//White Lines

White Lines

Steve did not like to be disturbed in his office on a tape day, but the lot had fallen on me, so I shouldered it and went upstairs to confront our director and executive producer.

I knocked gingerly on the door. No answer. I knocked again and again.

“Come on, Steve, I know you’re in there. It’s Richard. Let me in, please.”

“It’s open. Come on in,” said a voice from inside.

I opened the door and stepped into the control room.

“Shut the door,” demanded Steve.

I closed it quickly behind me. I had expected to find Steve at the switching board looking through the large glass window which gave him an unrestricted view of the set and stage, but instead he was at the other side of the room hunched behind his desk, and there on the desk top was a mound of white powder with a revolver lying next to it.