Warren Murphy: Feast or Famine

"A guy drops dead in midtown traffic, and you want me to cover it?"

"There's some funny angles to this one."

Interest flicked over Tammy's corn-fed face. "Like what?"

"People said they heard a humming just before the guy keeled over. That smells like an angle to me."

"No, it sounds like an angle."

Smoot shrugged. "An angle is an angle. Dig up what you can. It's a slow news day."

"You already said that," Tammy reminded.

"Then why are you standing there listening to me repeat myself? Do your job."

Grabbing her cameraman, Tammy blew out of the studio of WHO-Fox in downtown Manhattan. It was a stupid assignment. But that was what the career of Tammy Terrill had come down to. Covering stupid assignments for Fox Network News.

In a way, she was lucky to be in broadcast journalism. Especially after she had been unmasked in national TV as a faux Japanese reporter.

It wasn't easy being blond and white in TV news in the late 1990s. Everywhere Tammy turned, there was a Jap or a Chinese reporter, perky and stylish, stepping on her blond coif in their scramble to be the next Cheeta Ching-style superanchor. And Tammy wasn't the only WASP left out in the cold. If you were white-bread, you were toast.

Tammy had decided that she wasn't going to let her all-American looks get in the way of her career. Asian anchorettes were the big thing. Her grandmother had been one-sixteenth Japanese, and so with the aid of a friendly makeup man, she had turned Japanese. For on-camera purposes only.

It got her in the door and on the lower rung of network anchor. Until that dark day under the hot lights when her slinky black wig came off, and Tamayo Tanaka was exposed as a blond fraud.

"So much for Plan A," Tammy complained to her agent after she was canned.

"No sweat. You come back."

"As what? A Chinese reporter? I can't claim to be one-sixteenth Chinese. It would be lying. Worse, it would be falsifying my resume--grounds for dismissal."

"Pretending to be one flavor of black-haired, almond-eyed journalist is as legit as another. But this time you come back blond."

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."

"It's a thought."

Tammy began accosting passersby with her hand microphone.

"Hello! I'm Tamara Terrill. Fox News. I'm looking for anyone who saw the guy who plotzed in the middle of traffic yesterday."

There were no takers.

"Keep trying," the cameraman prodded.

Tammy did.

"Hello. Did someone see the guy drop dead? Come on, someone must have seen something. Anyone hear a weird humming here yesterday?"

A discouraging half hour later, Tammy gave up.

"Why not try that traffic cop?" the cameraman suggested.

"Because this is his beat," the cameraman said tiredly.

Officer Funkhauser was only too happy to cooperate with Fox Network News.

"I heard the humming just before the guy plotzed," he said.

"Was there anything suspicious about his death?"

"Between you and me, his eyes and brains got eaten out."

"That wasn't in the papers."

"They're keeping it quiet. But that's what I found. Just keep my name out of the papers."

"What is your name?"

"Officer Muldoon. That's with two O's."

"See anything odd or out of place?"

"Just the dead guy."

"Any police theories you can share with me?"

"My experienced eyes say a Mafia hit," Officer Funkhauser said flatly.

"If it was a hit, there had to be a hit man. See anything or anyone who might have been a hit man?"

"No. Just ordinary people. Unless you consider the street vendor."

"Wouldn't that be a good hit-man disguise?"

"Maybe. He was giving away candy samples."

"What'd he look like?"

"Tall. Thin. Wore a Charlotte Hornets cap and team jacket."

"Isn't that kinda strange? A Hornets fan in the Big Apple?"

"It's New York. Nothing is unusual here."

"Point taken," said Tammy. "Thanks. You can go now."

The officer went back to directing traffic. Tammy went back to accosting the lunch crowd.

"Anyone who saw the death here yesterday gets to be on TV," she announced.

Faces brightened, and suddenly Tammy was surrounded by helpful citizens crying, "I saw him! I saw him!"