Ten minutes before airtime, I found a surprise in the green room when I went to check my hair and makeup before breaking my dine-and-dash exclusive.
Buzz Stolee was primping for a live interview on Sports Night, which followed the late news. Apparently he’d been the star player in that day’s basketball game with a last-second three-pointer to win.
“Weren’t you watching?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I was working.”
“Bummer.”
We both stood in front of the Hollywood mirror, fixing our hair. Buzz had to scrunch down a little because of his height. I considered leaving, but I didn’t want him to think he unnerved me. And I was still hoping he might let something incriminating slip about Sam.
“Hey, can just anyone write their name on this wall?” he asked.
“Anyone who’s a guest on our air,” I replied.
So he did. With his jersey number next to it. One more autograph for posterity on the pristine green room wall.
Apparently Buzz had been talking with the Channel 3 sports team about our encounter the other night. And they’d assured him that hitting on me was worth his while by clarifying the definition of a reporter-source relationship.
“You see, you and me, babe, we aren’t working on a story together,” he said. “So I’m not your source. So we could do a little messing around, and you wouldn’t get fired.”
He smiled and nodded as if glad to have cleared up that business for me. “So you stick around until after Sports Night, we can pick up where we left off.” And just in case I’d forgotten, he grasped his crotch.
“A wink would have been enough, Buzz.”
“Okay then, meet you back here later.” He winked. “See, I can please a lady.”
“I’m sorry, but I already have plans tonight.”
“Course you do, so do I. I’m the team hero. Groupies are waiting for me.”
He then shared his philosophy of plans being made to be broken when something better comes along. He seemed to think that would flatter me.
So I owned up that I was Seeing Someone Special, even though Garnett and I were still on the skids. “And I sort of have a policy, Buzz, of not socializing with celebrities, because you could become news at the drop of your pants. And that could be awkward.”
“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice, “if this is about my … you know. I say we settle things here and now.” He shut the green room door and glanced over at the couch.
“There’s nothing to settle, Buzz.” I glanced at my watch. “I’m four minutes from airing my restaurant rustler story. The floor director’s probably looking to mic me now.”
“Oh, I get it. You don’t want to be rushed.” He winked again.
“No. I don’t want to be alone with you. You and me are never going to happen. End of story.”
Buzz looked disturbed. “Endings can be tricky. Sometimes fans think a game is over and leave early. Then the game turns.” He bent down so we were eye to eye. His gaze made me anxious. “You and me are just getting started. Certainly too soon to be talking about ending anything.”
I tried pushing past him to get to the door. But he pivoted and guarded it like we were on a basketball court and my escape path led to the hoop.
“Knock it off, Buzz. I have to get to the set.”
He pretended to be shooting a layup as he continued to block the door with his wide reach. “The buzzer hasn’t sounded yet, we got plenty of time.”
I didn’t answer, just tried acting bored.
“Get it? BUZZer,” he said.
Because of our proximity to a live television newscast, I wasn’t afraid for my life, but I was starting to fear Buzz. Some jocks have a sense of entitlement that comes from sold-out arenas.
“I bet you’d cheer when the BUZZer sounds.” He pressed up against me in what surely would be called a foul.
I weighed whether to kick his shin or knee him in the groin but decided the latter contact would only encourage him to think I was interested in touching that part of his body. Just as I kicked, the door opened and slammed him from behind.
Buzz swore, crunched over, and looked down at Clay Burrel’s cowboy boots.
“You two aces okay in here?” Clay asked. “I was just fixin’ to check my face.”
“I’m heading to the studio,” I said. “Take all the time you need.”
And as I left, I heard Clay give Buzz a high five and congratulate him on his game-winning shot.
After finishing my set piece, I headed past the assignment desk, the back way to my office, to avoid any lurking sports guests. On the way, I stopped to thank Clay for his timely intervention.
“The guy’s a jerk, and I was glad to get out of there,” I said.
Apparently the simple curiosity of a newshound made him open the green room door. “Never seen it closed before. Wondered what I was missing out on.”
So that night I decided to let first impressions be bygones, be friends with Clay Burrel, and stop trying to steal his headless homicide story. After all, we were both part of the Channel 3 family.
I even offered to buy him a drink, but he declined because he was already going out for a beer with Buzz.
“Sorry, little lady.” Clay smiled as he pressed his index finger against my forehead. “But he asked me first.”
I decided to forget being friends with Clay. Who needed him, anyway? Noreen was thrilled with my dine-and-dash story. So were the police.
Before the newscast even signed off, they’d received half a dozen calls, all claiming to know the identity of the meal moocher. And the best part was they all gave the same name.
John Borgeson was picked up that night and taken to jail.
I got his mug shot in time for the morning news the next day, then did a noon-news interview with a neighbor who described him as a quiet man who had kept to himself after losing his job as a bank loan officer a few months earlier.
A couple of the tipsters were former coworkers of his; others recalled him answering employment ads for their company. Apparently, whenever Borgeson had a job interview downtown, he would steal a meal, purloin sirloin, take steak … I had fun with the script, and viewers called in with more suggestions. David Letterman even included a joke in his late-night monologue.
Noreen gave me an I Told You So lecture. “See, Riley, it doesn’t have to take weeks or months to produce top investigations. Let’s hit the streets and find some more like this.”
I didn’t want to get into what would only be a pointless discussion about journalism’s role in “serving the public,” working for the “greater good,” and being a “voice for the voiceless.”
I just nodded and told her I’d do my best. And said a silent prayer that the news profession didn’t completely lose its swagger before going bust.