Tammy frowned. "As myself?"
"Why not?"
"Blondes don't cut it in this business anymore."
"Times change. Look, it's been nine months. A lifetime. Even Deborah Norville got a second shot at fame."
"I won't do one of those hard-news shows," Tammy flared.
"Look, I think the Asian-anchorette trend has peaked. In the last year alone, Jade Chang, Chi-chi Wong, Dee-dee Yee and Bev Woo have come on the scene. It's oversaturation city."
"Bev Woo. She's been around forever."
"You're thinking of the old Bev Woo. There are two of them now. Both up in Boston."
"Is that legal?"
The agent shrugged. "It's great publicity."
"So I come back as myself?" mused Tammy.
"Sort of. Tell me, what's 'Tammy' short for?"
"Tammy."
"Hmm. Let me think. What would 'Tammy' be short for. Tam. Tam. Tam. Tamara! From now on, you're Tamara Terrill."
Tammy frowned. "Sounds Japanese."
"It's Russian, but we won't emphasize that. And if it doesn't work, next time you can be Tamiko Toyota."
"Are you crazy? I'd come across like a walking product-placement ad. What about my journalistic integrity?"
"Don't sweat it. I already got the ball rolling."
"Where?" Tammy asked eagerly.
"Fox."
"Fox! They're a joke. Half their newscast is UFO stories and Bigfoot sightings. It's scare news."
"That's just to bolster 'X-Files' ratings. It'll pass. See a guy named Smoot. I told him all about you."
"Except that I used to be Tamayo Tanaka ......
"No. I told him that, too. He thought it was a brilliant career move, except it didn't quite pan out."
"Pan out! I fell flat on my pancake makeup!" Tammy muttered.
THE Fox INTERVIEW went too well.
"You have the job," said News Director Clyde Smoot.
"You didn't ask me any questions," Tammy had complained.
"I just needed to see your face. You have a good camera face."
Except that in the six weeks Tammy had been working at Fox, her face had yet to be seen. Instead, they sent her scurrying here and there chasing down rumors of saucer landings and haunted condos. None of it ever aired.
"Don't worry. You'll break a story soon," Smoot reassured her.
As the cameraman wrestled the news van through Times Square traffic, Tammy held no hope that this time would be the charm.
"Always a reporter, never an anchor," she muttered, her chin on her cupped hands.
"Your day will come," the cameraman chirped. His name was Bob or Dave or something equally trustworthy. Tammy had learned a long time ago never to get attached to a cameraman. They were just glorified valets.
Traffic had gotten back to normal at the corner of Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Cabs and UPS vans were rolling over a silver-spray-painted body outline.
"Stop in front of it," Tammy directed.
"We're in traffic," Bob-or Dave-argued.
"Stop, you moron."
The van jolted to a stop, and Tammy stepped out, oblivious to the honking of horns and blaring and swearing.
"Looks like he fell on his face," she said
"Get in quick!" the cameraman urged.
Tammy looked around. "But what made the humming?"
"Forget the humming! Listen to the honking. It's talking to you."
Frowning, Tammy jumped back in and said, "Pull over."
On the sidewalk, Tammy scanned her surroundings.
The cameraman lugged his minicam out of the back and was getting it up on his beefy shoulder.
"They say that if you stand on this corner long enough, anyone you could name will walk by. Eventually."
"I saw Tony Bennett walk by my apartment last Tuesday. That was my thrill for the week."
"The guy was struck down about this time yesterday. Lunchtime. Maybe someone walking by saw it."