to see me last week. He talked to Felch, too. He’s all riled up about us.” BeeBo stared at Dietz, a kicked puppy expression that begged for a comforting word. He shrugged out of the coat, letting the DayGlo fabric slide off and fall over the back of the chair.
Dietz sighed, an exaggerated sound that ruffled the wavy fringe of hair that spilled over his brow. Leave it to BeeBo to point out the elephant in the room. “Let me worry about that. I told you, Grady sets up all interviews. I’ve got media appearances lined up to promo the big pig roast launch party for the new season.” He leaned forward over the tiny desk. “BeeBo, we need to coordinate our messaging. Let me put it this way: It’s like fishing—you got to use the right bait.”
BeeBo nodded, eyes glued on Dietz, but still acted puzzled.
Patiently, Dietz explained. “If you throw all your bait out in the lake at one time and the fish gobble it up, they won’t be hungry when you drop in your empty line.”
“Why would I dump my bait...oh wait, I get it.” BeeBo smiled, the gap of two missing front teeth a perfect fit for his stubby unlit cigar.
Central Casting couldn’t have picked better. “We want the news people hungry, ready to swallow every word we feed them. If you grant interviews to everyone, we won’t have any fresh bait to feed the big fish. And some of them are sharks so we have to be extra careful.” Words would be carefully practiced, no room for error. “I don’t want you or Felch or any of the production crew or talent—” His scowl included Grady, who crinkled sparkling green eyes at him. “Nobody talks to anyone without my say so. Got it?”
BeeBo agreed. “If you say so, Mr. Dietz.”
Grady fingered his phone again. “Got a text. Felch is on the way; Sunny found him. Go ahead, I’ll fill them in later.” Grady pocketed his phone, slid off the desk and appropriated the empty chair.
Dietz breathed again. One less thing to worry about. He could count on Grady to get it done, no nonsense, no excuses. That was a pro. “Good. Give them this.” He handed over several copies of the preprinted calendar with media and shoot dates noted. “Distribute to the rest of the staff. Have them clear their calendars and be on call for the next two days, until we get the big-ass launch behind us.”
Grady’s claim to fame included a number of indie films during the height of the martial arts craze, and a few guest star roles in TV cop shows as the victim or bad guy du jour. But like Dietz, when Grady reached the purgatory age—too old for romantic leads, too young for character roles—work dried up despite the obvious cosmetic work he’d had done. Facelift on a budget was never a good thing, and Dietz wondered how bad his face had to be to warrant such a gamble. Grady had to switch to behind the scenes work anyway. Turned out, he was good at it.
“What if he’s right?” BeeBo turned his cap around and around in his meaty fingers. He tried to shift his pose in the chair, and it rode his butt until he gave up.
“Who? Right about what?” Dietz handed BeeBo his own copy of the calendar and sample questions and prepared answers.
“My dawg acts like he said. That reporter has a cat that’s sick. What if it is our fault?” BeeBo folded the paper until it fit easily into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Hunting hogs is different. They tear up property, hurt folk’s livelihood. And we don’t waste ‘em, just butcher what we bag and pass it on to folks that needs the food. But I never hurt no dawg or cat in my life, not on purpose anyhow.” His lower lip stuck out, cherry red and wet, trembling a bit.
“Aw man, don’t let reporters rattle you.” Grady leaned forward and rested his forearms on muscular thighs. “The press always want an angle to get Joe Blow excited.” He turned to Dietz, kicking his argument into high gear. “Besides, it could be good for us. Get the warm-and-fuzzy crowd shouting about their poor pets. No such thing as bad publicity, right?”
Grady’s smile made male investors open their wallets, and women open their legs and thank him for the opportunity. Dietz wished he had that charisma. Money worked as well, though. Once Hog Hell became the cash cow he expected, no woman would refuse him.
Better put the brakes on Grady’s publicity notion. That would make the rumors worse when they needed to be erased. “You’re killing me. The only publicity I want pre-launch is good publicity. Got it?” Dietz’s slapped the desk for emphasis, and BeeBo jumped at the whip-crack sound.
Grady’s toothy smile pinched white at the corners. “You’re the boss.”
“Got that right.” Turning to BeeBo, Dietz softened his tone to a placating purr. “Nobody’s hurting pets. Hell, you’ve been feeding your dogs the same ol’ same ol’ for how many years?”
“Thirty.” BeeBo whispered.
“How many? Speak up, put some of that Hog Hell holler into it, brother.” He played the part of cheerleader and hard-ass coach in turn, whichever was needed.
“Thirty years I been feeding my dawgs the same food. And they done good!” BeeBo raised his voice, the baritone rich and thundering in the small office. He stood up, scraped the grabby chair off his butt and slapped the desk with his own beefy palm. “By damn, they done fine!”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Dietz beamed, his brow smoothing. “You don’t talk to anyone, especially the media—I mean reporters or TV or radio people—unless I’m there and say it’s okay. Grady will help you practice answering questions so you won’t get stumped.”
“Want me to take a meeting with that reporter? Get him to bury the story?” Grady straightened in the chair. “I can discourage him from bothering the talent. Maybe give him some new stories to chase, until after the launch.”
Dietz rubbed his face and waved BeeBo back into the chair. The big man’s looming height and girth made the room even more claustrophobic. “We want publicity, so you’ll have to finesse it. I don’t want any negatives about the show to surface in the next five days. Media appearances today, tomorrow night the launch party, and over the weekend build positive buzz. I want positive impressions about ‘local boys make good and help the economy.’ You know, a feel good Christmas story.”
“Hogs for the holidays.” BeeBo’s gap-toothed expression was a sharp contrast to Grady’s high-dollar caps.
Grady barked a laugh. “Not bad.” He stood. “I’ll take care of it, Boss. Better follow up on Felch. And I’ll get the talent together with the staff later today for some media training fine tuning.”
“Lots riding on this.” Dietz stood as the two men headed for the door. “Hang back a minute, Grady. BeeBo, he’ll catch up, so go wait in your truck.” They watched him lumber out of the room. He moved quickly for a big man, he moved quickly, and probably could take down a hog without the help of one of his several dogs. He turned to Grady. “One down, two to go. Make sure Sunny gets to the TV studio on time for the satellite media tour. The rest of us need to be at the radio station a half hour early.” He scowled. “You’ve got to get Felch squared away.”
“It’s covered, no worries.”
“Sure, you say that, but he’s not here, is he?”
“Not my fault. The reporter got to him before I could, and hustled him into his car. You said no scenes, no bad publicity, and there were too many people around.”
Dietz groaned. He needed a drink, never mind the morning hour. “We can control BeeBo—just tell him what he wants to hear. Sunny’s a mercenary bimbo, and a paycheck will keep her in line. Felch takes convincing.”
“He’s a dumb ass.”
“Hardly! Sure, he’s unsophisticated, but he’s not stupid. Behind that ugly face is a thinker. And a conniver. Find out what he wants and give it to him.”
Grady shrugged. “Whatever. I can handle him.” He sipped his coffee. Rolled the pen.
“You haven’t so far. I need a cutthroat attitude, someone willing to get his hands dirty to get the job done. Are you hearing me?” He tried to calm his breath and failed. “Felch had me fooled. Makes me wonder if he’s even from around here. If he’s not a native Texan, that could blow up and derail this whole deal.”
Grady didn’t need to know Felch came out of nowhere and contacted him with the idea for the Cutting Corners show. You can’t copyright ideas, after all. And it was Dietz’s connections and expertise that turned the “idea” into Hog Hell, Dietz who got the barbecue sponsorships, Dietz the spin-off High On The Hog cooking show. And this season’s show launch would announce the Piggy Panache gourmet gifts franchise during the watch party at the local Hog Heaven BBQ Restaurant, right in time for the Christmas rush. “We need Felch to stay in the show one more season, and make an appearance at the launch. The other guys get the job done, but Felch and BeeBo have star power.”
Grady blew a raspberry. “‘Star power?’ Hell, they don’t know what camera to play. You want an on camera backwoods goof? Just say the word.” Grady pooched out his gut, let one eye cross and jutted out his chin, assuming a shambling gait and lisp. “Dem hawgs be the devil, sho’ ‘nuff.”
Dietz sucked in a breath, shocked to momentary silence. The mimicry was uncanny. If not for the expensive hair style and clothing the man could be a smaller version of Felch. He shook himself. “They’re the golden goofs. They’re why viewers tune in, and viewers keep sponsors happy, and sponsors keep producers funneling in the big bucks.”
Grady straightened and turned sulky. “I could do it.”
“Sorry, we went in another direction.” The words were familiar to every rejected actor, including himself. Even the love of his life had gone in another direction. Literally. She’d be sorry, soon enough.
Dietz brushed off the memories. That was then, this was now, and as a director and producer he had a responsibility to the show and everyone involved, and couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way. Not yet, anyway.
“Didn’t hire you to be the talent; I hired you to manage the talent. If you can’t handle the job, there’s a dozen like you lined up to take your place.”
“So what else is new?” Grady’s jaw tightened.
“It’s your paycheck, too, you know. Hell, I’ll double your salary for the next week for the extra aggravation. Deal?”
The younger man twirled the pen, considering, and then grinned.
“All righty, you get your designer butt in gear. Go catch up to BeeBo, and do what you need to do to keep a rein on the talent before him and Felch tank everything.”
