Famous Last Words (6 page)

“Is AJ here?” She asks without looking up from her paper.

“Not yet.”

“Then no.”

“He’ll be here any minute.”

“Sorry. Back to the obit desk, Moronica. It’s where all good writers start, and it’s where they all end up.”

I get the feeling Bernie invented snarky. I give her a cheesy smile and walk over to the door, where Michael is waiting.

“Can’t go,” I say.

Michael swings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder and picks up his keys.

“Bummer. Next time.” Michael heads for the door, then turns around. “Good work, Sam. You’ve got some skills.”

“Thank you!” His compliment eases my disappointment.

I sit down at the obit desk and type on a blank screen.

Bernadette Dunne
,
copy
editor for the
Herald Tribune
since the days when the news was delivered by the Pony Express, died Monday. She was very, very old. Known to everyone except
Herald Tribune
intern Samantha D’Angelo as “Bernie,” she died shortly after allowing the aforementioned D’Angelo to spend the morning away from the obit desk. Apparently, it could kill to be a little nicer.

Select all. Delete.

After Michael leaves, the newsroom is quiet except for Alice’s squeaky chair and the intermittent crackling of the police scanner. The
Herald Tribune
has its own rhythm, and I like feeling the day gain momentum. The door behind me swings open with a bang, and I don’t even have to look up to know who it is. The order is always the same.

First in, features editor Jack Ballard. Ext. 3214. Coffee, light and sweet.

It’s funny. At school, I’m terrible with names. I struggle to make the most basic connection with kids my age.

“Morning, Jack.”

“Hey there, Sam. You here already?”

He’s a big teddy bear of a man who drives a Smart car that just seems to hug him. I’ve been collecting some feature ideas to pitch to Jack. AJ says as long as it doesn’t interfere with our intern duties, Harry’s usually cool with it.

Thunk.
The back door again. Next up, the city-desk editors. First Grace, ext. 3211, cream, no sugar, followed by Brian Sullivan, ext. 3210, black coffee with a Marlboro red in the parking lot. Jack’s assistant; the editorial-page editor; the sports intern; a couple of reporters; and our graphic designer arrive next, in rapid succession. Rocco will be rolling in here soon, and then comes the lull until late afternoon, when most of the reporters and the copy-desk editors start arriving.

AJ is usually late, but he likes to come in through the front door anyway. It’s closer to where Alice sits, and he always brings her a hot tea. Everyone else kisses up to the editors, but AJ’s the only one who remembers Harry’s secretary.

I walk over to Alice now and ask her if the morning mail delivery has arrived.

“Got it right here, hon,” she says, pushing the laundry-basket–size container out from under her desk. “Want me to get Jack to carry it for you?”

“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

Alice is a motherly presence in the newsroom. She hounds the reporters to log their hours so they can get paid on time, helps everyone with confusing paperwork, and looks out for the people who work here, especially Harry. She’s his rock.

The mailboxes are behind the obit desk, adjacent to the Nerf court. I’m good at the mail. I sort an entire plastic container without stopping to read the names on each mailbox. I’m completely absorbed in the Zen of sorting and about to throw a rather thick press package into Jack’s box when a male voice startles me.

“Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”

I turn around to find myself staring at a guy who could very well be the star of some seductive, subtitled film. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Olive skin.
Hello, Rob-McGinty-in-a-few-years.

“I’m Tony Roma,” he says. “The features intern.”

Tony Roma?
I should be picturing this guy in a powder blue tuxedo with a ruffled shirt singing old Italian songs in a Vegas lounge. At the very least, I should be imagining him plugging his pizzeria chain on local television. And I
would
be picturing those scenarios, if not for the fact that he’s so incredibly hot in a universal,
People
magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive kind of way. Shelby says some guys just ooze sex, which always sounded gross to me. But that’s only because I didn’t know what she meant until this exact moment. My body is talking to me. It’s telling me things I’ve never heard it say before—things that warrant a listener-advisory sticker for explicit lyrics.

“Samantha,” I say. “Sam I am.” I am a total dork.

“Are you the new intern?”

I nod.

“I haven’t been around lately. I took time off to cram in an intensive summer class,” he says. “Three credits in three weeks.”

“Oh,” I say.
Oh?

“Welcome, Sam-I-am,” he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. I swear my heart jumps so far, it lands in my inner ear, rendering me off balance. Feeling somewhat light-headed, I return to the obit desk and find AJ already sitting there with a big grin.

“I do not like green eggs and ham,” he says.

“Shut up, eavesdropper. You’re like an old lady.”

“I walked right by you and said hello.
You
didn’t hear me.”

“I don’t think so.”

He scowls. “Yeah, well, I see yet another female has fallen victim to the charms of Coma Boy.”

“What?! I don’t—Coma Boy? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you know. He’s one of these brain-dead guys who wants to be on TV.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Isn’t TV where most people get their news?

“He’s a drama major. TV news wouldn’t be a bad thing if guys like him would go into acting and leave the news to real reporters.”

“I didn’t know you felt so passionately about news coverage.”

“I don’t. I just think he’s a dick.”

I decide to change the subject. “Michael was here. He asked me to go to city hall with him, but Bernie wouldn’t let me. He’s going to confront the mayor with what we found out at Bargain Books & Beans.”

“You mean what
you
found out, Nancy Drew. Maybe you can invite Coma Boy along on your next fact-finding adventure.”

I stick my tongue out at AJ, but his tone stings. I thought our night got better after we left the coffee shop. We walked around town for a while, and as promised, I pointed out everything from Annie Oakley’s house to my old dancing school. When he dropped me off at home, AJ told me he’d had fun.

But I don’t dwell too much on AJ’s dig, because for the rest of the day, I’m completely preoccupied by Tony’s mere presence in the newsroom. I search online for articles he’s written for the
Herald Tribune
, and I’m slightly disappointed to discover they’re all sort of blah. AJ is a much better writer. Oh, well. Tony’s an intern too, right? He’s bound to improve.

I’d never admit this to anyone, but my lack of focus may be why it’s already after nine o’clock (I called my dad two hours ago to tell him I’d be late), we have no feature obit written, and we’re totally screwed. I thought AJ made the call; he thought I made the call. Now I’m stuck on the phone with the recently widowed Mrs. Spitaleri, and she just won’t give me a break.

“Tell me again why you want to write a story about my husband?” Mrs. Spitaleri asks.

“Because he was a veterinarian, and my editor thinks that’s a very interesting profession,” I say.

“Why?”

“Well, because not everyone gets to be a veterinarian.”

“Not everyone wants to.”

She kind of has me there.

I hear AJ in my other ear, enduring a different kind of obit hell. “How many survivors?” he asks. “Fourteen? Okay, fourteen. Are these all immediate family? Brothers and sisters. Okay. Half? Yes, they count too. Go ahead, I’m ready. Washington, Virginia, Florida, Carolina. Do you realize these first names are all the names of states? Are you sure this is right?”

I turn my attention back to Mrs. S. and try a different approach.

“Are there any interesting stories about your husband that you’d like to share?”

“No.”

“Any other interests aside from animals?”

“No. Hard work was his only interest. That’s what killed him.”

I would have better luck trying to sell her the newspaper. Bernadette is giving me the evil eye, complete with caked-on blue eye shadow—I sense it. So I slouch behind my monitor to avoid her glare.

“Look, honey,” Mrs. Spitaleri says, “I know you’re just doing your job, but I don’t want to answer any of these questions.”

Then she hangs up. In about thirty seconds, Bernadette is going to yell, “Moronica, where the hell is my feature obit?” and I have nothing. Maybe the copy desk could just bump up the point size on all the obits? It would serve the dual purpose of filling the page and helping senior citizens—the obit page’s most devoted readers, who tend not to be online readers. Large-Print Obits. Could be a real selling point.

I try to get AJ’s attention to ask him what to do, but he’s busy reading back fourteen states’ names to some funeral director. If I hang up the phone, Bernadette will pounce. So I keep the receiver propped between my chin and shoulder, pretend to type, and wait for AJ. My head pulses from a caffeine overdose. My contacts feel like Scotch tape on my corneas. This blows. I can’t tell Bernadette our feature obit hung up on me. Whose next of kin am I gonna reach at this hour? Full-blown panic is setting in when my phone rings. I hope no one notices I haven’t really been on the phone.

“Obit desk,” I say. It’s my buddy from the Glendale Home for Funerals. He’s got news. Good news, sort of. “He did?” I ask. “
Really?
” God forgive me, I’m giddy with excitement and can’t wait to hang up. “Okay, okay. I’ll let the city desk know.”

Putting the drab green receiver back on the hook, I raise my arms touchdown style and scream, “The police chief of Totowa is dead!” I’m going to hell, but I don’t care: We have our feature obit.

“O’Shea! Your police chief is dead!” screams Harry. “Go over there and help D’Angelo write a front-page obit.”

Totowa is Meg O’Shea’s beat, although she often helps out on big stories like the Paterson fire. As Meg crosses the newsroom toward the obit desk, two thoughts simultaneously enter my brain. Both begin with an expletive. The first is,
Front page? Am I going to write a front-page story?
The second is,
Do I still have to fill the feature slot on the obit page?

AJ works his mind-meld magic and answers the latter question. “Don’t worry. They can always run a house ad on the obit page,” he says. “Plus, they’ll have to bump a story or two to make room for the front-page obit.”

“Hey, Moron!” Bernadette yells.

“Or Bernie could make me write a feature just for the hell of it. Shit. I’m not missing band practice again,” he says. “That old woman is killing my cool.”

“Go easy on that
mature
woman,” Meg says as she rolls a chair over to my desk. “Hi there. Ready to help me write this story?”

I don’t know every reporter yet, but I can tell there are a couple who think talking with interns is beneath them. Meg doesn’t fall into that category. She speaks quickly and authoritatively, and I can hear the New Yorker in her. I wish I could be more like her. Confident without being bossy; strong without being bitchy.

“The chief was sick for a long time. I’ve got most of his obituary written already—we’re just looking for react. Let’s see,” she says, peering at a list of names and numbers she’s clutching. “I’ll make a copy of this for you. I know his wife, so I’ll call her myself. I’ll also call the city manager, the acting chief of police, and some of the officers. You can call the city council members. It’s late, so I’m not sure who’ll be answering their phones. Send me the quotes you get.”

Then Meg puts a hand on my shoulder and adds, “Don’t worry. After the Paterson fire, this should be easy for you.”

It should be, but it’s not. I come up empty-handed when I call the first two council members on the list. Both times, I get voice mail and leave a message stating who I am and why I called. Hopefully at least one will call back. I glance over at Tony’s desk. The features department looks like a ghost town—desk lamps offs, chairs neatly pushed under desks. I guess writing
Dancing with the Stars
recaps and movie reviews has its advantages. No late-night deadline pressure.

I’m about to phone the third name on the list when I remember something. My neighbor, Mr. Stein, grew up in Totowa. He’s mentioned more than once that he and the deceased police chief played ball together in high school. It wouldn’t hurt to give him a try while I wait for callbacks from the city council people. I text my dad to tell him I’m going to be even later than I thought and to ask him for Mr. Stein’s number, which he provides promptly.

I talk fast when my neighbor picks up. “Hi, Mr. Stein. It’s Sam D’Angelo, from next door?” I’m relieved he answered and didn’t screen me as a telemarketer when he saw the
Herald Tribune
’s name in his caller ID.

“Sam, how are you, dear? Is everything okay at home?” He sounds concerned.

“Oh, yes, everyone is fine, thanks. I have some bad news, though, about an old buddy of yours, the Totowa chief of police? He passed away tonight.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I knew he was sick.”

“I was wondering.… I’m helping to write his obituary, and I’ve been asked to gather quotes from people who knew him. Would I be able to ask you a few questions?”

“I’d be happy to help,” Mr. Stein says. “Ask away.”

Mr. Stein hooks me up with some heartfelt, downright eloquent quotes. After I hang up with him, I’m able to reach the third council member on the list Meg gave me, plus one of the first two returns my call. Not bad.

It’s close to eleven by the time I type up my quotes from Mr. Stein and the two town council members. I send them to Meg, who then weaves them into the body of her story. She lets me peer over her shoulder as she puts the finishing touches on her article.

“Nice work getting one of the chief’s old school buddies to comment. Where’d you dig him up?”