by JJ Gould
“You, kid! Come with me!”
Matt heaved himself to his feet and lumbered after the out-of-breath Magnusson.
“I got a buncha FFA-ers coming in from the stock show, and I need you to run the board while I interview them.”
If Matt was nervous, he didn’t show it. Magnusson pushed through the door of the old studio and showed Matt the pots for the two guest mics and the pot for the network.
“Ride these levels, to keep them right around this black line. Turn this pot down to cue.” Magnusson dialed it down until it clicked. “Hear that beeping? That’s the satellite. When you hear a long beep, that’ll be ten seconds before the top of the hour. Then turn the pot up to here.” He pointed to about ten o’clock on the dial. “I will wrap it up in time, and the network will take over.”
He dashed out of the studio to herd a bunch of nervous kids in blue corduroy into the neighboring booth. Matt did what he was asked with gloomy aplomb, and suddenly, he became a weekend board op. This led to board-opping ball games, a later decision to become a broadcast journalism major at the local Augustana College, and finally, full-time work at the Hall Media Radio Group, where he developed a reputation as a hardworking grinder who didn’t complain and therefore could be given all the shit jobs.
The last shit job was program director of KCHD-AM 1620, Music of Yesteryear. That had meant producing a lot of commercials for all the stations in the group and programming all the various satellite programs into the stations’ format clock, a dazzling array of car shows, religious shows, church simulcasts, infomercials, Art Bell at night, network news, local weather, and of course, Music of Yesteryear between the cracks.
But that would soon end. Trent Wheeler was the General Manager and the one who broke the news officially. “Hey, Matt, got a minute?”
Matt exhaled. “Not really. I have to ride the board in about forty-five seconds and catch a network feed.” He heaved himself to his feet and started lumbering toward the studio patch bay.
Wheeler walked beside him, checking his watch. “Well, uh, I’ve got a sales meeting to catch myself, and I was going to head out after that, meet with some clients.”
It was well known in the building that Wheeler had a weekly tee off at two o’clock each Friday afternoon, and the clients were other managers with a similar work ethic. Matt punched through the studio door, plopped down at the board, and rotated the pot controlling the network feed counter-clockwise until he felt it click into cue. Now the steady electronic bip, bip of the seconds could be heard counting down to the top of the hour.
“Gee, uh…” Wheeler paused. “Sorry to tell you this, but the station’s been sold, and even though you’ve been a great asset, we’re gonna have to let you go too. You’re a great guy with a great future…”
Both men were looking at the sweeping second hand and listening to the bip of the satellite. Wheeler had about fifteen seconds left.
“Wish you the best of luck, come to me if you have any questions at all, make sure to see Diane VanDenBosch, she will have your severance check and will want your key, and don’t forget I’ve scheduled a meat-and-cheese tray for a little going-away party for you in the break room Monday at ten—it’s been great.”
Fourteen seconds. Wheeler was able to clap him on the shoulder and scoot out of the studio just before the network feed.
After that, the news spread quickly. Jocks came first, bitching about the way he’d been given the boot. “Typical Wheeler-Dealer. Cold, man.”
Then came the sales staff. “Matt, this is terrible! As if it’s not hard enough to get a production order filled! Do you know if they are going to replace you or at least get another person in for production? Here—can you cut these specs before you leave? The client loves your voice, and you are such a professional…”
Monday came, and there was a cardboard box from Diane VanDenBosch with an exit interview scheduled for noon and a couple dozen production orders from various salespeople.
Matt sighed gloomily and headed for the production studio with the orders. He worked hard but was a little late to the break room for the going-away party—he got there at ten fifteen, but like piranhas, the other employees had come and gone, picking the food trays clean. There was a card with about ten signatures, a balloon that said Good Luck! and Trent Wheeler stuffing the last of the cheese and meat into his mouth.
“Hey! Where you been?” Trent had the decency to look a little sheepish as he pointed to an empty tray covered with crumbs and a few leaves of wilted lettuce. “I tried to make them wait, but…” He shrugged.
Matt trudged up to the third floor with his cardboard box. Diane’s eyes narrowed as he walked into her office. With her glasses on the edge of her nose, she wrapped up his career at Hall Media. Severance pay for the four days worked since the last pay period. Vacation pay voided, sick pay voided, 401k plan—ineligible. His health plan was canceled as of that morning.
She looked and said pointedly, “So don’t try to go to the doctor on this health plan. It will be rejected.”
The fifteen-minute meeting ended with him giving her a copy of his key to the building and the contact information for the new station owners.
“I have no idea if they are interested in any existing KCHD personnel.” She looked at him doubtfully then turned back to her desk. Exit interview over.
Heaving a sigh, Matt pulled himself to his feet, grabbed his cardboard box, and headed for the front door, a twenty-three-year-old has-been.
When he was halfway out of her office, Diane said, “And, Matt, just a minute.”
Matt paused at the doorway.
“Is that your stapler?”
Chapter 20 - Harrison Hall
Dr. Harrison Hall IV fiddled with the paperweight, the only thing visible on the large expanse of desktop. He stared out the window, thinking through a game plan that he was not sure he had the power to implement. Deidre was dangerous. She had no scruples, and it was a mistake to have let her into the family. She simply did not know the first thing about law or strategy. He shouldn’t have told her about the meeting with Meyer and the surgical staff. It was none of her business. But once she thought he was hiding something, she would not let up and could be persuasive until she’d forced out every detail.
As if she could have done any better. It wasn’t like he could turn back the clock and undo the stupid blundering of his overly coddled son. The fact was, Deidre wasn’t bright enough for this kind of work. She had no education to speak of, only a nursing degree from a state school. She was far beneath his station. In hindsight he could see that she’d manipulated him, using her physicality as a ploy—a tool to gain access to the powerful Hall name.
He glanced at the door. Just the thought of betraying her made him nervous. She had the uncanny cunning ability to read his mind and always seemed to be a step ahead of him—an especially irritating trait, considering her breeding.
Yet he had to admit that he could not resist her will—the way she stood and looked at him with those witch eyes that made him fearful and excited and ashamed and servile. He hated how easily she could manipulate him. That was why this kind of thinking was so dangerous and so necessary. But he had to be careful. Fortunately, she was out of town for a day or two. Something had come up, she’d said.
Just as well. It was better to have her out of the way while he made a few plans of his own.
Chapter 21 - Devon LaCroix
As far as medical-equipment sales went, Devon LaCroix had the perfect territory—at least, in his opinion. More money could be made, certainly, in larger cities like Chicago and Minneapolis, but more money meant more competition. More competition meant more bean counters calling out and asking for lower and lower costs on equipment. And lower costs meant lower profits, and lower profits meant lower commissions.
No sir, South Dakota was fine with him, with smaller hospitals with less leverage and docs happy to have a competent rep who knew his line and knew how to help implement it. It did mean a lot of t
ime on the road, but in truth, Devon liked the empty road time. It was a time to drive and unwind, see the rolling plains unravel in front of the windshield—a time to be alone with his thoughts and just plain be alone.
Devon liked his freedom. He knew he was attractive to women, and he was certainly okay with the life he lived, and occasionally, his life was far more than merely okay. Like the motorcycle case he’d just had with Dr. Cooper. Some kid on a Kawasaki had been T-boned by an old lady in a minivan. LaCroix raced up to Aberdeen with a complete set and got it there in time to get it into the autoclave for sterilization and an early-morning surgery. Eight hours, four plates, thirty-six screws, a hip, and a hip socket.
That kid will set off metal detectors for the rest of his life. Devon whistled tunelessly while he calculated his commission on the hardware. It had been a long and satisfying day.
He was enjoying a Twins game at the Ramada Inn bar when he noticed the very thing that could make a great day end even better. She was sitting at the end of the bar, in some kind of scrubs—shapeless blue and drab but not so shapeless that he did not notice the curves underneath. Hello! He casually sat near but not next to her. It was his lucky decision to have kept his scrubs on as well. Common ground.
“Hey. How goes the battle?”
She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “Long and intense. Still waiting on the casualty report.” She lifted what looked like a Bloody Mary. “To blood and guts.”
He hoisted his beer. “Semper Fi.”
She laughed. “Oh, no! Not a jarhead!”
Devon tilted his head. “Don’t tell me… navy?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t even try. I spent four years fending off full-on assaults from better than you, buddy boy.”
He held up his hands. “All right, I surrender. I just came out of a full day in surgery and am tapped already. Truce?”
She raised her glass slightly. “Truce.” She leveled a gaze with a twinkle in her eyes that sent a thrill up LaCroix’s spine.
To hell with a truce. The battle is just beginning. He gave his predatory grin and motioned to the stool next to her. “Permission to come alongside?”
Her smile curved, and her voice dipped a notch. “Permission granted.”
He quickly checked for rings. None. He reached to flip over her name tag, a practiced move that worked well. “So… nice to meet you, Nurse D. Keckley.”
She gave a long and throaty laugh full of promise. Her eyes were sea green and hungry. “Why don’t you call me Deidre?”
Chapter 22 - Stan Martin
Stan Martin stood in the middle of what was supposed to be a radio station and sighed. The squall from the morning was over, but puddles of melted snow and mud were tracked up and down the hallway—inconsequential really, but the added mess depressed him.
There were tons of things to be done. He could see that by looking at the boxes of equipment, rolls of wiring, stacks of drywall, and general disarray. He was not a jack-of-all-trades. He was a jack of one trade. He had a gift for finding news, researching news, writing news, and reporting news. He had no gift at all for mechanical things or for using mechanical things to build things.
But at the very least, he could recognize competency when he saw it, and Claire’s cousins Wes and Cal had it in spades. They had boundless energy. Although they had a place to sleep at Stan and Claire’s apartment, they were hardly ever there. They spent seemingly twenty-four hours a day at the station, moving walls, hauling drywall, and unloading equipment. The dust and noise was ever present, but progress was noticeable.
“Hey, guys, you want something to eat?” Stan had stopped at a drive-through and bought a selection of sandwiches.
Cal stopped immediately. “Yep.” Thirty seconds later, Wes appeared from a back room as if in answer to an invisible summons and grabbed a burger in a wrapper.
Both sat down on what was available, Cal on a five-gallon bucket of drywall compound and Wes on a box of wire. In unison, both dropped their heads for fifteen seconds. Then Cal said “Amen,” and they started eating the same way they worked, steadily and with a minimum of talking.
“How’s it going?” Stan asked.
“Good,” Wes said around some food. Cal nodded.
Great conversation. Stan looked around at the state of construction.
After the brothers were hired, he’d sat down with them and sketched out what he wanted on a piece of paper—small reception area, two production studios, main broadcast studio, and an open area for desks. Cal and Wes nodded.
“Can you do this?” Stan asked.
“Yep,” Cal said.
“Any questions?”
Wes thought. “Nope.”
Cal added, “Not yet.”
Wes had nodded.
Now it was mid-March, and the clock was ticking.
“I want to be up and running, get my staff by the first of the April. It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it does have to work. Can you do it?” Stan asked.
Cal and Wes stopped chewing. Both stared off into space with intense concentration for a solid minute.
Wes spoke first. “Yep.”
Cal looked at Wes like he was checking his calculations. Then he, too, nodded. “Yep.”
Stan looked at both of them, wanting to ask about certain aspects of the work, confirm specs, go over timelines. They looked back at him while they ate. Each crumpled up their wrapper and tossed it into an empty cardboard box in the corner, and they each picked up another sandwich simultaneously.
Stan shrugged. “Okay.” He stood up from a dusty folding chair and clapped the drywall dust off his pants. “Any questions for me?”
Cal and Wes were reaching for the cups of soda. “Nope,” they answered in the same way at the same time. They’d done it often enough that it no longer surprised Stan.
“Okay, then. I’m going to start looking for employees.”
Stan turned in time to see a large man with a cardboard box standing in the doorway. He was dressed in baggy khakis and a wrinkled dress shirt with a tail hanging out the back. His glasses were smudged, and one of his tennis shoes was untied. He leaned his bulk against the doorframe for support. He had large forearms, a world-weary expression, and a mess of black hair liberally shot with gray.
“Can I help you?” As Stan approached him, he realized that the man was not in his midfifties or his midforties. No, to his astonishment, he realized this was probably a college kid.
The kid heaved a sigh, setting the cardboard box of office supplies on the floor. He stood up and, in a practiced gesture, ran his hands around his waistband, tucking the shirttail in and hoisting the khakis up a few inches. Then he adjusted his glasses and leaned back against the doorframe. “Yeah, maybe. I was told this was the place where the new radio station is going to be.” He consulted a piece of paper off the top of the cardboard box. “You know if Emilio Gonzales is here?”
Stan appraised him. “Not now, he’s not. How may I help you?”
The kid fished another piece of paper off the top of the box, smoothed it on his pants, and handed it to Stan. “My name’s Matt Bradley.” He said it like he was admitting to some small crime. “I was program director at KCHD.”
Stan scanned the résumé while the kid heaved a sigh and settled into the doorframe. “You’re from here?”
The kid looked like he might as well admit it. “Yeah. I grew up on the North Side.”
“It says here you worked for B&C Incorporated while you were in High School. What’s that?”
“Yeah, but I also worked for Hall Media group then. I was in distribution.” He pointed to another line on the résumé.
Stan guessed. “Paper boy?”
The kid sighed again like it was useless to defend himself. “Yeah. Ten years.”
“And B&C?”
“That was working summers for my dad. He’s the B. My mom’s the C.”
“Doing what?”
“Construction. Framing and drywall mainly. Sometimes electrical
.”
Stan shook Matt’s large, dry, lifeless hand. It was like shaking an empty catcher’s mitt. “I’ve got to get some paperwork. Contract, tax stuff, pay period, things like that. This is a start-up, and we’re building it as we go. There’s two cowboys in back called Wes and Cal. Ask them what you can do to help. Tie your shoe—it’s loose—and I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Heaving a sigh, the kid tied his shoe and went in search of his first assignment.
Chapter 23 - Charlie Hofer
At first, Charlie Hofer’s plan for vengeance was just an idea. He’d gotten a hold of Stan Martin on a whim. He knew Stan Martin’s name, of course, because of the murders out in the western part of the state. South Dakota was seldom in the national spotlight, so the story out of Dansing, South Dakota, got more airplay in the state than elsewhere, and Stan Martin was almost a household name because of it.
He was, in fact, a little surprised that he was able to find him and present him with a job and that Martin actually took it. Money talks. Hofer was also surprised at how little radio announcers made. He was prepared to pay much more to get his pound of flesh and had been pleasantly surprised at how fast and cheap this Martin guy was getting the job done.
Now they were starting to wrap things up. With just a few more meetings, Hofer would be able to sit back and watch his creation come alive. Martin was in his office for his weekly meeting. Both Hofer and Martin agreed that keeping Hofer in the background for as long as possible was the best play. Martin had a few schematics for the meeting and some Polaroids of the progress done as well as written cost estimates and timelines.
Hofer snapped his fingers. “Hey!” He looked at Martin and rolled his eyes. “Hey! Bitch!”
Veronica called from down the hall, “I’m coming, I’m com… ohh!” She came into the room and looked at Martin, surprised. One hand flew to her hair, and the other smoothed her dress. “Hey, Stan.”
