Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan Page B

radar screens, and wound up focused on the assignment desk crew. Three worried twentysomethings wearing leftover-from-college khakis and new-to-TV frowns, each frenetically examining the Boston Globe for all the stories the night crew had missed.
    Not one of those intrepid journalists noticed there was a camera in my purse recording their every move.
    I walked out, oh so casually, getting it all on tape and gave Franklin a triumphant thumbs-up.
    He and I checked the video upstairs, heads touching as we watched it through the tiny playback screen on the camera. I got great shots of a producer searching Face-book, the satellite guy doing a crossword puzzle, and the new morning reporter shopping online for red patent Louboutin pumps. If the camera were set to record audio, I could have also provided slam-dunk proof that our noon anchor was making comments to an intern that Nanette in Human Resources would certainly have frowned upon.
    “She’s totally coming on to that kid.” I pointed to the miniature image flickering by. “Too bad state law says you can’t secretly record audio. So what do you think?”
    “Looks good, Charlotte.” Franklin pursed his lips, nodding. “Watch that the lens doesn’t become dislodged, and move, or tilt. You’ll wind up with a bunch of shots of the ceiling. Or shoes.”
    I tucked the camera back into its metal case and checked the red buttons to confirm the batteries were fully charged.
    “We need purses. Money changing hands. Women with bags. The faces of everyone there. Especially the hostess.And maybe, license plates, you know? I’ll get all the license plates. And cars. Who knows what will matter when our story all comes together. So can’t hurt to get it all.”
    “You’ve got half an hour, max,” Franklin reminded me. “After that, tapes out. Batts out. You’re done.”
    The computer voice from my GPS interrupts my thoughts, announcing exit seven, Ludlow, is next. I have four spare batteries, each the size of a triple pack of gum. If necessary, I can click in a new one in the ladies’ room. That’ll also be a good place to check my video. If the lens gets out of position, or the tape didn’t roll, I’ll be able to go back and pick up what I missed. Better to reshoot than to drive back to Boston with an hour’s worth of shoes.
    I nod my head, planning. Going undercover, carrying a hidden camera. It’s risky. And intimidating. A lot can go wrong. But a lot can go right. I love it.
     
     
    I look in the mirror. And a stranger looks back. I smile in approval. Even I don’t recognize myself. My hair is scrunchied in a high slicked-back ponytail. My contacts are in, so I can see, but I found a pair of ultrahigh-fashion square black-rimmed glasses, very Manhattan chic. Also very fake, since the lenses are just glass. Blue eye shadow, so retro some magazines claim it’s hip. And pink lipstick. A long skirt, vaguely Woodstock, and a vaguely peasant blouse. And, of course, my special purse. Not me at all. But now, I’m not me.
    Luckily, I have some time alone in the ladies’ room of the Plucky Chicken Restaurant. Luckily the place is somewhat empty, post-lunch hour, and no one will notice that the blue-jeaned blonde in the big sunglasses who hurried into the room marked “Hens” carrying abulky tote bag walked out a short while later transformed into someone else.
    Someone else. I instantly decide on the name I’ll use. Elsa.
    I study my counterfeit image in the full-length mirror. My fellow party-goers will either believe my story that I’m Elsa, an artist visiting the Berkshires from “the city,” or write me off as a combination leaf-peeper and disastrous fashion victim. Either way, they’ll figure I need a new purse.
    Time for a little experiment. At this point on the Turnpike, I’m still in Channel 3’s viewing area and I know we’ve got high ratings around here. On a typical day, I probably couldn’t walk into this place without being recognized.
    I open the