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large doses of political correctness to the audience. Current Events, on the other hand, she watched all the time. Maisel continued. “We’ve got four twelve-minute segments each week, surrounded by millions of dollars of commercials. You don’t have time to be leisurely. You don’t have time to develop subjects and give the audience mood shots. You’ll shoot ten thousand feet of tape and use five hundred. We’re classy. We’ve got computer graphics coming out of our ears. We paid ninety thousand dollars for synthesized theme music by this hotshot New Age musician. This is the big time. Our stories aren’t about sex-change operations, dolphins saving fishermen’s lives, three-year-old crack dealers. We report news. It’s a magazine, the way the old Life or Look were magazines. Remember that.”
    Rune nodded. “Magazine,” Maisel continued, “as in pictures. I’ll want lots of visuals - tape of the
    original crime scene, old footage, new interviews.” Rune sat forward. “Oh, yeah, and how about claustrophobic prison scenes? You know, small green rooms and bars? Maybe the rooms where they hose down prisoners? Before-and-after pictures of Boggs - to see how thin and pale he’s gotten.”
    “Good. I like that.” Maisel looked at a slip of paper. “Piper said you’re with the local station. I’ll have you assigned to me.” “You mean I’ll be on staff? Of Current Events? Her pulse picked up exponentially. “Temporarily.” “That’s fantastic.” “Maybe. And maybe not,” Maisel said. “Let’s see how you feel about it after you’ve
    interviewed a hundred people and been up all night-“ “I stay up late all the time.” “Editing tape?” Rune conceded, “Dancing usually.” Maisel said, “Dancing.” He seemed amused. He said, “Okay, here’s the situation. Normally we assign a staff producer but, for some reason, Piper wants you to work directly with me. Nobody else. I don’t have anybody to spare for camera work so you’re on your ownthere. But you know how the hardware works-“ “I’m saving up to buy my own Betacam.” “Wonderful,” he said with a bored sigh, then selected a pipe and took a leather pouch
    of tobacco from his desk. A secretary’s spun-haired head appeared. She said that Maisel’s eleven o’clock
    appointment had arrived. His phone started ringing. His attention was elsewhere now. “One thing,” he said to
    Rune. “What?” “I’ll support you a hundred percent if you stick to the rules, wherever the story takes you. But you fuck with the facts, you try to create a story when there isn’t one there, you speculate, you lie to me, Piper or the audience, and I’ll cut you loose in a second and you’ll never work in journalism in this city again. Got that?” “Yessir.” . . “So. Get to work.” Rune blinked. “That’s it? I thought you were going to, like, tell me what to do or
    something.” As he turned to the phone Maisel said abruptly, “Okay, I’ll tell you what to do: You
    think there’s a story out there? Well, go get it.” “This ain’ you.” “Sure it is. Only what I did with my hair was I used henna and this kind of purple
    stuff then I’d use mousse to get it spiky . . .” The security guard at the New York State Department of Correctional Services’ Manhattan office looked at Rune’s laminated press pass from the Network, dangling a chrome chain tail. It showed a picture of her with a wood-peckery, glossy hairdo and wearing round, tinted John Lennon glasses. “This ain’ you.” “No, really.” She dug the glasses out of her purse and put them on then grabbed her
    hair and pulled it straight up. “See?” The guard looked back and forth for a moment from the ID to the person, then nodded and handed the pass back to her. “You want my opinion, keep that stuff outta yo hair. That ain’ healthy for nobody.”
    Rune put the chain necklace over her head. She walked into the main office, looking at the bulletin boards, the