The Morning Show Murders (1) Read Online Free PDF

order, he called me a
puta
. And I called him a one-legged asshole. And that's when he slapped me. But it's okay now. It was just a flash anger thing. I like Juan. I didn't want to hurt him, but the heart knows what the heart needs."
    Holy heartburn and thank you, Dr. Phil!
    "Okay," I told her, "I think I've got the picture. You feeling okay?"
    "Oh, yeah. Sure. My face stung for a few minutes is all. But I'm fine."
    "Good. Then you'd better get back to work."
    She stood. "You're not going to fire Juan? He really needs the job."
    "I hope I won't have to," I said, liking her a little better for having said that.
    Alone at last, I turned my attention to the sandwich. It looked a little soggy now, but I ate it anyway. Then I drank the wine and thought about love and all its vagaries.
    Then I went to bed.

Chapter

SIX
    "Pick you up at eleven?" my driver Joe asked as he braked near the elevator bank in the Glass Tower's Midtown underground parking area. "Or is this day not usual?"
    "It's very usual," I said, exiting the Volvo, blissfully unaware of what a lousy prophet I was. "You think you might get the car washed?"
    "No. It start looking too good, somebody steals it."
    He didn't wait for an argument, not that I had one.
    As he aimed the dirtmobile toward the exit, he swerved to avoid a rider in yellow leather zooming in on a motorcycle. The newcomer parked a few feet from me, dismounted, and removed his black helmet. He peeled off a glove and hand-combed his long blond locks, regarding me with sleepy blue eyes. He put a grin on his pale poet's face and said, "Yo, Bless-
sing
, wha's happ-a-ni
ng
?"
    Chuck Slater was
Wake Up, America!
's new film and television critic. Barely in his twenties, Chuck had gained fame as an Internet blogger and host of the popular website Flicpic.com. He was an arrogant, impatient young movie nut, either overly effusive in his reviews or devastatingly brutal. Quite the opposite of our former entertainment critic, George Miles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning twenty-year veteran ofthe
Washington Post
, whose critiques were thoughtful and informed. Unfortunately, all that experience meant nothing to management except that George was getting on in years. Which in turn meant that he had to be out of touch with our audience. Unlike Mr. Slater.
    "Nice bike, Chuck," I said.
    "Sy-kel, baby, not bike. Ka-wa-saki Z One Thousand. A kick-ass machine. You oughta get yourself one, Bless-sing."
    "I'll go out right after the show and buy one," I said, pressing the button for the elevator, "if you can name the director of
The Seventh Seal.
"
    He frowned. "Real cute, Bless-sing. You know I don't waste my time on kiddie flicks."
    We were among the last to arrive at Studio 2.
    Stepping into the vast array of sets, wires, cameras, monitors, and bustling people, Chuck took one look at anchorman Lance Tuttle and said, "Damn. I forgot it's Western Day."
    Lance was wearing a fake handlebar mustache, a ten-gallon hat, a starched white shirt, black trousers as tight as Gene Autry's, and hand-tooled boots with heels that brought him nearly up to six feet. He waved to us and yelled, "Howdy, pod-ners."
    On occasion, usually a holiday like Halloween or St. Pat's, the show took on a special look, with decorations, costumes, and theme-appropriate guests. That day we were celebrating the old Wild West. Why? The ostensible reason was that the Professional Bull Riders were in town holding an exhibition at Madison Square Garden; some of them would be dropping by to talk up the contest and shake hands with the street crowd. But more important to the network, we would be promoting
The Golden Lady
, a dramedy set in a San Francisco casino during the 1849 gold rush that, judging by its ratings, needed all the publicity it could get.
    "I hate this bullshit," Chuck grumbled. "They're making me dress up like an Indian. Hell, you'd make a better Indian, Blessing."
    "Thank you, Chuck, but they see me as more of a General Custer type."
    "You're shitting