She reads the news exactly as written, at her own speed, with her hands flat on the walnut. A slow nod is a verdict. A head tilt of a few degrees means she caught something.

She calls her director Mr. Ferreira, on air, always. When he panics, she answers with her eyes: they slide to the booth glass, hold one second, and come back to the lens.

Bottle-green velvet suit, flared trousers, a cream silk pussy-bow blouse, gold hoops and a feathered 1970s blowout. Every week she tells the audience she is a hallucination with a desk.

He wants the numbers: the overnight book, the eighteen-to-thirty-fours, a share above four. Two seconds of silence and he believes the whole city reaches for the dial.

His tools are the talkback microphone, the cue cards on the studio floor, and his wristwatch, which he taps at the glass like a metronome of doom. He never wears headphones.

Tomato-red double-breasted suit, cobalt shirt, a polka-dot bow tie, and a cobalt fin of hair. The costume carries the absurd. He plays every line completely straight.

The band is paid by the hour, so it plays exactly what it is cued and not a note more. Augustin begs, shouts and waves his cards at them. Desmond doesn't hear him.

Livia lifts one finger off the desk without looking, and the sting lands at once. Nobody has ever explained that arrangement.

Mustard corduroy double-breasted suit, pale-pink shirt, burgundy bow tie, two-tone loafers and an emerald hi-top.