Free Friday Edition, The by Betta Ferrendelli Page B

squinted as she became aware of an intense throbbing in her head and it took her a moment to register who was calling. Once she did, she recoiled at hearing the sound of her editor’s voice. She liked the publisher of the Perspective the first moment that she interviewed for the job, but not the editor, Nick Weeks. Sam knew before the interview was over he didn’t like her and did not want to hire her.
    She landed the job in spite of him. But he made her life at work miserable, giving her assignments meant for cub reporters or ones that senior reporters didn’t want. She had covered more night meetings and had more weekend assignments in the past ten months at the Perspective than she ever had at the Post .
    “In case you’ve lost track of time, Sam, tomorrow is New Year’s Day, not today,” Nick Weeks said. “We’ll be closed tomorrow, not today.”
    Sam could hear the sarcasm in his voice. She stretched long and hard while looking at the television. It was on a cable news station and she realized she had left the set on all night.
    “Sam?”
    “I’ll be in soon,” she said in a short clipped tone.
    She heard his remark about already starting to celebrate the New Year as she disconnected the call. “Bastard,” she said. She had no idea of the time and squinted in the direction of the clock on the mantel. “God! It’s almost nine,” she said and jumped up from the couch.
    The sudden movement caused a rush of dizziness that made her nauseous. She sat on the couch and waited for the feeling to pass. She looked at her hands. They were shaking. She felt as jittery as though she already consumed a pot of coffee.
    She headed to the kitchen for a clean glass. She hated herself, but couldn’t help it. She felt like a robot as she poured the last remaining bit of scotch left in the bottle. Sam put the pager in the drawer by her nightstand. She would call again tonight.
    It was after 10 a.m. when Sam arrived at the Grandview Perspective. The newspaper was housed in a two-story brick building on Wadsworth Boulevard on Denver’s West Side. The logo and name of the newspaper were written in large gold letters against a dark wooden sign that hung down from the building.
    Advertising, administration and production were located on the upper level. The editorial staff occupied the entire bottom level where they lovingly referred to themselves as the ‘people under the stairs.’
    Keeping a low profile, she didn’t greet anyone as she walked to her desk. Nick Weeks was standing at his office door when he saw her come down the stairs and enter the newsroom. Their eyes met and locked briefly, but neither offered a greeting. Sam shifted her attention to her desk and remembered how tidy Jonathan’s and Robin’s were. She made a mental note; in the new year she would do a better job with her desk. Call it a New Year’s resolution. She decided she would not only clean up her desk, but her life.
    Nick Weeks waited for Sam to settle at her desk before launching his attack on her. He came and looked at her over reading glasses that he kept permanently perched on the end of his nose. She noticed that his body already seemed to have lost its battle with gravity. She couldn’t help thinking of the Pillsbury Dough Boy whenever she looked at him. She knew him to be about forty-five, but he looked ten years older. His dark hair, loosely curled, collected around his soft, round face like a storm cloud.
    “What’s up?” she asked.
    “Big time apartment fire. It happened before midnight. Total loss. Give me about eight, ten, inches...”
    Nick’s voice dropped off as he paused to look at the calendar on Sam’s desk. She looked with him. The paper, a large weekly, published on Friday. Nick looked at Sam. “By the time your story comes out, no one will give a shit, ’cause it’ll already have been on our Web site and in the dailies three times,” Nick said. “I’m assigning another reporter to do an aftermath of the fire. You