Cover-up (7 page)

“He told me about E-D Special,” Stevie said, figuring that would be a good starting point.

Brennan laughed. “Giving away old secrets, huh? And I'll bet he told you the key to the play in the state championship game was his block.”

“He did say he knocked the guy down.”

Brennan nodded. “It's true, he did. We've always argued about whether I'd have been able to get around him if Darin hadn't blocked him. Mobility has never been my strength. The best part about it is that I don't think our coach has ever completely forgiven us for running the play without telling him.”

For the next ten minutes, he talked about his high school friend, a warm smile on his face throughout.

“So, here's your big scoop for the day,” he said, seeing Dewey Blanton not-so-subtly pointing to his watch. “Darin and I have violated league rules this week.”

Blanton appeared to turn a bit pale. Eddie plowed on. “We bet on the game,” he said. “Gambling is, of course, strictly forbidden in the NFL.”

“What'd you bet?” Stevie asked.

“Dinner at the Summit Inn,” Brennan said. “Best restaurant in our hometown. If the commissioner wants to suspend me from the game for that, he knows where to find me.”

Stevie saw Blanton sigh in relief. “Give me your notebook,” Eddie said as Stevie was about to shut it. “And your pen.”

Stevie handed them over. Brennan wrote something on the back cover. “That's my cell,” he said. “You need anything during the week, you call me.”

Stevie thanked him, then thanked Blanton. He could see another gaggle waiting for Brennan just outside the locker room door. Brennan rolled his eyes as he said goodbye to Stevie. “Talking-to-playing ratio is way too high this week,” he said, and was gone, the security wave following behind.

Stevie watched for a minute and then headed down the hall in the opposite direction. He had a story to write. A story no one else would be writing that day. He didn't miss TV at all. But he did miss Susan Carol.

7:
UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT

THE FIELD WAS ALMOST EMPTY
when Stevie walked back down the tunnel. A number of TV crews were still doing stand-ups, but all the players and team and league officials were long gone. Stevie noticed that Susan Carol and Whitsitt were doing a stand-up in front of one of the goalposts, the one right in front of the tunnel he had to walk through to get back to the media area. Tal Vincent was standing a few feet behind the two cameras and, for an instant, Stevie thought about walking over to say something to him. He decided against it, though. He'd already won the battle; no need to start a war.

He walked to his right as he passed the area where USTV was set up and noticed that a makeup woman was redoing Jamie Whitsitt's forehead while Susan Carol waited. She didn't even glance in his direction as he walked by. Unfortunately, Vincent did.

“Hey, Thomas!” he yelled. Apparently he was taking the approach that if you lose one battle, you start another one. Stevie stopped and waited until he walked up to him.

“I don't care if some PR guy invited you or not, I don't want to see you around any of our shoots the rest of the week,” Vincent said.

“What makes you think I have any interest in your shoots?” Stevie said. “Do you think I'm going to steal questions like ‘Dude—Harvard, what's that about?'”

Vincent reddened slightly. “Look, I know you're jealous of Jamie. He's got your job and your girlfriend. Deal with it.”

Stevie had an urge to tackle Vincent—who wasn't that much bigger than he was—but resisted. Instead, he changed the subject. “Look, Tal, Eddie Brennan made a fool of you in there,” he said. “Deal with it.”

He started to turn away, but Vincent grabbed his arm. Stevie stiffened and pulled away. “Don't you touch me,” he said, his voice now raised, turning back to face Vincent, who was completely red-faced. “I'm going now. I can't wait to give Bobby Kelleher a note about what Brennan did to you.”

“You put that in the paper and…”

“And
what
? You'll fire me?”

“And I'll never speak to you again.” The speaker was Susan Carol. She had dropped her mic and left her stand-up position to walk over to the argument. Her arms were folded and she was glaring at Stevie. Her drop-dead smile was nowhere in sight.

“What?”
Stevie said. “Are you defending him?”

“He was doing what the network people wanted him to do,” she said. “He told me that a few minutes ago. Mike Shupe doesn't want you around this week and Tal was just following orders. You don't humiliate someone for that.”

Stevie could feel his heart racing. He couldn't believe this was happening. “Oh—but it's okay for him to humiliate me because the network told him to? Because it's his
job
to be an arrogant—”

“Stop it, Stevie. It's not the same.”

“You really have lost it,” he said. “Do you hear yourself defending this suck-up, two-bit TV producer who has now twice tried to pick a fight with me?”

He realized his voice was shaking with anger and emotion. Susan Carol looked like she might cry. “I have work to do,” she said.

“Yeah, work,” Stevie said. “That's some great journalism you've got going on the Pretty Dude and Dudette show. Very impressive.”

Susan Carol stared at him for a long second as if measuring a response. “Go to hell, Stevie,” she said finally and turned to walk away.

“Got a minister's daughter to tell you to go to hell,” Tal Vincent said, the sneer returning to his face. “Impressive.”

Stevie knew Vincent had a point—which made it even worse. Chances were good that Susan Carol had never told anyone to go to hell in her life. He didn't respond to Vincent's final gibe. It was time to leave the building.

As soon as he turned his cell phone on, it started to ring. “Did you get Brennan?” Bobby asked. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Stevie said, trying not to sound glum. He must have failed.

“What's wrong?” Kelleher asked.

“Nothing important,” Stevie said, not wanting to get into it. “I'll fill you in later. I'm going back to my room to write.”

“You want to eat first?”

Stevie glanced at his watch. It was 12:30 and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. But he didn't feel like talking to anyone at the moment. “I think I'll just order some room service. I'm a little tired from staying up late last night.”

“That's fine. Call me in a few hours and I'll take a look at your story before you send it.”

Stevie agreed and hung up. He was tempted to call Susan Carol's cell to try to talk, but he knew it was a bad idea. He walked back across the street and into the lobby of the Marriott, which was packed, wall to wall. He put his head down and was trying to maneuver his way through the crowd when he heard someone calling his name.

“Steve, hey, Steve! Steve Thomas!”

He turned and saw a short, middle-aged man with wavy brown hair and glasses approaching. “Randy Merkin,” he said, working his way through a couple of men in Dreams jerseys. “I work for Sporting News Radio. I'm glad I spotted you. We'd love to get you on the air.”

A lot of radio stations sent people to events to broadcast live. Most of them set up shop at one of the downtown hotels and sent producers—like Merkin, Stevie presumed—in search of celebrities they could grab and put on their shows. He was mildly flattered to be asked, but at that moment Stevie wanted three things: to be alone, to order something to eat, and to write his story.

“I'm really busy right now, to tell you the truth,” he said. “I have to write a story, and then I've got some stuff to do for CBS….”

“You're working for CBS now?” Merkin said. “Wow. I didn't know about that. Actually, I wasn't thinking about now. I was thinking about four o'clock this afternoon. Your old pal Chip Graber is supposed to come on with us then and I thought it might be fun for you.”

“Chip's
here
?” Stevie said. “What's he doing here?”

“He's promoting a new video game. The Timberwolves play tomorrow night in Chicago, so the team gave him a day off to come here to do promo stuff. Everyone in the world comes to the Super Bowl to pitch products.”

Stevie had read about that but didn't quite get it. He and Susan Carol had kept close tabs on Graber's career since the Final Four. After hitting the shot to win the championship in dramatic fashion, Graber had been taken with the twelfth pick in the draft by the Minnesota Timberwolves, his hometown team. A lot of people had been surprised that he wasn't picked sooner, but some teams had been scared off by his size—he was five foot eleven standing up very straight. The Timberwolves, a team struggling to draw fans, had happily taken a local hero, and the pick had proven to be golden. Graber was averaging fifteen points and seven assists in his rookie year as the starting point guard and, as might be expected when a good-looking white kid makes it in the NBA, he had become a marketing star. With all that had gone on in recent days, Stevie had lost track of where and when the Timberwolves were playing. Now he knew.

“Well, I'd love to see Chip,” he said.

“Just come to the second floor at four o'clock then,” Merkin said. “You'll see radio stations up and down the hallway. We're at the far end once you turn the corner, just beyond the escalator.” He handed him a card. “Any problems, just call my cell.”

“So radio row is here?” Stevie asked.

Merkin laughed. “
One
of the radio rows is. There's another one at the Hyatt and another one at the convention center. There are probably close to two hundred stations here.”

“Wow,” Stevie said, not even caring that he was using that word again. “That's a lot more than at the Final Four, isn't it?”

“Probably double—at least,” Merkin said. “So, four o'clock okay?”

Stevie thought for a second. If there was anyone in the world he would feel comfortable talking to about what was going on with Susan Carol, it was Chip Graber. The three of them would always be bonded by what they had gone through in New Orleans. He knew Chip e-mailed regularly with Susan Carol, just as he did with Stevie.

“I'll be there.”

He worked his way to the elevator, aware that he was actually smiling. The thought of seeing Graber had certainly picked up his spirits.

Once he was settled in his room and had ordered some food, it didn't take him long to write the story. Darin and Eddie's stories of high school glory and friendship were so great he could easily have written 2,000 words. Kelleher had told him anything beyond 1,000 words would get cut no matter how good it was, so he tried to be disciplined and pick only the best material. It wasn't easy. His first version was about 1,400 words. It took him almost as long to get the story down to 1,033 words as it had taken him to write 1,400. It was nearly three o'clock by the time he called Bobby to tell him he was finished.

“I'll be right down,” Kelleher said.

He was at the door a minute later and sat in front of Stevie's computer reading the story—occasionally pausing to laugh or nod. “It's good,” he said. “Very good. Now you need to cut another two hundred words out of it.”

“Whaa?” Stevie said. “You said I had a thousand words.”

“I know. The desk called before and said they could only take eight hundred from you today because a feature on the home life of the Ravens' cheerleaders came in long.”

“Come on.”

“True story. Look, Stevie, the newspaper business isn't perfect either. We screw up just like TV people do. I'll call them back and tell them you got Brennan and no one else did on this topic. It may help, but you have to be prepared for the answer to be no.” He was half right. The desk offered an extra hundred words.

“Now,” he said, plopping down in the armchair next to the bed, “tell me what you were so upset about when I called before.”

Stevie filled him in on both run-ins with Tal Vincent and Susan Carol's reaction. “Let it go,” Kelleher said. “She's got a lot of TV people spinning her head around, clearly. But she's very smart and all her instincts as a human are outstanding. She'll come around. I know that's easy for me to say, but it wasn't
that
long ago that I was fourteen. I
do
remember what it was like.”

Stevie decided not to argue. He didn't doubt that Bobby remembered what it was like, but he was sure that Kelleher would have been just as depressed if the first girl he'd ever really cared about had told him to go to hell. So instead, he told Kelleher he had to go downstairs to do Sporting News Radio with Chip Graber and asked if he wanted to come along. Kelleher said he'd love to see Graber but needed to finish writing his column on Little Donny.

They walked to the elevator bank together, Kelleher going up, Stevie going down. When Stevie got to the second floor, he was confronted with a mob unlike any he had ever seen. It wasn't as if he hadn't been in big crowds at major events before. But this was a new level. People were crowding around the desks and small podiums where each radio station had set up headquarters as if the stations were handing out money. He picked his way through the alleyway that had been created between the desks and podiums, pausing every few steps as another famous face went past. As he rounded the corner near the escalator that Merkin had described, he heard someone yelling, “Coming through, clear the way, please!” Bearing down on him were several very large men. Behind them was Michael Jordan. The burly men veered to the right, where Stevie saw a banner that said
ESPN RADIO
. Behind a glass partition he could see Dan Patrick, the
SportsCenter
anchor, talking into a microphone and waving at Jordan, who was apparently going to make Patrick's show his next stop. People were shouting Jordan's name, sticking pieces of paper as close as they could get to him given that there were bodyguards in front of him and behind him. Jordan just kept walking.

“Wonder what he's selling,” Stevie said aloud, forgetting that he was surrounded by people.

“A motocross team,” someone right behind him said. He turned and, much to his surprise, saw Michael Wilbon, co-host of
Pardon the Interruption
and a longtime Jordan friend.

“A what?” Stevie said.

“Michael bought a motocross team last year,” Wilbon said. “He's trying to drum up interest in the sport. He just did Jim Rome, now he's doing Patrick, and then he's going to WFAN.”

“What are you doing here?” Stevie asked.

“Need a column,” Wilbon said. “Michael Jordan selling motocross is definitely a column.”

He wasn't wrong about that.

“You're Steve, right?” Wilbon said. “Steve Thomas. We met in New Orleans. You were with your friend who is thirteen but looks eighteen—Susan, right?”