The Money Shot Read online

  “I built that house with my own hands. Countless hours of sweat and toil, and for what? I was supposed to die in that house. Now it’s the house that’s going to die.”

  The camera gently zoomed back from a stand of maple trees to the sloping house. Sebastian’s voice drifted over the Parisian bar.

  Paradise Point is now Paradise Lost.

  John and Beth Anderson are being cast out of their own Garden of Eden.

  The bartender turned up the volume just as gravity hauled the Andersons’ house from the foundation. The rumble filled the bar. Sebastian’s voice track was silent. When you have the money shot, the best words are no words at all.

  “Incroyable!” said the bartender.

  “Yes, it is unbelievable,” said Janice. She picked up her phone and texted Sebastian.

  Saw you on TV in a café along the Seine.

  Congratulations, you bastard.

  •

  Sebastian’s phone dinged as he left the washroom. It was a herogram from a producer in Toronto.

  Your story had it all.

  Jaw-dropping video, real people, ingenious writing.

  Easiest vet of my career.

  Sebastian enjoyed the flattery, but didn’t take such gushing too seriously. The same producer would have savaged him if the bosses at The National had uttered a disapproving word.

  In the frantic pace of the day he had forgotten to show Bruce the only compliment that mattered. He skimmed his phone along the bar. It stopped precisely in front of the cameraman, like a curling stone drawing to the button.

  “All those hours at the shuffleboard table weren’t a complete waste,” said Sebastian, sitting on the stool. “The virtues of a misspent youth.”

  Bruce picked up the phone, read the screen and handed it back. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scooped.”

  Sebastian made a happy sigh. “Janice will never take another vacation.”

  A bartender approached with two cognac glasses swirling mahogany-coloured liquid. He laid them in front of the barflies.

  “Remy?” asked Bruce.

  “No, it’s Ron Zacapa—rum from Guatemala.” Sebastian signed off his tab.

  “Rum with no Coke?”

  “So little breeding for such a good cameraman. It’s better than cognac. It’s my celebration drink.”

  Sebastian and Bruce clinked glasses. Sebastian cupped the snifter in the palm of his hand to circle the rum. He sniffed deeply, letting the glass linger under his nose for a few moments before taking a sip.

  “Gorgeous,” said Sebastian, as if snuggling with a lover. “You know, they age this stuff on top of a mountain. Twenty-three years above the clouds before it comes back down to earth. That’s a pilgrimage I have to make some day.”

  “After today’s story, CBC should fly you there in style.”

  The puffery got no response. Sebastian gazed past Bruce, smiling at a redhead sitting at the end of the bar. She wore a black dress with a V-neckline and lace sleeves. She smiled back. Her dark eyes said, Come over.

  “Behind you is a stunning woman,” said Sebastian. “She’s a Siren singing to me.”

  Bruce didn’t bother to turn around. He had seen that look on Sebastian’s face before. “I think I’m about to be thrown overboard.” He tossed back a little rum. “Don’t forget, we have a chopper booked for eight.”

  Sebastian sailed over to the woman. He took a seat and sat straight up. She leaned forward. Laughter and smiles peppered their conversation. Her shoe dangled on the end of her foot. Sebastian loosened his tie. She pushed her glass of wine away. They slid off the stools, but Sebastian held back, letting her head to the door first. Her flaming hair swept across her shoulders. A text message left the bar as soon as he did.

  Sebastian must be lonely. He picked up a redhead for company.

  •

  From the air, the Andersons’ house looked remarkably intact, despite the fact it was sitting on its roof. Still, it was clear the house had taken a terrible beating. The front wall was torn away, holding like a drawbridge halfway through being let down. Holes had been punched in the floor.

  “It must have rolled over twice,” said Sebastian into the microphone attached to his headset. The pilot nodded. He made his helicopter hover above the crater left behind when the water receded.

  Look at the size of it, thought Sebastian. Big enough to swallow twenty houses.

  He tapped Bruce on the shoulder. “Just like Santorini,” he said, making a circular motion with his finger. “At least when the volcano blew, the Greeks got a fabulous lagoon out of it.”

  The playful waters of the Aegean were nowhere in sight, just pools of muddy overnight rain, whipped up by the downdraft of the whirling blades. Jagged boulders dotted the depression. Mountain climbers would have needed ropes to scale the cliff created by the landslide.

  “That used to be a grassy slope right to the water,” said the pilot. “People would picnic there.”

  “Look over there,” said Sebastian, pointing to a pile of lumber and plywood away from the house. “Probably a shed. I saw one go down in the home video.”

  “I’ll grab a shot just in case we need it,” said Bruce. He lurched to the right as the chopper jarred to the left. “Any chance you can hold it steady?”

  “Best I can do,” said the pilot. “The wind is banging us around a bit.”

  Bruce braced his shoulder against the door and waved his hand forward. The chopper arced around the basin. Bruce twisted to keep the house in his shot as they flew by.

  “Great viz,” said Sebastian, “but what am I going to do to put a lump in their throats tonight?”

  “Not my department,” kidded Bruce. “Try lingerie.”

  “I wish,” said Sebastian, remembering the night before.

  •

  The sun wasn’t cooperating. Sebastian was backlit, making his face dark to the camera. Bruce fussed with a round reflector, warping the silvery fabric to bounce sunlight into Sebastian’s face. The shadow disappeared. Sebastian squinted until his eyes adjusted.

  “A man with your supernatural power,” Bruce said, “should hold some sway over the sun.”

  “I’m only a god to women.”

  Bruce laughed and let the reflector fall to his knees. Sebastian’s face went black again, but his grin betrayed how pleased he was with his hyperbole.

  “Pride is the worst of the seven deadly sins,” warned Bruce.

  “I’m sure a particularly warm corner of Hell has been reserved for me. On the plus side, you’ll be roasting by my side.”

  “I can’t see enough of the house behind you. I’m going to move up the hill.”

  Bruce held the reflector like a steering wheel and with a couple of contortionist arm twists the flexible ring collapsed in on itself. “Bring this,” he said, handing the shrunken reflector to Sebastian. Bruce grabbed the camera handle, put his free hand under the tripod head and lifted the whole contraption. Sebastian sauntered behind, practicing his script by talking to the wind.

  “John and Beth Anderson must pick up the pieces of their lives without picking up the pieces of their house. It’s not safe to go down there. The earth is still angry and can’t be trusted…. Are you ready, Bruce?”

  “Almost. I need a white balance.”

  Sebastian offered a toothy smile, the sort found on Colgate commercials. He was blessed with TV teeth alright—straight and snow-white. Sebastian loved to flash them and his smile melted hearts nightly.

  “Very funny,” said Bruce.

  Sebastian flipped open his reporter’s notebook and held it in front of his nose. A ridiculous-looking but vital step to ensure that his teeth or any other part of him wouldn’t have a blue tint. Bruce zoomed into a blank page and filled his screen with white. A simple button push locked the colours of Sebastian’s rainbow into place.

  Bruce unfurled the reflector with an abracadabra flick of the wrist. Sebastian took a breath and gazed into the camera lens.

  “John and Beth Ander�
��” The corner of his eye caught movement. A cat scooted behind Bruce, brazenly marching towards the barricade tape.

  “Bruce, the cat.”

  Bruce dropped the reflector and swung the camera round. The cat pranced like a trotting race horse, with its tail and ears pointing straight up. It paced under flapping yellow tape emblazoned with the word Danger, snaked around rubble and dodged a piece of two-by-four with nails poking out. The cat froze at the brim of nothingness, peering over the edge. It crouched and leapt.

  “I hope curiosity doesn’t kill the cat,” said Sebastian. “Let’s see what it’s up to. I’ll grab the sticks.”

  How many times had they done this cha-cha together? Bruce flicked the quick-release and bolted with the camera. Sebastian cradled the tripod in his arms and matched Bruce step for step. They skirted around the circumference of the flickering barrier. They had at least a hundred metres to run before reaching a decent vantage point. Trouble closed in from the side. John Anderson was on an intercept course.

  “Mr. Hunter, I want to—”

  Sebastian didn’t break his stride, pretending not to hear. Anderson scowled and cantered after them.

  “This goddamned thing never gets any lighter,” complained Sebastian as he spread the tripod’s legs. Bruce slammed the camera into place. There was a reassuring click. He checked the bubble level and adjusted the tripod head; the world was now horizontal. Sebastian scanned the cliff.

  “Over there, just beyond the shed, almost to the bottom.”

  Bruce caught the cat in his lens, following the jumps from ledge to ledge. It broke into a gallop down the last incline, stopping by the shed, ears twitching. It ducked inside.

  “Can you see it?” asked Sebastian.

  Bruce strafed the shed with his zoom lens. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s not, look what the cat dragged in, it’s look what the cat dragged out.”

  Sebastian lunged for the viewfinder. He blinked to make sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing—a kitten in the cat’s mouth. Momma was climbing out with her baby.

  “The news gods are smiling on us,” said Sebastian. “The National, two nights in a row.”

  Sebastian could not have scripted the ascent any better. Momma dropped her baby twice, but each time picked up her kitten by biting the nape of its neck. She moved tentatively, choosing a longer route than the one down to avoid jumping over crevices. The cautious trek was agonizingly slow, but minutes could pass in seconds with editing tricks. Video dissolves would shrink the journey into a spellbinding vignette. Sebastian had struck gold.

  “Come on,” said Bruce, “let’s move. She’s almost to the top.”

  Their scramble kicked up dust, some of which blew over Mr. Anderson who had politely stood back watching Sebastian and Bruce get increasingly excited about something.

  “I just wanted to say—”Anderson began. Sebastian dodged by and gave a little wave of the hand.

  “But—” continued Anderson. Sebastian kept his head down.

  The news whirlwind settled on its original spot, eyes and camera riveted on the brink of the hole.

  “I really don’t like cats, but in this case I’m willing to make an exception,” said Sebastian.

  John Anderson closed in, back arched, fur standing on end.

  “Mr. Hunter, a word please.”

  Sebastian walked away from the camera, motioning for Mr. Anderson to follow.

  “We’re recording, so I don’t want our voices picked up.”

  John Anderson was yesterday’s star. Right now, he’s an aggravation.

  “Mr. Hunter, I was extremely disappointed in your story. You said you’d let us say thank you to everyone, but you didn’t. Our thank you was cut out. Why?”

  “Producers!” Sebastian gave a despairing shrug. “They’re impossible to deal with.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not the boss of what gets on the air. A producer vets my script. We fought like cats and dogs. We scratched and clawed each other over every word in the script. I lost.”

  He peeked over Mr. Anderson’s shoulder. Still a cat-free zone.

  “We did play your thank you later in Here & Now.”

  “An afterthought. No one else in the rest of Canada saw it. And my sister in London certainly didn’t see it.”

  “London?” Sebastian’s eyes popped.

  “Yes, she was watching the BBC.”

  “The BBC.” Sebastian’s voice rose on C.

  “All she saw was poor Beth crying and our house falling over and over. You lied to us.”

  “I argued to have your thank you included.” Sebastian hung his head in sham contrition. “I just feel terrible. I’m not the kind of reporter who goes around breaking promises. I’m truly sorry.”

  Mr. Anderson straightened his back. His fur lay flat.

  Bruce waved an arm. The cat came back, kitten in mouth.

  “Do you know who owns that cat?” said Sebastian, pointing at the rising news star.

  Mr. Anderson spun round. “That’s a stray. It was hanging around our shed just before the landslide. She was yowling. I let her in to get her out of the storm.”

  “Incredible! What compassion. Giving shelter to a homeless, pregnant cat.” Sebastian emphasized homeless and pregnant. “People should know this.”

  “I don’t know.” Mr. Anderson squat like a baseball catcher. “Here puss, puss, puss.”

  The feline rescuer and her charge ignored him.

  “They seem okay, don’t they?” said Mr. Anderson as he stood.

  “I won’t let a producer tamper with the story this time.”

  “Maybe I should just quietly fade away.”

  “You’re modest to a fault, Mr. Anderson. Everyone feels awful about what happened here. Help me show that good has come out of disaster.”

  “Just a quick interview,” said a resigned Mr. Anderson.

  •

  John Anderson couldn’t shake the feeling that he had made a terrible mistake by stepping in front of Sebastian Hunter’s camera a second time. He needed a little something to take the edge off.

  He poured himself two fingers of Scotch—twelve-year-old Macallan. He loved its vanilla flavour and resolutely believed single malt should be served straight in a tumbler. His hotel room had only plastic cups so he borrowed a real glass from the bar. Macallan could make the most wretched of circumstances tolerable and no doubt these were the most wretched of circumstances. He took an affectionate sip.

  “If only I could drink my way out of this mess,” he said, admiring its amber colour. He laid his glass by a pile of papers: a letter from the Red Cross, insurance documents, an application for disaster financial assistance. Not one promised a new house. The hotel would be his home, at least for a while.

  What did the odious Hunter do with my interview? Mr. Anderson opened CBC’s website on his laptop.

  PURR-FECT RESCUE:

  CAT SAVES KITTEN THAT FELL OVER CLIFF

  Below the headline was a photo of a contented cat and her kitten lying in a cardboard box filled with blankets. Momma’s newborn snuggled into her belly.

  The caption read:

  Hope feeds while Miss Kitty takes a catnap. The exhausted mother made a perilous trek to pluck her baby from certain death.

  “They have names now?” he snorted.

  The story burst with sympathy and admiration for the feline: Miss Kitty the traumatized cat, Miss Kitty the brave cat, Miss Kitty the nurturing cat. John Anderson didn’t see his name until two-thirds of the way through. It was attached to a larger-font quote pulled from the story and placed in its own box with giant quotation marks in the background. It screamed for attention.

  “I had no idea she was pregnant. I just thought she was fat.”

  – John Anderson

  Mr. Anderson slumped in the chair. He topped up his Scotch before scrolling to the comments section. The thread went on and on: ninety-eight comments in all.

  CatsCradle
>
  Where do I send money? Miss Kitty is a heroine and deserves to be looked after.

  BadAss

  Bet ya the fat cat who saved his own neck first doesn’t care.

  HellCat

  A heartless bastard who left Miss Kitty and her kittens to die.

  DarlingDave

  Jumpy Johnny didn’t know she was pregnant. Don’t be such a sourpuss.

  MadDog

  If he had any doubt he could have checked her nipples. LOL.

  BadAss

  He should be flogged with a cat.

  CatsCradle

  You’re as bad as he is. Leave all cats alone.

  BadAss

  A cat-o’-nine-tails, you moron.

  MadDog

  Catfight. Excellent. LOL.

  ScarlettRed

  Meeeooowww!

  DarlingDave

  Have a heart. Don’t forget, Jumpy Johnny is homeless too.

  MadDog

  Maybe he could live in a cathouse. LOL.

  HolyMoly

  Tie him up and let Miss Kitty use him as a scratching post.

  BadAss

  Where do I sign up? I’m not pussyfooting around.

  Mr. Anderson shook his head in disbelief. “I’m a hated man.”

  He emptied the glass of Scotch and poured another, this time not bothering with any finger measurement. His eyes shifted to the column entitled Must Watch. The headline Born Lucky accompanied a picture of Miss Kitty carrying Hope in her mouth.

  Mr. Anderson clicked on the Play Video symbol.

  Miss Kitty purred as Hope flopped around before nuzzling into her mother. The kitten suckled with closed eyes, her adorable face filling the screen. Mr. Anderson twitched as he heard Sebastian Hunter’s oily voice.

  Small enough to fit in a teacup. But already Hope is larger than life.

  And what a life-and-death story she has to tell.

  Home Video flashed across the screen. Mr. Anderson’s shed sat on the edge of a bank. A massive chunk of earth tore away from the overhang, triggering the collapse of the entire cliff face. It dropped as if it were an elevator moving to a lower floor. The shed straddled the crack; its front sinking, its back staying put. The video froze and zoomed into the shed’s open door. A blurry Miss Kitty shot out in slow motion, catapulting off the ground just as the shed fell into the chasm.