Famous Last Words by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski Read Free Book Online Page A

dead.
    There’s something to be said for breathing.
    “Hey, Sam,” Michael says.
    I jump when I hear his voice behind me. “What are you doing here so early?”
    Harry likes to see empty desks until deadline. He wants reporters out covering their towns, not sitting around the newsroom.
    “I had to pick up something on my way to city hall. Wanna come with?”
    “Really? I can? Now?”
    “Sure, why not? Maybe I’ll let you ask the mayor about his very silent business partner in the coffee biz. He can’t call you an a-hole.”
    “Okay! Wait right here. Let me ask Bernie.”
    I bounce over to the copy desk, buoyed by the possibility of getting out of the newsroom to tag along with Michael. But Bernie quickly shoots me down. I should have known.
    “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