I met Mike Wallace on a waning summer afternoon less than a decade ago. He was golden brown, stripped to the waist and came crashing through the back door of Art Buchwald’s porch on Martha’s Vineyard.
“Hi, I’m Mike!” he said, extending a hand, his white teeth flashing.
Source: http://www.thewrap.com/tv/media/column-post/remembering-mike-wallace-legend-dark-secret-36873
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