Dead Line

by JJ Gould

  Hall was irate. “Omaha! Don’t we have our own rep?”

  “Yes, we do. Devon LaCroix. He’s usually right on time. But I guess he’s sick or something. No one can find him. He drove up to Aberdeen for a hip surgery, and now he’s nowhere.”

  At the sound of Devon LaCroix’s name, small shrill alarms started going off in the back of Hall’s mind, pushing the irritations of surgery into insignificance. A cold chill ran down his spine.

  Chapter 29 - Don Keshane

  Don Keshane knew how to hustle, and hustling was what he did best. He started out hustling as a kid outside the Arkota Ballroom in Sioux Falls, shining shoes—a nickel a shine—back when he was Donnie Ten Bom. He’d say “A nickel a shine” then try to double it to a nickel a shoe. Half the time it worked. Sometimes it would even get him a tip. A smartass kid asking for double—folks liked his moxie.

  When he was thirteen, he saw the end of the big bands and the beginning of rock 'n' roll. He had no voice for singing, but he realized that the guys who could sing only did it to score chicks, and the ballrooms only booked kids to sell tickets, and there was plenty of margin in the middle for a smart-talking manager.

  He made some good hay doing that, booking Legion halls for a few bucks, paying the guys in the acts free beer and girls, paying himself a big fat slice of everything that was left. At the peak, he was putting aside a good five hundred bucks a week in cash, tax-free. Taking his big mouth to the local radio station, KHAL—a big stick that broadcast to three hundred miles of bored teenagers stuck on farms and small towns—Donnie talked his way into doing an air shift between ten at night and one in the morning, a dead time for most adults and prime time for teenagers. He called it the Sock Hop, convinced them to pay him thirty percent of the proceeds from any ads sold, and let him pick the music.

  He did that for four years, changed his name to Don Keshane—after the Wayne Newton song—and worked his mouth talking fast, playing the records that promoted local groups, and selling ads to malt shops within the huge radius of the KHAL signal. He became a celebrity and found out that chicks dug his fast patter and the fame that stuck with him. Labels called him up and offered to pay him even more money to push their music. Life was amazing. He had a closet full of suits to fit his skinny frame and a fin-tail Caddy to fit his entourage of admiring girls. It was a sweet ride before someone made up the word payola, and the feds got the idea that it was wrong to take money from record labels to play music. It was a good thing for Donnie that the scandal hit the big guys on the coast first and that he was still seventeen, a minor. He escaped with a hefty fine, a slap on the wrist, a repo on the Caddy, and exactly one sharkskin suit left to his name.

  But he still had his mouth and his motor, and the new and improved Don Keshane bounced straight into radio sales for KHAL. He hustled and talked and peddled spots for the radio side. He tried to get over to print and TV, but the sales managers were leery, so he stuck with radio. As the number of radio stations at Hall Media grew, so did the inventory, and so did Don Keshane. Fingers snapping, gum snapping, go, go, go, he was all over town, always in a new Caddy—white with red trim—and always pushing and talking and selling then back to the stations and talking to the jocks, wheedling a spec ad for a special client, or hanging around the studio, checking the on-air log. He got caught writing in free ads for the morning show log on KCHD-FM, which was called HITZ 103. The general manager, Troy Wheeler, busted him, and Don talked his way out of it, saying he just sold a last-minute annual buy with a flight of bonus ads, and since the logs were already printed, he was just writing them in. Wheeler shrugged because he really didn’t care, but that bookkeeping bitch Diane VanDenBosch did, and the next time Donnie did it, he was canned—tossed out with no thank-you or reference letter, not allowed to return to the property under any circumstances.

  “Screw this.'' he decided. He took a plane to Vegas, spent two weeks and twenty grand—ten of his own, ten on a credit card. Then he limped home and knocked on the door of Hall Media, new carnation in his lapel, a jaunty snap-brim hat in hand… the new humble Don Keshane.

  A security cop met him at the door and, resisting all patter, shoved him back onto the street.

  “You will rue the day you messed with Don Keshane!” he shouted at the closed door as shocked and satisfied former coworkers smirked at his downfall through the glass walls of the front lobby.

  Assholes!

  Pride wounded to the core, Don Keshane shot the cuffs on his sharkskin suit and walked stiffly to his Caddy. They will rue the day. He didn’t know what rue meant, but he’d heard that in a movie once, and it sounded good.

  He squealed out of the lot and found himself heading south on Minnesota past a couple of car dealerships, thinking about the car biz. Hungry, he hung a left on Twenty-Sixth Street. There was a Chinese buffet that he still had some freebie coupons to—radio giveaways. The long habit of trolling for new clients was still in place. His eyes darted left and right, looking for new signs. Without even thinking, he slowed when he saw the new sign on the corner of Twenty-Sixth and Cleveland: KCAH-AM 1620, the Voice of Truth.

  He almost stopped in traffic. Hello.

  Chapter 30 - Veronica Hofer

  Veronica Hofer—formerly Doris Tschetter—was a farm girl, fifth of ten children from Centerville, South Dakota. Now known as the Goody Gal, she was the common-law wife of Charlie Hofer. Veronica looked curiously at Stan Martin.

  Charlie had been dismissive. “An alky. Can’t hold his booze.” Charlie had nothing nice to say about anybody, and with Stan—the guy who was running his radio station—he was no different. To prove his superiority, he’d sloshed some Scotch in a tumbler and tossed it down. “Will say, though, I hired the right guy. He’s doing everything I want on time and under budget.”

  That was like Charlie—turning a compliment about someone else into a compliment about himself. Doris—as she still thought herself—had a long and storied past with Charlie. She’d met him while working at the Shell station off of Highway 16.

  Her dad was an alcoholic himself and had told all the kids, “Have a plan, because when you’re eighteen, you’re out.”

  Doris did not have a plan. She couldn’t think of what to do, and the next week was her eighteenth birthday. She knew Charlie Hofer by sight. He had a strip club off the interstate south of Beresford—kind of a creepy guy, never looked her in the face, always eyed her up and down. But at least he looked at her like she was worth something, even if she was just a body to ogle.

  “You ever need a job?” he asked one day, tossing a twenty on the counter.

  She was cautious. “Doin’ what?”

  “Waitressing. Serve drinks, good tips, sometimes a hunnerd a night.”

  She was tempted. She said she might be interested. And that was the first in a long string of lies Charlie told her. The first lie was about the waitressing. It turned out it was a topless bar. The waitress tips were given to the house and a small portion given back. Then it was mandatory that she strip if she wanted to keep her job. After that, it was presented that if she got a boob job, she’d be getting bigger tips. She gave in. Why not? Her family had already disowned her, and the town had as well, although she wound up seeing most of the men who’d shunned her down below on Friday and Saturday nights, with leers and dollar bills.

  So there she was, first Miss Goody, now Mrs. Charlie Hofer. A roof over her head and a certain amount of security. Oh well.

  Now Charlie was talking to Stan Martin in his office, and she wondered if Stan was going to wind up another victim to Charlie’s lies.

  “Hey!” Charlie was snapping his fingers and shouting. “Ice.”

  Like he can’t reach the ice himself. Heaving a sigh, she walked into the office from down the hall. He just liked to watch her bend over and put it in glass. A lot of times, he would grab her boobs and ask about his investment. His investment and my aching back, hauling these melons around, enduring the stares of others. Oh well.

  Not Stan Martin,
though. He was a real gentleman, a rarity in her world. Ironically, she’d spent most of her adult life working in gentlemen’s clubs and never met a gentleman. It bothered Charlie that Stan treated her nice, enough so that he treated her extra mean whenever Stan was around. It looked a few times like Stan wanted to clock Charlie for being such a jerk. His hand would flinch and fidget, making a fist. Charlie seemed not to notice.

  “So it’s about ready, then—KCAH?”

  Stan shifted in his seat then nodded. “We’ll start up Monday morning. I’ve hired four announcers to start, all with various duties around the station but all with news-reporting duties as well. I’m interviewing a traffic person for logs and billing, but I want to be clear—I’m not sure how much revenue we’ll be getting at the beginning. For that reason, I’m about ready to hire one salesperson—straight commission, thirty percent.”

  Charlie waved his hand dismissively. “When you gonna start digging?” He leaned forward, eager for blood.

  “On Monday. Investigative news will be part of our pedigree, but I wouldn’t expect immediate results. All I can promise you is about twenty hours a week of research if we find something worthwhile—”

  “But remember.” Stan held his hand up for attention and focused in on Charlie. Doris admired the way he could stop Charlie in his tracks with that look he had. “I am the station news director and general manager. That means I am the only one who directs who we investigate and how much time I will devote to each story. I will not put up with any meddling or interference of any kind. If I get any of that, I will quit. Do you understand?” The voice was quiet, but the command was there, like the way guys talked in those war movies that Doris sometimes watched on TV.

  Subdued, Charlie nodded, then he rallied and asked offhandedly, “You gonna need a receptionist or secretary or somethin’?”

  Stan nodded. “I think so. I have the office set up for a desk in front. I expect that eventually, there will be some gatekeeping required, some way to handle phone traffic, maybe some typing.”

  “What about her?” Charlie jerked a thumb at Doris, startling both her and Stan.

  “Me?” Doris was absolutely thunderstruck.

  Stan looked to see if Charlie was joking. After a pause, he said carefully, “Well…”

  Charlie barged in, “She’s got plenty of experience. Too much experience. That’s why I’m gettin’ rid of her. You.” He turned and pointed to Doris.

  Doris opened and shut her mouth, staring at him.

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s business, baby.” He hadn’t called her baby in fifteen years. “Forty is about it. After that, profits sag.” He smiled with the pun. “I thought I might try a ploy with you to get in that Oaks place, you know, with a legit older woman, not a kid, but that didn’t work, and I’ve been lookin’ for a time and a place to cut bait. This is it.” He pointed to Stan. “Start workin’ for him.”

  Completely destroyed, Doris tried to rally. “I want… a divorce.”

  “Hah!” barked Charlie. “Never were married, just the ring.” He pointed. “You can keep it. It’s zircon.”

  His expression was small and triumphant. He was so cruel, like he was staging this just to humiliate her in front of one of the only nice men she’d ever met.

  If Stan’s hand was forced, he didn’t show it. He stood and looked down at Charlie. “I will not see you at the station. If I do, I will throw you out. If you must speak to me, you will call our receptionist, Miss…?” He looked at Doris.

  “Tschetter. Doris Tschetter.”

  “Congratulations, Miss Tschetter. This is the happiest day of your life.” He looked courage into her eyes then held the door open for her.

  She walked out with her chin high. Doris had a feeling Stan was right. She was forty years old. Maybe this was the best day of her life.

  Chapter 31 - Stan Martin

  Stan Martin had worked in radio for most of his adult life. He understood the needs of a radio station and the needs of business. The station he was in charge of was not a business per se—it was a vendetta. But the person sitting across from him could help change that.

  Could was the operative word. Since his first meeting with the man, Stan had done a little research and prepared for this, the second interview. He looked up from a résumé filled with spelling errors and focused on the twitchy man in the loud suit.

  “Don Keshane?”

  “You’re welcome!” The guy popped four finger snaps in a row, clapped his palms together, and pointed. “Get it?”

  Stan repressed a sigh. Danke schoen was German for “Thank you.” He wondered how many times this strange, nervous man had used that line.

  “You like the name?”

  “It’s fine. Just wondering if you used that just on the radio or to sell too.” Stan’s real last name was McGarvey—most people in radio did not use their real names. But Don Keshane seemed a little much.

  “It’s got…” Again with the snapping fingers. “Style. No one ever forgets me.”

  Stan raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet.”

  Then the guy started talking. Leaning back, moving his hands, he started painting a picture of his life. The more he talked, the more the fake mannerisms were replaced with real intensity and emotion. He stood and started pacing back and forth when he got to the part about getting fired from Hall Media “for no good reason!”

  Stan was nodding his head in appreciation. This strange little man was a spellbinder. Stan held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “Sit down, Donnie.”

  Donnie sat.

  “Here’s the deal, Donnie, and you probably know most of this already. It’s not that big of a town. First…” Stan had a habit of ticking things off on his fingers as a way to keep things brief. “First, this is an eight-hundred-watt AM standalone station with a signal that barely reaches the edge of town. Second, it is the hobby of the month for Mr. Charlie Hofer, owner of the Goodies strip clubs. Why he has an interest in investigative journalism is probably personal, vengeful, and beyond me. Third, he has paid top dollar to build a group of reporters that can deliver on the hobby. KCAH is no paper tiger. We can and will deliver a level of news reporting that this region has never seen before. Fourth, this start-up is nothing special to look at”—Stan’s gesture took in the questionable decor—“because we are very top-heavy on salaries. Fifth, there is money to be made selling this station, and I need one, just one salesperson to sell it, and that person could be you.”

  Donnie sat up straight, done with the BS. The deal was about to be hashed out. Stan slid a small stack of paper across the table. “Here is a program log for the last week, showing the minutes of available spots each week. If three-quarters of the spot load is sold, and all expenses are paid, this is what each spot has to sell for.”

  Donnie craned to look. His eyes narrowed. “Kinda steep for the market.”

  “Not as steep as it’s going to be.” Stan pointed to another figure, thirty percent higher. “See this number? That is now your spot rate. Anything you sell at this or above gets you a thirty percent commission.”

  Donnie’s eyes glowed with predatory glee.

  “Anything below that rate pays nothing.”

  The gleam went out. “No way.”

  “And you will run every proposal past Doris at the front desk.”

  The gleam came back. “The chick at the front door?”

  Donnie started to say something, but Stan cut him off again. “Truth? Yes, she was a stripper. Yes, she is in fact a former Goodie Girl. Yes, she was married to Charlie Hofer, and yes, she has a very personal reason for making sure that every dollar is accounted for, every expense approved, and believe me when I say there is not a trick in the book that she hasn’t seen before. And…” Stan leveled his gaze at Donnie until his expression sobered. “She will be treated with respect.”

  Subdued but not beaten, Donnie started in on his side. “That spot rate is steep for radio and impossible for this crappy signal. The Hall boys are bastards and will
start running you down all over town. Charlie Hofer is a known sleazebag, and they will make sure everyone knows about who really owns this place. I’ll be lucky to get a third of this rate—”

  “And yet you will do it.” Stan’s statement stopped Donnie cold. “Donnie, here’s the deal. I know a salesperson when I see one. I also see how you have created niches and markets where none existed before. You have spent a lifetime being fast and devious. And you will spend the rest of your life being fast and ethical. It is time to lose the shiny suit and dress like the professional you really are. The first thing you will do is get a trade out for two thousand dollars’ worth of good suits at Norman’s. The second thing you will do is figure out how you’re going to sell this station, the rate card, the packages, the pitch—the works. And the last thing you will do is accomplish the very thing that made you stop here instead of going to sell cars or office machines or furniture or houses.” Stan leaned forward and closed the deal—selling the salesman, beating him at his own game. “You will have your vengeance.”

  Chapter 32 - Claire

  Claire pulled into the parking lot of the radio station. She was on the way to pick up some lumber at the yard downtown, but it was the first week of the station being open, and she was curious to see what had happened in the last few weeks.

  “You wanna come in and see?”

  Big and Little John were in the back seat. Big John looked at the baby, and the baby shrugged. “Sure,” said Big John for the both of them.

  The huge Lakota had gone through an amazing change in the past weeks. He was still huge, still covered with scars and crude tattoos, yet Claire noticed an undeniable serenity as well. He unbuckled the baby, palmed him in one huge hand, and followed Claire toward the front of the radio station.