Free Cover-up by John Feinstein Page B

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—”
    â€œStop it, Stevie. It’s not the same.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œYeah, 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.
    â€œGot 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?”
    â€œYeah, fine,” Stevie said, trying not to sound glum. He must have failed.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Kelleher asked.
    â€œNothing important,” Stevie said, not wanting to get into it. “I’ll fill you in later. I’m going back to my room to write.”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œSteve, 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.
    â€œI’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….”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œChip’s
here
?” Stevie said. “What’s he doing here?”
    â€œHe’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