Even though Spencer has effectively quashed Deutsch’s objection, since the whole concept is Spencer’s idea, Ida feels a certain imperative to justify it nonetheless. “Since most unionized workers can option for either Friday or Monday off on their four day week, I don’t think viewership will be a problem. There’ll be a lot of tired people dragging in to work on Monday mornings, but that’s not our concern. At any rate, it appears quite likely the owners will vote on our proposal at their winter meeting in February. Assuming they concur, which, given our liberal profit-sharing deal, would seem to be a virtual certainty, we can look for an expanded schedule in 2012, 2013 at the latest. Are there any questions?”

Spencer has one. “What about the arms bill lobby?”

Ida stays on her feet. “To appease the players, in public the owners will continue their support of the Abelman bill. Privately, they’ll help us in the drive to pass Barin’s increased armaments measure. Their spirit and financial support are firmly on our side.”

“Good.”

Ida sits down. She is the last speaker on the agenda. At this point, the staff meeting usually adjourns. As prior events would suggest, this is not a usual staff meeting.

Slowly, powerfully, Pierce Spencer stands, a king rising to the height of his omnipotence, from there to address his minions. “I have one further item of business.” He moves around the table, puffing on his cigar, slapping the back of each person’s chair as he passes.

“I have it on reliable authority that our friend Senator Abelman was able to procure a voice-over tape of a play from a recent game, specifically the Hougart incident in the Prospectors and Minutemen match.” His hand slaps the chair three down from Harry Deutsch, then two, then one. He slaps Deutsch’s chair. There he stops. “I’m sure we can all guess what he plans to do with that tape, but that’s not what concerns me. I’ll deal with Abelman when the time comes. What I want to know is where he got the tape in the first place. Can anyone tell me?” He knees the back of Deutsch’s chair so hard that he sends the man careening into the side of the table. “Perhaps you, Deutsch. Perhaps you can tell me.”

Deutsch begins to shake. He reaches out to the table and picks up his glasses, knocked off by the force of his impact. “I…I don’t know, Mr. Spencer. I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”

Spencer takes Deutsch by the shoulders and pulls him forcefully back into his chair. “So am I, Deutsch, so am I.”

Spencer leans across to the table, and grinds his cigar out on the cover of Deutsch’s monogrammed vinyl notebook. The heat-tortured cover puckers up with a crackle and an obnoxious odor.

Spencer wheels about and storms out of the conference room.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010