Scoop Read Free Page B

and continued to dress in a way that suited his idealism. And as much as it wounded him on every occasion that it occurred, Hugo addressed his thirty-three-year-old boss as Mr. Arbus. It was just the way things were supposed to be done, even if he was the only one doing it. That’s what his father had taught him, and his father, with great pride, had been a live truck operator for fifteen years. His father was dedicated and loyal and apparently a dying breed. Live truck operators these days stayed around for about three months.
    Never once did Hugo see his father leave the house without a tie on.
    He knew what to expect as he came closer to Chad’s corner office,which had a glass wall too, except with a view of the city, not the newsroom. It was too big to call a window, Hugo thought. Ten pictures of Chad with various celebrities hung neatly on one wall.
    Hugo knew Chad was going to rant. It was what Chad liked to do. He never really had any suggestions or solutions, but he certainly loved to point out one problem after another.
    He was a man of small stature, barely over five foot three, but his demeanor was fierce, and when he grimaced and bared his teeth, his face turned blood red and the premature bald spot on the peak of his scalp turned white. He also liked to pound his fist a lot, and Hugo once thought that perhaps he learned all of his leadership techniques from a comic strip, because that’s what he looked like most of the time…a cartoon. His big, googly eyes, tiny ears, casual polos, and slicked-back pony-tail didn’t help matters. Hugo hated that ponytail.
    Not that Chad Arbus was a complete monster. He was also a shrewd businessman. He knew the important times when his googly eyes should take on a more wise and astute nature. But Hugo would bet an entire bottle of the Blue Pill that he would not see anything wise or astute now.
    Opening the door to Chad’s office, Hugo greeted the younger man with a taut smile and took a seat that wasn’t offered. Chad turned away and looked out his window, the sun highlighting his pale skin.
    “Hugo,” he said, “I am not going to settle for another disastrous sweeps week.” He turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “We can’t fall into last place. Not again.”
    “We’ve got a lot of things lined up for sweeps week. We’ve planned a segment on five ways to reduce your risk of choking while dining out. And a week-long series on the ten deadliest backyard dangers, plus—”
    Chad held up his hands. “Hugo,” he said mildly, his big eyelids drooping a bit like he was about to tell an inside joke, “we both know what the problem is.” He turned back to the window again.
“Who
the problem is.”
    Hugo didn’t know what else to do, so he rose, went to the door, and shut it. The click seemed to be Chad’s cue to talk freely. “She’s ruining us!”
    Biting his lip, Hugo couldn’t think of a thing to say for or against Gilda. Everyone at Channel 7 knew that Gilda’s departure was long overdue—everyone but Gilda—yet there were so many complexities to the matter that there didn’t seem to be a plausible solution. Channel 7 owned about seventy percent of the market in the sixty-five and over crowd. The problem was, they owned about nineteen percent in the twenty-five to thirty-four crowd. And even less in the other demographics. The only way to get the younger crowd to tune in was to bring in younger talent, which they’d done by hiring Tate Franklin, who looked like Tom Cruise’s better-looking brother, as coanchor. Though Tate came with a lot of nearly unbearable idiosyncrasies, he was still a young-looking face. The trouble was the two anchors were so mismatched, you almost expected Gilda to call Tate “dear” on air occasionally. She’d actually patted his hand once.
    Hugo decided to get comfortable. The Blue Pill was kicking in.
Finally.
And he figured if he sat really still for about fifteen minutes, Chad would rant and then let him get back