Murder in Jerusalem by Batya Gur Page B

lineup. When we’ve heard from him we can put out an updated lineup, ask him exactly…here, let me talk to him.”
    All at once the sights and sounds grew indistinct to Zadik. As if under water, he could hear people talking around him, as if through a sheet of glass he could see the news director pull Karen aside, he could hear the assistant producer phoning Turkey from the foreign correspondents’ room and Erez verifying the details of a survey done on the Popolitika talk show and Karen asking, “What’s this about Clinton? Why is ‘Clinton’ written here?” And Erez, answering her before turning away: “No clue.”
    â€œPeople,” Zadik said authoritatively, because this is what they were waiting for, for him to say something—anything—authoritative. “Let’s keep on track, stick to our timetable, there’s no going overtime because Popolitika is going to be longer than usual today.”
    â€œSo is the lineup okay? You haven’t said,” Erez complained.
    â€œOther than the piece about Moshe Leon, your stories are garbage,” Zadik answered.
    â€œThose are heartrending human stories!” Erez cried out, agitated.
    â€œHeartrending? They’re garbage, a big heap of—”
    Suddenly, both television monitors began broadcasting from the wall opposite the conference table. “Turn down the volume,” Zadik instructed Aviva. “We should only have the pictures, why is there sound? They should be silent now.”
    â€œWhy is it always me?” Aviva grumbled. “I don’t even have the remote, Erez took it, he wanted to see something on Channel Two. Turn down the volume on the monitors,” she said, looking at Erez.
    A voice shouted in from the graphics room. “What time are we lighting the first Hanukkah candle this evening, before or after the broadcast?”
    â€œAre you kidding? Before, of course it’s before, every year it’s before,” Niva shouted back as she retrieved a sheet of paper from the computer printer. “Here’s the updated lineup,” she announced, pulling the perforated edges off the page.
    Danny Benizri stood up and stretched, and Zadik caught sight of his profile, his flat stomach. That’s the way he had looked when he was Benizri’s age: twenty years earlier when he tucked his shirt into his trousers, nothing showed, certainly not this mountain of a belly under his shirt and jacket that precedes him wherever he goes.
    Danny Benizri straightened the hem of his black knit sweater. “What about the people laid off at the Hulit factory? Why did you make that item number twenty-seven?” he asked bitterly. “I’m talking to you, Erez, don’t pretend you don’t hear me.” Benizri shot Erez an angry look, which Erez returned with a shrug of his narrow shoulders and a nod of his head toward Hefetz. Benizri, the correspondent for labor and social affairs, glanced at Hefetz. “Tell me, Hefetz, did you notice that?” he demanded to know.
    â€œThat,” said Erez, “is out of the lineup completely today. No layoffs at Hulit, we’ve already got enough stuff on the strike.”
    â€œAnd what about the murder in Petah Tikva?” David Shalit asked. “Last night I brought you eyewitness reports from the neighbors and all that, it’s not anywhere in the lineup.”
    â€œThe murder in Petah Tikva is out,” Erez answered indifferently as he fiddled with the zipper on his blue sweater.
    â€œOut?” David Shalit was astounded. “How can you pull a story like that? A guy knifes someone just because he complained about the noise from his car horn? Does that seem like a normal everyday occurrence to you? As far as I’m concerned, that should be our top story!”
    â€œCan’t do anything about it,” Erez said nonchalantly. “We’re going with Moshe Leon instead. Hey, did someone turn