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a cup of coffee in the other, Sam had answered those she could, saved the ones she wanted and deleted the rest.
    Thanks,” she said, as Melanie handed her the drink. “I owe you one.”
    “More than one—maybe a dozen or so for taking care of that persnickety cat, but who’s counting?” Melanie took a sip of her coffee and the remaining bits of sugar vanished from her lips.
    Sam pulled the tab on her Coke just as Gator poked his head into the room. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes,” he said. “I’ve got two pieces taped, then the weather and ads will follow. After that, you’re on.” He started to leave, then thought better of it. “Hey, it’s good to have you back.” There wasn’t much sincerity in his words. “Thanks.”
    “So what happened?” He jabbed a finger at her cast. “It’s a long story. Basically, the captain of our fishing boat was an idiot and I’m a klutz.”
    Gator’s grin was tight. Forced. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, then added, “Gotta run, somewhere in this city there has to be a woman dying to meet me.” “I wouldn’t count on it,” Melanie whispered as he left. “Remind me again why I wanted to get back here so badly,” Sam said.
    “He’s just pissed because they’re talking about cutting his show to expand yours. It’s jealousy.”
    Sam wasn’t sure she blamed Gator. He used to be the morning DJ, was pushed to the afternoon “Drive At Five,” then eased back to the early evening. It didn’t take a crystal ball to see that he was slowly, but surely, being phased out. Right now, with the popularity of her Midnight Confessions, she took the brunt of his misaligned anger.
    “I guess I’d better get back in the saddle.” Sam struggled to her feet, felt a painful twinge in her ankle and ignored it. Melanie stepped out of the doorway to let her pass. “Thanks for pinch-hitting for me while I was gone,” Sam said.
    “No problem.” Melanie’s gold eyes darkened a bit. “I liked it.”
    “You’re a natural.”
    The girl sighed as they started down the corridor. “I just wish the powers that be recognized my talents.”
    “They will. Give it time. And finish getting your doctorate. A bachelor’s degree in psychology isn’t enough.”
    “I know, I know. Thanks for the advice, Mom,” she said with just a trace of envy. Melanie was great behind the microphone, she just needed seasoning, more life experience as well as the educational credentials before she could regularly hand out advice to the thirty-and fortysomethings who called in. Pinch-hitting was one thing; her own show was another.
    “Any big news happen while I was gone?” Sam asked, changing the touchy subjection.
    “Nothing. It’s been soooo boring around here.” Melanie shrugged and took another sip of coffee.
    “New Orleans is never boring.”
    “But the station is. It’s the same old, same old. There’s gossip about the possibility of WSLJ being sold to a big conglomerate or merging with a competitor.”
    “There always is.”
    “Then there would be major reformatting. All the DJs are freaked because they’d be replaced by computers, or syndicated programs from Timbuktu, or God knows where.” “That never stops,” Sam said.
    “Right, but this time there’s more to it. George is talking about spending big bucks on more computer equipment, cutting staff, doing more of the taped stuff. Melba’s thrilled—practically orgasmic—at the thought of voice mail, and Tiny, he loves the idea. The more high-tech stuff, the better.”
    “It’s the wave of the future,” Sam said cynically. Computers were rapidly replacing disk jockeys just as CDs had replaced tapes and vinyl. The library of LPs and 45s in the station was collecting dust in a locked glass case that only Ramblin’ Rob, the crusty oldest DJ in the building, played upon occasion. “I catch hell for it,” he always said, laughing, his voice raspy from years of cigarettes, “but they don’t dare fire