Nice Girls Finish Last by Sparkle Hayter Page A

go down, and in that time Bianca de Woody had made the seven p.m. slot her own. Anchor-woman Madri Michaels was no friend of mine. Still, I felt bad for her, and I felt bad for me. Madri was just a year older than me and she ranked slightly higher in the newsroom food chain.
    â€œHeard anything about this murder on twenty-seven?”
    â€œSpoke to the guy who found the body. A cleaning man. He’s pretty shook up about it still,” Phil said.
    I’d spoken to the cleaning guy, Dom Lecastro, too, through an interpreter as Mr. Lecastro didn’t speak much English. He’d only just started doing the twenty-seventh floor, didn’t know anything about Kanengiser, and hadn’t seen anything.
    â€œI’m cleaning the north wing on thirty-five tonight,” Phil said on his way out of my office. “All the Xerox rooms are on that side. Should be able to get something for you tomorrow.”
    â€œThanks, Phil.”
    There was a commotion outside the door, and Tamayo’s voice saying, “I’m going. You don’t have to push.”
    I went out and saw her flanked by two security guards.
    â€œWe caught her smoking in a cleaning-supply closet near Sports,” said one of the guards to Jerry, who was shaking his head.
    There were few places you could still sneak a smoke at ANN. A couple of people had been caught on video smoking in the stairwells and one of them was fired because it was a third offense.
    Okay, take a high-pressure place like a newsroom where people are staring at bad news for hours on end, add job insecurity, big egos, and troubled marriages, then ban smoking so the whole place is having a nic fit. And what do you have? Endless good cheer and camaraderie. You bet.
    â€œI’ll look after her,” Jerry said, taking custody. He and Tamayo went into his office.
    â€œAre you nuts!” he shouted at her. I pressed my ear to the glass. I heard him open that big drawer full of résumés.
    â€œSee these?” he said. “These are the résumés of all the people who want to replace you. …”
    What an asshole.
    After Jerry finished chewing her out, Tamayo brought me my mail and my faxes. She was such a startling presence. Maybe it was that shock of white-blond hair atop that semi-Japanese face, or maybe it was just her anarchic personality coming through.
    â€œI can’t remember what I did with your phone messages,” she said. “Can I give them to you later?”
    â€œListen,” I said. “This is really important. If a woman calling herself Maureen Hudson Soparlo, also known as ‘Aunt Maureen’ or ‘Aunt Mo,’ calls, I’m not here.”
    â€œEver?”
    â€œEver. If she calls, I’m out on a story, won’t be back until really really late, if at all.”
    â€œGot it,” she said.
    â€œWrite it down, okay?”
    Tamayo’s heart wasn’t really in her job—her dream was to be a full-time stand-up comic—and she didn’t do a very good job in Special Reports (although she was a crack comic). Often absentminded, she’d wander off in midsentence. She’d take milk from the minifridge in our conference area and forget to close the door. By the time it was discovered, Jerry’s liverwurst would be spoiled. She’d lose phone messages and forget to pick up tapes.
    To make up for these shortcomings, I had to do a lot more work, and I did, because it was worth it just to have her around for comic relief and to harass Jerry, since I couldn’t, due to my new Positive Mental Attitude.
    â€œSomeone told me to say hi to you. Who was it? Oh, Howard Gollis,” Tamayo said.
    â€œHe’s insane.”
    She gave me a pot-calling-the-kettle-black look.
    â€œHe’s a creative personality,” she said finally. “He goes to the edge. You thought it was attractive when you saw him perform.”
    She was right. When I saw him the first time, when