Scoop (7 page)

“What is she doing?” Willis grumbled. “This isn’t a fashion show!”

Hugo’s forehead was nearly touching the monitor as he waited for what Gilda would do next. All she had to do was introduce Ray’s piece. He held his breath and glanced at Ray, who stood looking cold and shifting his eyes sideways every few seconds.

“And now,” Gilda said, as if nothing peculiar had just happened, “we go live to Ray Duffey, who is covering a dispute between two neighbors and a pig. Is that right, Ray?”

“Go to Ray,” Willis said.

Ray’s picture filled the screen. “That’s right, Gilda. These two neighbors have been tangled up in quite a dispute, and at the end of the day, it comes down to the smell.”

“Roll the tape,” Willis said.

As the video rolled, Hugo fell into a nearby chair. “What is wrong with her?”

Willis shook his head. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Let me talk to her.” Hugo leaned into the microphone. “Gilda, what’s going on out there?”

Gilda looked into camera one and stared at him through the monitor. “Hugo, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. And I want to know what’s going on. You’re missing cues and acting like you’ve got your head in the clouds!”

Gilda’s eyes narrowed, and Hugo realized he’d overstepped his bounds. Willis’s surprised expression confirmed that.

“I mean, I’m wondering if you’re having some technical difficulties out there,” Hugo added quickly.

“I can hear you fine,” Tate said.

“And I, too, heard you loud and clear, Hugo,” Gilda purred. Hugo’s hair stood on end. Something was up. Gilda was onto him, and maybe this was her way of punishing him.

“Look, everyone, let’s get back on top of our game and get through this,” Willis said. “Were almost back to Ray, and then Tate, you’ll pitch to the weather teaser.”

“Ten seconds,” the VTR operator called out, indicating the video for Ray’s segment was almost finished.

“Please don’t let anything else go wrong,” Hugo mumbled, resisting the urge to cover his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the rest of the show.

“Three…two…one…”

“Go to Ray.”

Ray’s picture came back up, but this time Ray wasn’t holding the microphone. He was clutching it.

“We, uh…we were hoping to get comments from Mr. Green, but we were unable to make contact with him at—ahhhh! AHHH!”

“What the—?” Willis shouted. Something had flown across the screen and tackled Ray. Hugo lunged toward the monitor. The camera now showed a steady picture of nothing but a dark, lifeless background. Plenty of noise, however, indicated something was happening even though the camera didn’t show it.

A blur flew across the screen again, and this time it was Beaker, who’d never been seen this side of the camera.

Chaos erupted around Hugo, but everyone was helpless to do anything. Then a skinny-looking man filled the screen. He stood up, straightened his shirt, and yelled, “I hate Channel 7! I hate you!” He pointed straight to the camera and then stomped off.

“Ray! Ray? Beaker?” Willis said, “Jim? Jim, can you here me?” Not even the live truck operator was answering.

Suddenly Beaker was back on, speaking through Ray’s microphone. The camera captured part of his face and shoulder as he stooped. “Willis…can you hear me?” He sounded out of breath.

“I’m here. What happened?”

“Ray was attacked.”

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He’s got a gash on his head, and he’s bleeding.”

Willis switched his attention quickly to Gilda and Tate. “Gilda, I’m cutting to you. You’re going to have to carry this for fifteen seconds, and then were going to commercial. Three…two…one.”

“As you can see, something terrible has happened. One of our reporters was attacked while giving us a live report. As soon as we know anything more, we will let you know. For now, let’s all say a prayer for Ray Duffey, and we’ll be back after this short commercial break.”

“Go to commercial.”

Hugo leaned into the microphone. “Beaker, can you hear me?”

“Yeah. I’m okay. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Beaker, make sure you get all this on video.”

He could see Beaker move and take out his cell phone to call. Hugo stepped back, realizing he was starting to hyperventilate. In all his years in the news business, he’d never seen anything like that. He felt completely helpless. He turned and noticed Hayden was the only one not running around the control room like a headless chicken. And she was taking Gilda’s remarks to heart.

She was praying.

W
ith a quick snap of her arms, the nurse jerked back the curtain in Ray’s hospital-room window. Ray shielded his eyes from the bright light. She rolled a breakfast cart toward his bed and swung it over his legs. “The doctor will be in to release you this morning,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve got a headache,” Ray said, touching the bandage on his forehead.

“I’ll bring you some Tylenol. See if you can eat something.”

Ray looked down. He was starving, but not for watery eggs and cardboard bacon. He touched his head again. Eight stitches, right across his hairline. The entire thing had been caught on live television, including the humiliation of the police questioning him as he was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He really didn’t think he needed to go by ambulance, but Hugo insisted, citing something about insurance policies. And somehow Hugo had talked the doctors into admitting him.

Ray peeled back the foil on his orange juice cup and was about to take a sip when the door flew open and Hugo walked in.

“How are you?” he asked, his arms flung out like he was hosting a variety show.

“Hugo, I’m fine. I didn’t need to stay in the hospital, for crying out loud.”

“It was just a precaution.” Hugo smiled a little. “It’s all the buzz this morning.”

“I bet.”

“The other news stations are forced to cover it, or they know they’ll lose viewers who want to see the footage.”

Ray rolled his eyes. “Great.”

“Ray, you’re a hero!”

“A hero? I got clobbered by a very skinny man who hates my news channel.”

“But our ratings are soaring, and we haven’t even entered sweeps week yet, my friend. I can hardly believe our luck. All from a story about pigs.” Hugo minded his manners and pulled back from the glory he was apparently imagining. “So you’re feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, it could’ve been a lot worse. I’m a little sore and my head is—”

“That will be perfect.”

“What?”

“The bandage. The cut’s right at your hairline, so you can’t really see it, but the bandage will make quite a statement on camera.”

“What camera?”

Just then the door opened again and Beaker came in, hauling his equipment, followed by Trent. Ray groaned. “Hugo, please. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do this? Ray, this is the biggest news story of the day. You’re asking me not to cover it?”

“I don’t want to
be
the news, Hugo. I want to report it.”

“This business is about sacrifice. You know that, Ray. You were attacked by the man we were ultimately defending. If that’s not a news story, I don’t know what is.” Hugo sighed. “Look, just let Trent interview you, and I’ll give you the rest of the day off, okay? You can go home and relax.”

Ray tugged at his hospital robe. “Go home and relax? Yeah, right. Knowing I’m being plastered all over television in a hospital gown.”

Trent stepped up. “This is an important story, Ray. We saw an act of violence right in front of our eyes.”

Ray pinched his nose. Of course this would feel important to a man
whose last story was an exclusive on Beano. Ray looked at Beaker, who seemed to feel his pain but had every intention of hitting the record button. Hugo had the most desperate look on his face, like he thought his entire world might come crashing down if Ray didn’t do this.

And he knew the truth. Their ratings would soar.

He leaned back into his pillow and groaned. His best friend, Roarke Keegan, would never let this die, nor would his church, his family, or the lady who sold him his Slurpees at 7-Eleven every night after the show. This would be his fifteen minutes of unwanted fame. He’d been beaten up by a redneck who likes Channel 3 instead.

Ray opened his eyes and asked, “Can we at least spin this so people realize I was holding a microphone and was taken completely by surprise?”

Beaker laughed. “Believe me, the ‘taken completely by surprise’ part won’t be a problem. The freeze-frame of your face is absolutely hilarious.”

Hugo shot Beaker a look and said, “Ray, I promise. You’ll come out of this looking like a hero.”

“I’ll just settle for not looking like a pansy, okay?”

Gilda woke at precisely 10:00 a.m. every morning. So as she rolled over in bed to see four red numbers indicating 10:47 a.m., it startled her heart into near cardiac arrest.

She yanked the covers back and stumbled across her bedroom floor toward the bathroom, freeing herself of the sleep mask that was entangled in her hair. She turned on the water at the sink and drank from the faucet to try to get her tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth.

It was like a hangover without the benefit of the high.

She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened last night, but if she were being diplomatic about it, she would probably guess it was some sort of breakdown. Having never had a breakdown before, she couldn’t be sure,
but uncontrollable crying, screaming at the top of one’s lungs, and cursing people she thought should die a slow and painful death were probably all signs that something wasn’t quite right.

She splashed water onto her face, dried it with a towel, and looked at herself carefully in the mirror. “You’re a good person. People like you because of who you are on the inside, not the outside.” She stared hard into her own eyes. That’s what that intern Hayden had told her. It sounded so ridiculously naive at the time, like a bad self-help tape.

“Believe it. You must believe it.” She shook her head. But today her heart wouldn’t believe it. Not after what had happened yesterday. There had been hints over the years, all of which Gilda had pretended to ignore. But the hints were becoming more and more obvious, and yesterday was the worst.
To stage some sort of Botox party…
.
How moronic.
Chad was a cruel dictator and Hugo was simply a spineless weenie. To send his intern in to do his dirty work was hardly fathomable.

Gilda fluffed her hair and applied her two favorite antiwrinkle creams before heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Prior to opening the refrigerator, Gilda touched the handwritten note that hung by a magnet on her freezer door. She’d written it down five years ago, and the quote was attributed to Barbara Walters. It said, “Women in television don’t get older, they get blonder.” She was no blonde, but she appreciated the sentiment of it anyway. The fact was, women could age gracefully in front of the camera if society wasn’t so determined to fight the inevitable stages of aging.

Over the years, she’d taken a few nonradical steps to try to look as young as she possible could. She’d allowed special lights to be set up in front of the news desk to create a white, illuminating glow around her neck, to supposedly hide the fact that her neck looked like it was sliding down itself.

She’d also gone to using a heavy base makeup, so thick-feeling she swore she was wearing a second face. It did make a difference. For a couple of years.

She was getting older. No amount of wrinkle cream or special lighting was going to change that. Yet she seemed to be the only one at peace with it.

Opening the fridge, she took out the orange juice and two eggs. Whisking the eggs in a bowl, she poured them into a skillet and walked to the front door. It was Tuesday. And Tuesday almost always brought a welcomed surprise. She’d not told anyone about it for fear that it might go away or that it was just a figment of her imagination.

Slowly, she opened the door. And there it was. A rose. Next to her newspaper. She stooped to pick it up, her knees cracking as she bent. Attached to the rose was a note held on by a neatly tied string.
“Dearest Gilda, you deserve to be loved in the very best way.”
She smiled and closed her fingers over the note. These little treasures (flowers, chocolates, trinkets, and more) had been coming for several months now. Lately they’d been coming more frequently. At first she thought she was being stalked. But if that was the case, the stalker was so delightfully charming, she was willing to let her fear of death slide for now.

She took the rose inside, placed the newspaper on the table, and finished cooking her eggs. Back at the table, she opened the paper up to find Ray Duffey as the front-page headline: “Reporter Attacked.” Hugo would be ecstatic. Maybe this was the boost they needed right before sweeps week.

Stroking the petals of the rose, Gilda couldn’t help but wonder why her secret admirer had been admiring from a distance for so long. After several months, wouldn’t he at least want to go to the next stage by now?

She lost her appetite and shoved her breakfast away. Grabbing her orange juice, she made her way back to the bathroom where she applied a skin smoother and an eye gel. With one finger, she traced the deep crease that started midforehead and ended up between her two eyebrows. This. This was the one that had done it. All the other lines were noticeable but
not irreverent, like somehow she had better control of how she aged since she was on television. This line, though, was practically offensive. Yet she knew what made this line—years of hard work, concentrating, taking seriously the job she loved so much.