by Lisa Jackson
"Surprising."
Another call came in, catching Melba's attention, as Tiny walked with Sam down the central hallway known affectionately as "the aorta." The station was a virtual rabbit's warren, a maze of offices and hallways linked together fitfully as the ancient building that housed WSLJ and its sister stations had been remodeled over and over again in the past two hundred years, the nooks and crannies incorporated into closets, studios, offices, and meeting rooms.
"Check your e-mail as well," Tiny advised as he stopped at the door of his office—a small room that had once been a walk-in windowless closet placed smack-dab in the middle of the offices. Inside was a single desk chair, benchlike table and laptop computer. Tiny's only nod to decorating was a large poster of an alligator, which Sam guessed, from the multitude of tiny perforations on the slick surface surrounding the gator's snout, Tiny used as a dartboard. Where he hid his darts was a continuing mystery that no one in the station had unraveled.
Tiny seemed to know what was going on in the station at all times. A part-time communications student at Loyola, he designed and maintained the station's web site and was a whiz when it came to any computer glitch. In Sam's opinion, Tiny was invaluable, if slightly out-of-sync with the rest of the world. He was still gawky, a computer nerd in serious need of braces, Scope and Clearasil, but a hard worker who just happened to have a crush on Sam. A crush she pretended didn't exist.
"Lots of e-mail?" she asked, and the kid visibly brightened.
"Tons. All of it about the same—the listeners want you back."
"You read my e-mail?" she asked.
The tops of his ears turned bright red. "Some of it was addressed to the station in general, but it was mainly about you and when you'd be back. I, uh, I didn't look at any of the personal stuff."
Oh, right, she thought sarcastically, but before she had a chance to question him, the program manager's deep voice assailed her. "So the prodigal has returned!" Eleanor's words ricocheted down the hallway.
A tall black woman who had brass golf balls fashioned into a paperweight that she kept forever on her desk, she strode down the hallway and smiled wide enough to show off a gold-crowned molar. "And oh, look at you…" She motioned to the cast covering Sam's leg. "High fashion if ever I saw it. Well, come on, haul yourself down to me office, where we can talk." She preceded Sam down the aorta and took a right near the back of the building, across from the glassed-in studio where Gator Brown was pretaping some smooth jazz favorites that he planned to play on his shift. Earphones covering his bald spot, Gator saw Sam, grinned and raised a freckled hand, never once interrupting his velvet-voiced patter as he started to play another CD for the tape.
"Okay, so tell me," Eleanor said, waving Sam into a chair crammed between bookcases stacked high with files, disks, tapes and books, "how long are you gonna have to put up with that?" She waggled a finger at Sam's left leg as she sat behind her cluttered desk.
"Less than a week more, I hope. It's just a sprain. Nothing broken. I can still work, you know."
"Good. Cuz I want you back in that booth. Your listeners are clamoring for you, Sam, and WNAB is getting more aggressive with your audience. They've moved Trish LaBelle from seven to nine, to get a jump on your show, then go head to head with you when you come on at ten. I'm considering moving you up an hour, and Gator's screaming bloody murder, claiming his audience will stop listening, that his style of jazz has to be played late at night. He'd rather you be pushed back from ten until midnight." She reached into the top drawer of her desk and found a bottle of Turns. "And my husband can't understand why I have high blood pressure."
Sam wasn't buying all the competition. "WNAB is AM, we're FM, entirely different format, demographics and audience."
"Not so different." Eleanor was all business. She popped two pills. "Look, we've all worked hard to make this station the best, and we don't want to lose our audience now. I don't begrudge you your vacation, of course," she said, holding up her hands, palms outward, "but I've got to be practical. It's my job. We can't let WNAB or anyone else muscle in on our ratings." She managed a smile that seemed false and when the phone rang, took the call. "This is Eleanor… yes… I know." Stretching the cord, she rolled her chair back and searched in a stack of files that was piled on top of a credenza. "Okay, let me see. Did you talk to the sales department?" Her voice was tight. Strained. "I understand… we're working on it. What? Yes. Samantha's back, so late night's taken care of… Right. Just give me a minute." Turning back to the desk, she grabbed her computer mouse with her free hand and signaled to Sam with her eyes that the discussion was over. "Listen, George, just sit tight. I said I'd handle it."
Samantha hobbled out of the room, but Eleanor's voice drifted after her.
"I'll come up with something. Yes, soon. For God's sake, don't have a heart attack. Just calm down. I understand."
Negotiating two corners, Sam entered the hallway that opened to the glassed-in studios and recording rooms. She glanced through one window and saw Gator still leaning into the microphone, talking to the tape as if he were actually speaking to the audience and every listener were his personal friend. He'd cut this tape into his regular program. On the air his voice was a soft drawl, inviting, a real down-home boy. In person he was much more animated and lively. Sam waved, Gator gave her a cursory nod and she wended her way past several more studios, an editing room, the library and finally wound up at the communal office she shared with the other DJs. Her mail was, indeed, stuffed into her cubby. Remembering the ugly missive she'd received at home, she sorted through the envelopes carefully. Telling herself that the prickle of dread crawling up her spine was totally out of line, she slit open each envelope and scanned the pages.
Nothing was out of the ordinary.
Nothing was the least bit suspicious.
Offers to speak at or host charity functions, well-wishes from listeners who had found out she'd been in an accident, advertisements, more bank-card offers… nothing sinister. She'd told herself that she wasn't going to bring up the letter and crank call to anyone at the station, but she would talk to the police again. The letter and voice on her answering machine were probably just pranks. Nothing more. Some guy getting his perverted jollies at her expense.
Then what about the footsteps on the porch?
How about the way Charon had reacted?
What about the way you felt last night, as if unseen eyes were watching your every move?
Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself for the hundredth time she was letting a couple of stupid, malicious pranks get to her. She'd dealt with crank callers before. As long as she changed the locks, fixed the faulty alarm system that had come with the house and made sure that the Cambrai police were true to their word and increased their patrols of the area, she'd be fine.
Right?
A few hours later, after most of the staff had gone home for the night, Sam was tossing the trash into a wastebasket when the click of high heels caught her attention. Turning, she spied Melanie breezing into the room. Her hair was windblown, her cheeks pink from the heat of the summer night.
"Welcome back," Melanie greeted with a grin. All of twenty-five, Melanie had graduated at the top of her class at All Saints, a small college in Baton Rouge, where she'd majored in communications and minored in psychology. She'd worked at the college radio station, then landed a job in Baton Rouge before accepting a position with WSLJ not long after Sam had hired on. Melanie, like Sam, was one of Eleanor's recruits.
"Thanks."
"I'm gonna run down to the shop on the corner and pick up coffee and something totally fattening and sinful… Probably a beignet smothered in powdered sugar. Want one?"
"Tempting, but I think I'll pass." Sam set the mail aside and rolled her chair back from the long counter that served as a desk. "And thanks again for taking care of the cat and leaving me the coffee and milk. You're a lifesaver."
Melanie beamed under the compliment—in many ways she was still a kid. "Just remem
ber that when it comes time for my review and raise, okay?"
"Oh, I get it. You bribed me."
"Absolutely!" Melanie was blocking the doorway, a hand on either side of the jamb. In a gauzy purple dress, thin black cape, platform shoes and fresh makeup, she looked ready to go out on the town, rather than work.
"Hot date?"
"A girl can hope." Melanie laughed and lifted one shoulder. "Maybe I'll get lucky. And—" she held up a finger, "—no motherly advice about being careful. I'm a big girl now."
"And I'm not old enough to be your mother."
"Then no friendly or even professional advice, okay?"
Sam knew when to button her lip. Melanie's past relationships had been less than stellar, and the girl was waiting to get her heart broken again, but Samantha didn't argue. After all, she wasn't exactly batting a thousand in the love department herself. "When are you off duty?"
Melanie looked at her watch. "After the show, same as you. Now, what can I get you from the coffee shop before it closes for the night? Tea? Perrier?"
"You don't have to wait on me."
"I know. It's only because of the cast. Once you're on your feet again, you're on your own, so make a slave of me now, if you feel so inclined."
"You asked for it. Okay, get me a Diet Coke."
"Will do." Melanie glanced ruefully at Sam's leg. "Does it itch?"
"Like crazy."
"I'll be right back." She left as quickly as she appeared. Sam did a cursory look over her e-mail, her pulse elevating a bit, her palm sweaty on the mouse, but no one had sent any notes that could be construed as threatening. A few notes from fans asking about her return, two dozen jokes she deleted immediately, interoffice memos that were outdated, an offer to speak at a local charity event, another reminder from the Boucher Center about her next appointment and several quickly dashed thoughts from friends. One from Leanne Jaquillard, a seventeen-year-old girl she worked with at the Boucher Center where she volunteered.
There was nothing out of the ordinary in her letters from cyberspace. Nothing sinister. She began to relax.
By the time Melanie returned sans cape, with a little bit of powdered sugar still clinging to her lips, a can of Diet Coke in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, Sam had answered those she could, saved the ones she wanted and deleted the rest.
"Thanks," she said, as Melanie handed her the drink. "I owe you one."
"More than one—maybe a dozen or so for taking care of that persnickety cat, but who's counting?" Melanie took a sip of her coffee and the remaining bits of sugar vanished from her lips.
Sam pulled the tab on her Coke just as Gator poked his head into the room. "You've got about fifteen minutes," he said. "I've got two pieces taped, then the weather and ads will follow. After that, you're on." He started to leave, then thought better of it. "Hey, it's good to have you back." There wasn't much sincerity in his words.
"Thanks."
"So what happened?" He jabbed a finger at her cast.
"It's a long story. Basically, the captain of our fishing boat was an idiot and I'm a klutz."
Gator's grin was tight Forced. "Tell me something I don't know," he said, then added, "Gotta run, somewhere in this city there has to be a woman dying to meet me."
"I wouldn't count on it," Melanie whispered as he left.
"Remind me again why I wanted to get back here so badly," Sam said.
"He's just pissed because they're talking about cutting his show to expand yours. It's jealousy."
Sam wasn't sure she blamed Gator. He used to be the morning DJ, was pushed to the afternoon "Drive At Five," then eased back to the early evening. It didn't take a crystal ball to see that he was slowly, but surely, being phased out Right now, with the popularity of her Midnight Confessions, she took the brunt of his misaligned anger.
"I guess I'd better get back in the saddle." Sam struggled to her feet, felt a painful twinge in her ankle and ignored it. Melanie stepped out of the doorway to let her pass. "Thanks for pinch-hitting for me while I was gone," Sam said.
"No problem." Melanie's gold eyes darkened a bit. "I liked it."
"You're a natural."
The girl sighed as they started down the corridor. "I just wish the powers that be recognized my talents."
"They will. Give it time. And finish getting your doctorate. A bachelor's degree in psychology isn't enough."
"I know, I know. Thanks for the advice, Mom," she said with just a trace of envy. Melanie was great behind the microphone, she just needed seasoning, more life experience as well as the educational credentials before she could regularly hand out advice to the thirty- and fortysomethings who called in. Pinch-hitting was one thing; her own show was another.
"Any big news happen while I was gone?" Sam asked, changing the touchy subjection.
"Nothing. It's been soooo boring around here." Melanie shrugged and took another sip of coffee.
"New Orleans is never boring."
"But the station is. It's the same old, same old. There's gossip about the possibility of WSLJ being sold to a big conglomerate or merging with a competitor."
"There always is."
"Then there would be major reformatting. All the DJs are freaked because they'd be replaced by computers, or syndicated programs from Timbuktu, or God knows where."
"That never stops," Sam said.
"Right, but this time there's more to it George is talking about spending big bucks on more computer equipment, cutting staff, doing more of the taped stuff. Melba's thrilled—practically orgasmic—at the thought of voice mail, and Tiny, he loves the idea. The more high-tech stuff, the better."
"It's the wave of the future," Sam said cynically. Computers were rapidly replacing disk jockeys just as CDs had replaced tapes and vinyl. The library of LPs and 45s in the station was collecting dust in a locked glass case that only Ramblin' Rob, the crusty oldest DJ in the building, played upon occasion. "I catch hell for it," he always said, laughing, his voice raspy from years of cigarettes, "but they don't dare fire me. AARP, the governor and even God Himself would shut this place down if they did."
Melanie followed Samantha along the hallway. "Doing the show was the only thing that was interesting around here."
"Liar, liar," Melba said as she cruised past and grabbed her jacket from the rack in an alcove near the offices. "Don't let her give you any of that bull." Her elegant eyebrows lifted a notch. "There's a new man in our girl's life."
Melanie blushed and rolled her expressive eyes.
"True?" Sam asked as she turned a corner and slipped through the door to the studio. The information about her assistant wasn't exactly a news flash. Melanie had a new boyfriend every other week, or so it seemed.
"This one's serious." Melba tucked her umbrella under her arm. "Believe me, the girl's in loooove."
"It's only been a couple of dates. That's all." Melanie fiddled with the chain around her neck. "No big deal."
"But you like him?"
"So far."
"Do I know him?"
"Nah." Melanie shook her head, then slipped into the adjoining booth. "I'll start screening the calls," she said, as Sam settled into her chair and adjusted the mike. She checked the computer screen. With a touch of her finger on the appropriate button on the monitor, she could play a pretaped advertisement, the opening music, or the weather. She placed headphones over her ears as Melanie nodded, indicating that the phone lines were working and connected to the computer.
Sam waited until the thirty-second advertising spot for a local car dealer had finished, then pressed a button and the first few notes of "Hard Day's Night" by the Beatles soared, then faded. Sam leaned into the mike. "Good evening, New Orleans, this is Dr. Sam. I'm back. And this is Midnight Confessions, here at WSLJ. As you probably know, I was out of town for a little R&R in Mexico. Mazatlán, to be precise." She leaned her elbows on her desk and kept one eye on the computer screen. "It was a beautiful place, very romantic, if you were in the right frame of mind, but r
ather than give you a blow-by-blow travelogue, I thought I'd settle in with kind of a light topic, just to get back in the swing of things."
"As this is my first night back, I thought we'd open the discussion tonight by talking about vacations, how stressful they are, how relaxing they're supposed to be, what's considered romantic. Call in and tell me where you've been and how it turned out. In Mazatlán, the weather was hot, hot, hot, the sunsets to die for. Plenty of hot sun and sand, lots of couples strolling along the beach. Palm trees, white sand, piňa coladas, the whole nine yards…"
She talked about romantic vacations for a few minutes and gave out the phone number, again asking for callers, waiting for a response. Glancing through the plate-glass window she saw Melanie, headphones in place, nodding as the phone lines began to light. Here we go.
The first caller's name, Ned, appeared on the screen beside line one, while someone named Luanda was on two. Sam pushed the first button and said, "Hi. This is Dr. Sam. Who's this?"
"Yeah, this is Ned." The guy sounded nervous. "I, um, I'm glad you're back. I listen to your program all the time, and… and I gotta say I missed ya."
"Thanks." Samantha smiled slightly and tried to put the guy at ease. "Well, Ned, what's on your mind? Have you been on a vacation lately?"
"Yeah, uh, I, uh, took the missus on a trip down to Puerto Rico, it was about two months ago, and… well, it was kinda to make up… y'know."
"Make up for what?" she asked.
"Well, I'd been seein' someone else and me and the wife, we split for a while, so I decided to surprise her with a trip to the Caribbean, you know, to try and get things back together."
"And what happened, Ned?" Sam asked, as the guy haltingly poured out his heart. Another midlife fling. His second, he admitted, but he loved his wife, oh, she was the best, a good-hearted woman he'd been married to for twelve years. However, his wife got even with him in Puerto Rico. Found herself a Latin lover and rubbed Ned's nose in it. Ned was offended. What had she been thinking? The romantic vacation had turned into a catastrophe.