Connor and I went down the hall to the sound stage where the Action News set was still lit up. On the set, the evening broadcast was being replayed with the sound off. The anchorman pointed to the monitor. “I’m not stupid, Bobby. I watch these things. She did the lead-in and the wrap-up the last three nights.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m waiting to hear what you have to say, Bobby.” My friend Bob Arthur, the heavyset, tired producer of the eleven o’clock news, sipped a tumbler of straight scotch as big as his fist. He said, “Jim, it just worked out that way.” “Worked out that way my ass,” the anchorman said. The anchorwoman was a gorgeous redhead with a killer figure. She was taking a long time to shuffle through her notes, making sure she stayed to overhear the conversation between Bob and her coanchor. “Look,” the anchorman said. “It’s in my contract. Half the lead-ins and half the wraps. It’s contractual.” “But Jim,” the producer said.
