Face Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

a curling-edged cartoon of three Shmoos, holding their Shmoo-tummies and laughing. Their thought balloon says “You want it when?” I’ve always wondered why someone would post their flip and trivializing attitude about their jobs in plain view of their visitors. Not to mention their bosses. Over my desk, there’s a quote about persistence.
    I use my friendliest, most amicable tone. “We don’t have an appointment, no,” I say. “But as I said, I’m Charlie McNally? From Channel 3? And we were hoping Mr. Ortega, or one of his staff, might give us a moment.”
    “We tried to call,” Franklin adds, glancing at the lineup of flashing red Hold buttons on the receptionist’s phone. “But the line was always busy.”
    “McNelly. TV. No appointment.”
    “McNally,” I say. I wish we had called. But he’s a public official and I’m the public. Someone has to talk to me.
    The receptionist raises one finger, as if putting me on hold, and then uses it to punch a few buttons on her phone. She swivels in her chair, halfway turning away, and cups her hand over the tiny receiver microphone in front of her mouth. She listens, then turns back to us.
    “Consuela Savio will be out in a moment,” she says. She glances at her watch, then turns back to her computer. “Take a seat.”
    Franklin and I head for a yellowing plastic couch. Its original color was probably somewhere between leftover mashed potato and aging mustard.
    “I’m starving,” I whisper to Franklin. The upholstery creaks unhappily as the two of us sit down. The cracking plastic instantly pinches the backs of my thighs. I shift position, trying to tuck my black skirt more securely between me and the attacking couch. “We should have gotten lunch.”
    “Read a magazine, distract yourself,” Franklin says, turning over the selection on the low wooden table in front of us. “Here’s one you probably missed. ‘Law Enforcement Product News.’ ”
    “Give me that,” I say, taking it from him. “That’s not a real magazine.” It is. I flip through the pile nearer to me, seeing if I can go one better. “Wait here’s one for you. ‘Consolidated Municipal Infrastructure.’ Read it. Know it.”
    I’m starting to get impatient with reading obscure publications when I sense someone standing over us. I quickly put down Police Chief and stand up. Franklin does, too. I’m not short, but my view is of a column of pearl buttons on a silver charmeuse blouse. The tiny buttons are clearly strained to the limits of their overburdened threads struggling to keep them from popping into the conversation.
    “Well, Charlie McNally, of course I recognize you. And this is?”
    If this is Consuela Savio, she probably spells her name in all caps. She has big hair, big shoulders, big lipstick. And somehow it all works. I can picture her in the beauty pageant, tiara’ed and teary, while the losing contestants whisper —“Her?” There’s a lot to be said for unabashed sex appeal and I’m betting Consuela says it all the time. I’m sure that could be a plus for a public relations mouthpiece. But her come-hither technique is not going to work on me. And, though she may not know it yet, certainly not on Franklin.
    “My producer, Franklin Parrish,” I say, making sure I’m looking up at her face. “We’re just doing some research on a story and were thinking that…”
    Consuela, all smiles, focuses on Franklin. This’ll be amusing.
    “Frankleen,” she says, ignoring me. “Have we met?”
    “As Charlie was saying,” Franklin says, ignoring her question and coming around from behind the coffee table. “We’re researching a story. And hoping to talk to Mr. Ortega. It’s about—Dorinda Keeler Sweeney. Can you tell him we’re here?”
    Consuela’s face darkens. She glances disapprovingly at the receptionist, whose faltering skills have clearly let in two troublemaking gate-crashers.
    “The attorney general is in a meeting,” she says, making sure, with