Private Screening Read Online Free PDF

airtime in the media markets statewide—represents big private accounts like Procter & Gamble that pay top dollar year-round. With that kind of clout and a little of our money, he can stick Jamie’s final spots right in the middle of ‘Dallas.’” Nat’s face clouded. “Your guy Damone—he’s got things all put together, even security?”
    He fidgeted with his navy-blue bow tie; Stacy remembered that he wore it whenever Jamie needed luck. “John can do anything,” she assured him.
    Lauersdorf stuck the cassette into the video player.
    Jamie stood to one side of the screen, hands in his coat pockets. Stacy leaned forward.
    On the screen, an older man lovingly painted the door to his white-frame house a sylvan green. As he added the final touch, a grandmotherly woman finished polishing the brass door knocker. Turning, their eyes met; in a husky voice, she said, “We brought five children through this door.”
    The man nodded sadly.
    With agonizing slowness, the camera pulled back from them across a neatly tended lawn. As the old couple’s hands linked, a “For Sale” sign appeared in front of them. Through this silent image, an actor’s voice intoned, “Don’t let them tarnish your golden years. Vote for James Kilcannon, for a safer tomorrow.”
    â€œDynamite,” the buyer enthused.
    Jamie ruffled his hair. “Who was ‘them’?” he asked bemusedly. “Termites?”
    â€œInflation; cutbacks in old age benefits; the opposition—”
    â€œWe have met the enemy …”
    â€œAnd them ain’t us.” The buyer smiled. “When we pretested this, one old lady cried.”
    â€œBut what does it mean?” Stacy murmured.
    As Jamie turned to her, the buyer’s smile looked pained. “Have you seen his ads?” he asked rhetorically. “The one where he takes his mongoloid granddaughter fishing and tells her about Medicare?”
    Jamie was silent. “We’d better go,” Sherman told him. “You’re running for president, remember?”
    For another moment, Jamie looked at her. “I’ll call John,” she told him softly. “He can pick me up in San Francisco for the sound check.”
    She did that. And then they were off, sweeping through a hotel lobby filled with cameras, smiling for the midday news.
    2
    R EACHING into his duffel bag, Harry Carson felt the snub nose of the Mauser.
    In his mind, Stacy finished singing “Love Me Now.” From the darkness, the crowd screamed for more, until she beckoned to Kilcannon. As he stepped into the light, Carson raised his arm. But the revolver would not fire. He was paralyzed.
    â€œHarry?”
    Carson flinched. Moving his hand, he found the pack of cigarettes beneath his journal of poetry, and flipped it to Damone. Damone tapped the bottom, pulling out a cigarette with his lips. Even with the beard, Damone’s face looked like hammered bronze.
    â€œYou all right?” Damone asked.
    Carson realized he was sweating. “Just bored.”
    â€œThat’s why I hired you—to be chairman of the bored.” Taking a drag, Damone watched the television he’d set down on the stage.
    â€œThere’s too many amplifiers,” Carson told him.
    Damone didn’t turn. “Leave the extras out till after the sound check. If we don’t need ’em, I’ll load the boxes back on the truck.”
    On the screen, Stacy was moving with Kilcannon through the lobby of some hotel. Beneath the blonde-brown curls, her green eyes seemed wary, reminding Carson of Beth. When her smile flashed, guileless and surprising, he looked away.
    â€œSatellite News International will continue its live coverage of the Kilcannon campaign with a rally in San Francisco’s Chinatown.…”
    Switching it off, Damone turned to the crew. “Make sure the monitor’s set up and working. I’m picking