Page 34 of Prime Time

“Yes, they arrived very early yesterday morning.” Too early. Why couldn’t they have arrived an hour later? Then maybe Lyon. …

“How’s the taping going?”

“Fine. We’ve got three in the can. The general’s wonderful.”

“No equipment trouble?”

“No. Yesterday Gil had a dead cord, but he drove down to San Antonio and got another one. Everything’s fine now.”

There was a sustained pause in the conversation while Les digested everything she’d said. She wondered where Lyon was, what he was doing.

“Andy baby, it makes me nervous as hell when every thing is going just ‘fine.’ ”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She knew exactly what he meant. Usually she was bubbling with excitement over what she was doing, or boiling with anger over the uncooperative weather, or griping about a technical breakdown, or laughing over something that had happened to a crewman. But she was never apathetic.

“I like for little disasters to happen every now and then to keep everybody on their toes. Know what I mean? You sound like you could use a big dose of either Geritol or milk of magnesia or Midol. When things are so damn ‘fine,’ I get skittish. What in hell is going on down there?”

No more Mr. Nice Guy. His glasses had been flung to the top of his desk. His feet had hit the floor hard. One hand was plowing through his mop of red hair. His eyes were boring a hole into the door of his office, in lieu of her hide. Ordinarily she would be sitting in the chair opposite his desk. Being a thousand miles away from Les’s wrath had distinct advantages.

“Les, calm down. Nothing is going on except the interviews, which are going very well. The crew feels as I do about the general and were surprised by his astuteness. If anything is bothering me personally, it’s the heat. It’s energy-draining.”

“What about Hopalong Lyon?”

Her palms were sweaty. “What about him?”

“Find out anything from him?”

She sighed in exasperation, hoping that if she sounded annoyed, he wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. “Les, for the hundredth time, there’s nothing to find out.”

“I saw his picture.”

“Whose?”

“Lyon Ratliff’s. A picture of him in Nam that the AP supplied. He’s a hunk.”

“I haven’t really noticed.”

“If I was a woman, I’d have noticed.”

“Well as you remind us far too often, you’re an extremely virile man, so your opinion on the subject doesn’t count. Now, Les, if there’s nothing more, the crew is calling me to join them in the pool.” They weren’t, but it sounded more like her old self to say so.

“They’re not down there for a vacation. Don’t they have anything better to do?”

“Not after we’re through for the day.”

“Okay,” he grumbled “Andy, you wouldn’t keep anything important from your ol’ buddy Les, now would you?”

Instantly on her guard, she laughed, searching through her blank mind for something clever to say. “Of course not. I think you’re disappointed and jealous that we’re all having such a good time down here.” She laughed again, but she was the only one laughing, and it sounded hollow and insincere. “I’ll call you back tomorrow and report in. Okay?”

“Okay. Bye, baby. Love ya.”

The phone went dead in her hand.

Knowing it would be just like Les to call one of the crew to check up on her and verify everything she’d told him, she knew that sulking in her room was a bad idea. Much as she wanted to avoid company, she put on a strapless terry-cloth jumpsuit and went to the poolside. She sat in the shade of an umbrella over a wrought-iron table. Periodically she smoothed tanning lotion on spots that couldn’t be reached, fetched towels, and offered unsolicited coaching on diving technique.

Late in the afternoon, Gracie brought out a pitcher of frozen margaritas and a platter of nachos. Jeff, dripping water, hugged her to him and kissed her on the cheek. Andy had never seen him blush, but he did so profusely when he turned away from Gracie and she swatted him on the behind with a resounding whack.

Lyon drove up in his battered Jeep. He rolled out of it with lithe grace and sauntered over to the pool. “How’s the water?”

---