Conspiracy by Dana Black Read Free Book Online Page B

Spanish cameras at the Barcelona stadium; two, at the bottom of the console, carried the signal from the UBC exclusive field-level units that Larry Noble had fought so hard to get. Three others showed the output from the slo-mo units, which had been wired to pick up signals from any of the nine cameras, depending on which three were covering the best section. The thirteenth screen, the largest, at the center of the console, was the “on air” monitor, carrying whichever signal Wayne Taggart chose to “put up” on the “board” at any given moment. The fourteenth monitor, slightly smaller than the on-air screen beside it, carried graphics typed electronically by two men in the Chyron unit, which was housed in a smaller truck parked a few feet away.
    On the graphics screen and the on-air, Sharon read the words TIME REMAINING and then the numbers, changing with each elapsed second: 2:21 .. . 2:20 . . . 2:19 .. .
    Three men sat at the console. On the left was the rotund, balding Larry Noble, flicking switches to change the signals going into each of the three slo-mo units. To Larry’s right, at the center of the board, Wayne Taggart was barking commands at Billy Leon, the technical director, who moved the switches that put up whatever camera signal Taggart ordered.
    “. . . cut to Seven . . . now Nine . . . Christ, what a move he made, it’s on Seven, Seven . . . goddammit, will you put up Seven? For chrissake how many times do I have to say it?” As he spoke, Taggart shifted constantly in his chair, sometimes up on one knee, to make notes, then slumping back, his feet in sandals up on the edge of the console, tilting his chair; then upright, drumming fingers on his clipboard. Sharon had worked with him before at NBC, and found his constant nervous aggression difficult to put up with. But Taggart was quick, one of the best free-lance directors around, and he knew soccer, and Larry Noble liked the way he talked about “creative symmetry.”
    Sharon sat at her position in this tiny cubicle behind the three men: a narrow console with telephone connections to the other two trucks and to the outside world, and a direct line to the UBC switchboard and Molly in the building across the highway. She spread out the papers she had brought with her. There was so little room in the cubicle that the back of the bench Sharon sat on was simply padding on the wall, and the front of the console before her was only an inch or two from the chairs of Larry and Wayne. When Taggart leaned far back, the cowboy hat he never seemed to take off was practically in Sharon’s lap.
    “Do you mind, Wayne?” Sharon said quietly, moving her papers to one side. Lany Noble and Billy heard her, turned around, and said “Hi.” Taggart did not respond. He kept his chair tilted back and continued calling out the camera numbers.
    Now the hat brim brushed against the roll of stadium plans Sharon had brought, knocking them to the floor.
    “Wayne, do you mind?” Sharon pushed the hat away from her, in the process tilting it.down over Taggart’s face so that he could no longer see the bank of monitor screens before him.
    Taggart gave a cry of rage. He leaned forward, clutching the hat to straighten it, and whirled around to face Sharon, eyes blazing. His thick brown Pancho Villa mustache quivered with indignation. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he screamed. “Do you realize I couldn’t see?”
    Sharon replied calmly, “You can’t see the monitors when you’re looking at me, either. And you’re missing a good shot on Eight.”
    Larry Noble’s soft baritone cut in before Taggart could answer. “Put up Eight, Billy. And Wayne, get back to the board. Put up the score, Chyron, and then get ready with the lists of tomorrow’s highlights.”
    “You’re not going to say anything to her?” Taggart turned to the producer in anger. “You’re just going to let her get away with it?” Pinpoints of sweat appeared around the top of