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Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Romance

Face Time (2 page)

BOOK: Face Time
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CHAPTER 2
 

“Who?
What? When? Why me?” I leap from the cab, phone clamped to my ear. Roger Zelinsky, managing editor of the eleven-o’clock news, is giving me the lowdown in bullet points: attorney general Oscar Ortega. Announcing for governor. Lead story. Every other reporter out on assignment.

“You’re going on the air live,” Roger says. “Soon as Oz makes his move.”

Oscar Ortega is often called “the Great and Powerful Oz,” and word is he likes the nickname. The state’s first Hispanic attorney general, he’s a take-no-prisoners politician with a big-bucks machine behind him. If he’s running for governor, he’ll be tough to beat.

The parking lot outside Ortega’s redbrick Beacon Hill office is full of scurrying TV types, scrambling to cover this breaking news. Technicians from the four network affiliates, the CW, CNN, a couple of local cable stations and the Emerson College journalism class have staked out spots for their imminent live broadcasts. Masts from a lineup of microwave vans poke into the star-scattered sky like huge yellow forks against the late June night. Technicians inside the vans, sliding doors left open to let in the breeze, briskly read out coordinates to colleagues back in their stations’ control rooms, tweaking audio levels and confirming video feeds are clean.

“They’re all set for you,” Roger assures me. “We’ve already got a live signal. Find the truck. Thanks for being a team player, McNally. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

I trot through the maze of vehicles with the phone still tight to my ear. I know I have to hurry, but I can’t be sweaty or out of breath on the air.
There it is.
With a fist, I bang on the window of Channel 3’s ungainly blue-and-gold mobile studio, then wave at the crew inside the truck to announce my arrival.

“Found the van,” I say to Roger. “Talk to you later.”

It’s got to be less than five minutes until airtime.

Photographers from the other stations are snaking out the extension poles of their powerful spotlights. The parking lot illuminates almost into daylight, as megawattage hits the fidgeting reporters anticipating their face time and their chance to bring home the lead story. Some on-the-air types mutter to themselves, practicing the scripts they’ve scrawled onto their notepads. Others preen in pocket mirrors, adding lip gloss or a final spritz of hairspray.

A row of cameras perch atop metal tripods like electronic flamingos, set up and ready to roll. One tripod is empty. Ours.

Not good. Not good. Not good.

I snap open my cell phone to send a frantic Mayday. Just then, I see my photographer Walt Petrucelli, sweaty and disheveled in a baggy Channel 3 T-shirt and voluminous khaki shorts, muttering to himself as he lugs his camera from the trunk of a news car. Acting as if there’s all the time in the world. The ring of keys yanking down one belt loop jingles as Walt clicks the Sony into ready position and gives one tripod leg an irritated kick into place. “Why me?” He questions the universe as he peers through his viewfinder, adjusting focus. “Buncha bullshit.”

Walt looks up, does a double take as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “Bringin’ out the big shots, huh?” he says. “How’d you get the short straw, McNally?”

Ignoring him, I position myself in front of the camera. Using the lens as a mirror, I take a second to check my reflection. My high-maintenance blond bangs are reasonably straight, my trademark red lipstick reasonably applied, and the black suit I put on for work today—about a million hours ago—reasonably unwrinkled. As good as it’s going to get.

Every mosquito and midge in New England dives and swoops across the klieg lights in front of me, probably deciding which ones will go on the attack during my live shot. Happy-go-lucky motorists out on Cambridge Street, also attracted by the lights, honk their horns as they drive by.

I twist an earpiece into place, clicking its cord into the control room connection box I’ve clipped onto the waistband of my skirt.

“Can they see me back at the station?” I ask Walt, tuning everything else out. I pat my lapel. Nothing. “Where’s my microphone?”

Right now, a camera inside at the news conference had better be feeding video to the station. If this all works the way it should, the producer will put Ortega’s announcement, live, on the news. I’ll know what Oz says because I’ll hear it on air through my earpiece.

Right now I’m hearing only silence.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.” Walt, molasses, finally clips a tiny black microphone to my jacket. “Control room’s got you now.”

A deafening shriek screams into my ear though the audio receiver, followed by a blast of static. Then, finally, a voice. Which I can almost understand. Then total silence. “Lost audio,” I tell Walt, attempting to stay calm. “What’s the control room trying to tell me?”

“Four minutes,” Walt says.

I contemplate ripping out my earpiece, yanking off my microphone, and going home. I have no news release. I have no idea what’s going on in the news conference, and I’m about to appear live in front of a million people. And undoubtedly, Mother is one of them. They’ll all watch this live shot crash and burn.

Suddenly I see a familiar figure power through the revolving door of the A.G.’s office building. He runs across the parking lot toward me, skids to a halt and bends over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. Then Franklin Parrish saves my life.

“It’s underway now,” my producer pants. “Oz announcing for governor.” He looks up at me, one hand still on a knee, confirming. “The anchor’s gonna toss to Oz’s statement live, then come to you for the wrap-up.”

“Three minutes,” Walt intones.

In my earpiece, now thankfully static-free, I hear the audio of our newscast. I hear Amanda Lomax, her trademark throaty anchor-voice telling viewers of the surprise candidacy of Oscar Ortega, instant front-runner for governor. And then I hear Oz himself, basso profundo, begin to intone his platform. I imagine he’s turned his crowd-pleasing charisma up to full blast. He’s clearly not much for exercise, but with his dark wavy hair and killer smile, it’s also clear he thinks he’s irresistibly charming, and he may be right. Most women seem to vote yes, no matter what he asks for.

Walt holds up two fingers. “Two minutes.”

Franklin blots his face with a pristinely ironed handkerchief, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses onto the top of his head, then pulls a piece of paper from his jeans pocket. “Okay, Charlotte. Here’s the news release for y’all,” he says, smoothing out the wrinkles.

This signals Franklin’s just as tense as I am. He always calls me Charlotte, which, instead of carrying Mother’s undercurrent of criticism, comes out sounding adorably like “Shaw-lit.” But “y’all”? His otherwise usually subdued Southern accent only reappears when he’s under pressure. Still, I’ve worked with him long enough to know he thrives on pressure.

“Just read it,” Franklin instructs. “It’s got the whole drill, law and order, convictions out the wazoo, death to infidels, all that. Y’all—you know the lowdown on this guy, right?”

I do, in fact. Oscar Ortega: recruitment poster for the prosecution—cool, hot, and politically connected. Known for his outrageous neckties and outrageous legal talent. Scholarship to Boston College. Scholarship to Yale Law. Could cross-examine blood out of a turnip. And some predict, he’ll step out of the attorney general’s office, percolate for a term or two on Beacon Hill, then head for the Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Thanks, Franko,” I say, taking the release. Less than a minute to go. I’ll read it through quickly, then use it to sum up when Oz is finished. Done it a million times. Like riding a bike. “No problem.”

Wrong.

I can’t see the words. I mean, I can see that there
are
words, but they’re a complete blur. I glance over at Franklin, ready to ask if there’s a problem with the copy he’s offered. I can easily see the crease in his predictably impeccable jeans, the tiny polo pony on his pink knit shirt, even how the ten-o’clock stubble on his face darkens his coffee skin to espresso.

Clearly, what’s wrong is me. Without my brand new reading glasses, this is going to be impossible. And even if I could get to my glasses, tucked in my red leather tote bag and back in the van, I couldn’t go on the air wearing them.

“Thirty seconds,” I hear in my ear.

I can’t read this news release, but I have to. Tucking the paper under one arm, I use a finger to pull back my left eyelid and pop out my contact lens. With a brief wince of regret and one flip of a finger, I discard the contact onto the parking lot pavement, and try again to read Oz’s formal announcement.

“Four. Three.” I hear the countdown in my ear. “Two. Go.”

“And that was now gubernatorial hopeful Oscar Ortega,” I say into the camera. “As you’ve just heard, the self-described ‘law and order’ candidate is promising voters he’ll continue his, quote, ‘career of crime stopping.’ And, as he says in the statement just this minute issued to reporters—” I glance down at the now perfectly visible news release “—I promise to make Massachusetts stronger, safer, and a place where law-abiding families can feel confident their governor is protecting them. A place with a balanced budget. A place with no new taxes. A place where parents can feel safe in their homes, where children can feel safe on the streets and in their schools—and where criminals will never feel safe again.”

“Wrap,” the control room instructs in my ear. “Toss to Amanda back in the newsroom.”

“The primary election is just two months from today,” I continue. “And as of now, it’s open season in Massachusetts politics. Live at Ortega headquarters, I’m Charlie McNally, News 3 at eleven. Back to you, Amanda.”

I stand still, smiling confidently into the camera, waiting for my cue. “And you’re clear,” the control room declares.

I’m grinning as I yank out my earpiece. I hope Mom and Nurse Justin were watching. “I’ve still got it,” I tell Franklin, patting myself on the back. “And I’ll buy the beer.”

As I retrieve my tote bag from the van, I can hear my cell phone ringing inside its zippered pouch. I flip the phone open, ready for my “Atta-girl!” from the newsroom. “This is McNally.” I say, preparing to be modest. I wave thank-you to the crew as Franklin and I leave the parking lot, and then turn all my attention back to the phone.

It’s not Roger.

“Well, Mother, I’m sure Mr. Ortega would be very unhappy to hear that.” I sigh, then shoot myself in the head with one finger as she continues, summarily changing the subject. “No, I just had my bangs cut. I can see perfectly. Could we—talk about all this tomorrow?”

 

 

C
HARLES
S
TREET LOOKS LIKE
a little slice of London, a brick-and-cobblestone street transplanted across the Atlantic and tucked onto Beacon Hill. Densely packed with elaborate brownstones, it’s crammed with tiny storefronts offering antiques and shoes, and peppered with preppy-chic boutiques. Franklin suggested we hit The Sevens, a Beacon Hill institution and our sometime hangout. But now this night seems to be taking another unexpected twist. Franklin has a secret.

“What ‘big news’?” I demand. “Tell me now.” I see Franklin’s face, off-again, on-again, as we walk through the patches of narrow sidewalk illuminated by the wrought iron streetlights. He’s got a smile I don’t like.

“Not until we get a glass of wine, Charlotte.” He points towards The Sevens, smiling that smile again. “Trust me on this.”

I hate surprises. Franklin better not be quitting. He and I are a made-for-television team, a well-oiled duo with nicely meshing journalism, curiosity, respect and ambition. I clamp my mouth closed and feel my eyes narrow. I could try to find a new producer, of course. But I most certainly do not want to.

The TV at The Sevens is tuned to Channel 3, as always. Jerry gives Franklin and me a welcoming wave as we pull our stools up to his comfortably pockmarked metal-topped bar. There’s never a place to park around here, so the other weeknight drinkers sharing a final beer or brandy are probably all locals, too.

“Saw you on the tube,” the bartender says, gesturing with a dish towel toward the oversize flat-screen monitor attached to the wall. “Oz, huh? Wicked tough guy. He’s a cinch in November, you think?”

“Who knows,” Franklin replies. “Boston politics. Like New England weather, right? Anything could happen.”

“Gotcha,” Jerry says. “Charlie?”

I’ve already shredded a cocktail napkin into confetti and made a triangle out of one of those little red stirrer things I found on the counter. Franklin says he has big news and now he’s making small talk with the bartender. I have to kill him.

“A glass of cabernet,” I decide. “And a Diet Coke. And a water.” Franklin is going to quit. My own mother thinks I’m over-the-hill. How did this day go so bad so quickly?

I hook my heels over the rungs of my bar stool, and turn to face Franklin. He’s got a new job. At the network, probably. He and his adorable partner Stephen are leaving town to join the other up-and-coming thirty-somethings in the Big Apple. I know it. Now I’ll have to talk him out of it.

“Listen, Franko,” I begin. “Is it about money? What did New York offer you? What if we can—”

“Charlotte,” he says, holding up a hand. “Stop. I can tell you’re involved in one of those conversations you have with yourself. I have no idea what you and you are talking about. Whatever it is, I promise we can all discuss it later.” He looks at Jerry. “Glass of champagne, please. And one for my pessimistic pal here.”

I knew it.

“Don’t call me Charlotte if you’ve got bad news,” I instruct. “And I’m not celebrating anything until I decide there’s something to celebrate. If you and Stephen are moving out of town,” I say though a sip of my red wine, “that ain’t something I’m celebrating.”

Franklin pushes a flute of champagne toward me and holds his up to make a toast.

I sigh, already defeated. If he and Stephen are happy, I guess I should be happy, too. I put down my wineglass and lift the slender one Franklin’s forcing on me. “What?” I ask, expecting the worst.

BOOK: Face Time
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