by Alan Orloff
“Come on. Not all of the interns are like that.”
“Shit. Even Damon’s like that. Most of the time, I don’t think he cares a whit about delivering the news. All he wants to do is get famous and rich.” Winn shook his head in disgust.
“Forget Damon.” Rick reached out, touched Winn on the arm. “Got any theories? Why would First Time kill him and then call in to our show? Adams doesn’t think it’s a coincidence.” The detective’s words echoed in Rick’s mind: Danzler was killed because he worked here.
“Who knows? Wouldn’t surprise me if Celia was behind it all. Killing people to attract listeners. She loves her ratings.” His eyes scanned the bar. “Where’s our girl? Can’t a guy get a drink around here? You’d think with all the business I give them, I’d be assigned my own personal waitress.”
“Maybe it’s time for us to go. Got another busy day tomorrow. Marty’s called an all-hands meeting.”
“Fuck Marty. I want another drink.” He glared at Rick. “Okay? That okay with you?”
“Take it easy, Winn.” Rick lowered his voice, softened it around the edges. “I can stick around a few more minutes. Give you a lift home, too.”
Winn flagged their server and ordered another scotch. Since Bette died, Winn spent more and more of his time flagging down waitresses and ordering scotch. A return to some of the habits that plagued him when Rick first met the man. Seeing Winn home safely was the least he could do. Small payback for the years of mentorship and ongoing friendship. Despite what happened in New Haven twenty-four years ago, Rick owed Winn Hummel quite a lot.
CHAPTER 12
RICK WATCHED AS J.T. drove toward the hoop, then took flight. After spinning a complete 360 degrees, he tomahawked the ball through the basket, hanging on the rim in celebration. Rick clapped as he strode across the parking lot pavement behind the building where someone from a previous radio regime had erected an old basketball hoop. “Terrific. How come you’re here and not playing ball somewhere?”
J.T. smiled, a bashful boy in a tall, muscular body. “Nine-foot rims help. And there’s not much defense.” He picked the ball up. “Didn’t know you were watching.”
“Just came out.” Rick dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “Aren’t you cold?”
J.T. wore sweats emblazoned with some NBA team’s logo. A backward baseball cap covered his head. Looked like every twenty-something cruising the shopping malls. “No. Not really. What’s up, boss?”
“Had a few questions.”
“Shoot.” J.T. held the ball against his hip with one hand.
“This whole First Time thing. Got any thoughts?”
“Thoughts? Like what?” J.T. looked perplexed.
“Well, do you think any of our regular callers could be involved?” Rick glanced around the parking lot. Only cars and trucks. No other people.
“That thought did pop into my mind. But…I don’t know. Do you think they are?” J.T.’s eyes widened.
A small smile formed on Rick’s face. “No. But I don’t really know them. You’re the one always chatting them up on the phone. And the Rhino always dealt with the loonies a lot more than I do.” Rick considered the regular nut-case callers a necessary evil. The Rhino had seemed to relish sparring with them on-air.
“Yeah. Let me think.” J.T. stared off into space. He took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Well, I suppose you can divide most of them into three types: simpletons, blow-hards, and psychos. Not real psychos, just guys that have a few screws loose. I don’t think they’re really dangerous.” He shrugged and plowed on, his tone becoming more authoritative now that he was talking about his area of expertise. “Johnnie Ray and Manchild are simpletons. They can barely dial a phone. I’d be surprised if they had anything to do with anything.” J.T. looked at Rick for encouragement. Rick nodded.
J.T. continued. “For blow-hards, you’ve got Whizzer, Lap Dog, and Godman. They just like to hear themselves talk. Although they do spout some pretty harsh bullshit from time to time. But killers? Hard to believe. You know?”
“Yeah. Hard to believe anyone could do this.”
J.T. dribbled the ball a few times, then picked it up and ran his hands over it. “Now your psychos. No telling what they might do.” J.T. paused.
“Go on.” Sometimes it was like pulling teeth.
“Well, I’d put Minnie Mac and Sweet Pete in that group. And Hard Core Harry, definitely. Those dudes are crazy, stand-on-your-head-in-traffic crazy. Nothing they did would surprise me. Make me uncomfortable. In fact, sometimes I’ll give them incorrect times or addresses for our appearances so they won’t show up.” J.T. nodded, as if congratulating himself on his safety precautions. “But still. Murder? That would be hard to believe.”
Rick was glad J.T. hadn’t fingered any listener as a potential suspect. He didn’t want to believe someone associated with the show could be responsible for such a heinous act.
“Hey, I forgot about another category. The groupies.” J.T. sported a wide grin.
“Oh, was that a groupie I saw you talking with in the lobby the other day? You know, the brunette with the t-shirt three sizes too small?”
J.T.’s face shaded, and not from exertion. “That’s Stripper Susie. And I prefer to think her breasts are three sizes too big.”
“Be careful, J.T.,” Rick said. “Celia finds out, she won’t like it. Using your position here in order to get laid. Shameful.”
“I’m just working with her, trying to coax her out of her shell.” J.T.’s grin intensified.
“Right. Just helping her out a bit.”
“Well, I try to lend a hand when I can. You know how it is.” He dribbled the basketball between his legs. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Yeah, I know.” Rick remembered what it was like to be unattached and on the prowl 24/7. There were radio groupies back in his day—though not as many and not as brazen. And not nearly as many strippers.
J.T. kept dribbling.
Rick balled up his fists inside his pockets. “You know a guy named Mike? Kinda creepy. Scar on his forehead.” He touched his head over his eye.
“Solid guy, always wearing a camo jacket?”
Rick’s pulse quickened thinking about him. “Yeah, sounds like him. He a regular?”
“That’s the Nazi Hunter. He called the Rhino a lot, talking about conspiracies and shit like that. He doesn’t call much anymore. I thought maybe he’d moved to South America to get closer to his prey.” J.T. eyed Rick. “Why?”
“I bumped into him. He freaked me out a little.”
“Don’t know too much about him, boss. Sorry.” J.T said. “He harass you?”
“No. Just talked to me. Actually, if I wasn’t on edge, it would have seemed normal.” Or at least not too freaky. “Except…”
“Except what?”
“He seemed to know who Livvy was, without me saying anything.”
J.T. slapped the ball with one hand. “Want me to talk with him?”
“Naw, I’m probably making too much of it. Forget it.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” J.T. stared at Rick as he slapped the ball again.
Rick gave him a single nod. “Thanks. One last question. How do you know so much about these characters?” Rick had talked to these guys on the phone, but he didn’t know enough to slot them into categories. Thank God he had a producer who could stomach dealing with the army of misfits attracted to a call-in show. “Do you socialize with them?”
“Hell, no. Except the strippers.” J.T. flipped the ball from hand to hand, then held it on his hip. “Boss, they call in all the time. Some of them call every single day. Guess it makes them feel important. Part of something. Most of the time, I don’t put them through. It would mess up the show if they were always on. So I talk to them, rag on them, whatever. Keeps me amused. Keeps them happy.”
“You’re a stronger man than I am,” Rick said. “Hey, I almost forgot about Dimitri.”
J.T. hit himself in the forehead ligh
tly with the ball. “Oh, right. I talk to him more than my mother. Have you checked out his website lately? There’s a ton of info there. That’s probably where the Nazi Hunter found out about Livvy.”
Dimitri was a self-proclaimed Afternoon Circus expert and historian. “I’ve never seen it.”
“Really? Never?” J.T. seemed amazed. “I’d put Dimitri in a class by himself. He knows so much about our show, we should consider hiring him. He knows more than I do, for sure.”
“Maybe we should get him to be our producer,” Rick said, deadpan. He stared at J.T.
J.T.’s eyes flashed, then he broke into a grin. “You’re joshing.” His smile faltered. “Right? I mean, I love working here.”
Rick kept the stare going, then softened. What would J.T. do without the Circus? “You’re safe, J.T. Just keep doing your usual bang-up job. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
As Rick turned to leave, J.T. said, “Hey, Adams asked me about these guys, too. Wanted me to arrange a meeting, get everyone together so he could question them. You want in on that?”
“Sure. That ought to be interesting. Or at least entertaining,” Rick said. “Do me a favor, though. Don’t invite the Nazi Hunter. I’ll give Adams his name myself.”
CHAPTER 13
GOING TO THE movie theater in the middle of the morning aroused long-forgotten feelings of guilt, of all those times Rick ditched his junior English class and caught the latest flick at the discount theater right off campus. Two bucks, with student ID. He always figured what he learned about the human condition from watching the films was more valuable than learning how to write compositions or how to not split infinitives.
Of course, today was different. On this morning, no movie was being shown. Marty Williamson had called an all-hands meeting and there wasn’t a room at the station large enough to seat all the hands. Actually there might have been, but Rick believed Marty enjoyed renting out the theater because it made him feel like a big shot. Like renting the entire theater for your kid’s birthday party.
Forty or so employees of WTLK sat in the stadium-style seats. Sales reps, secretaries, on-air talent. Engineers. A dozen interns. The entire theater buzzed as everyone waited for Marty to address the troops. All-hands meetings were reserved for the bombshells. Great or horrible. Some kind of news that couldn’t be delivered via email. Six months ago, when Marty detailed the plans to be sold to SatRad, the get-together had been a giddy affair. A couple months later, tragedy struck and Marty had broken the news about the Rhino’s death. This one also would be a sober affair. The death of another Circus member.
Rick and J.T. sat together toward the back of the theater. Only the part-time guy who worked in the mailroom sat behind them. Marty, decked out in a dark blue pin-striped suit that accentuated his spindly build and made him seem paler than usual, stood at the podium in front of the jumbo-sized white screen. Flanked by Sales Manager Lassita DuJuan on his right, and Celia on his left. Marty tapped the microphone twice. A small feedback squeal rang out. “Can everyone hear me?”
A wave of mumbles rose up. “Good. I’m glad everyone could make it this morning.” They’d pulled Garth the Goth out of studio, leaving just a few interns back at the station. A Best Of the Afternoon Circus was being aired. Rick figured Celia had picked out the episode containing the original First Time call. Probably thought the listeners could never get enough of J.T. puking.
“As you all know, a member of our radio family was tragically killed.” Marty stopped and straightened his tie. Regrouped. “Ted Danzler. He was an intern here what, about six months ago?” Marty looked to Celia for confirmation, although he must have already known. She nodded back somberly. “Let’s all bow our heads in a moment of silence to remember Ted.”
After thirty seconds, Marty cleared his throat into the mic, and the sound rumbled through the theater. “This madman, this monster calling himself First Time, is responsible.” He gazed out over the crowd. “To make things worse, if that were possible, First Time phoned in to the Circus. Got us involved in his terrible actions. As you know, at the end of his call, he told us where we would find something. Fortunately, Rick was on the ball and dumped out the location.” Marty squinted, shading his eyes with his hands as he scanned the crowd. When he found Rick, he stopped panning and pointed into the back. “Nice job, Rick. If that information had made it out on-air, no telling what might have happened to Ted’s arm. The cops never might have been able to make the identification. And then his poor parents…” Marty trailed off.
Rick didn’t need any special kudos for doing his job. And more importantly, he didn’t want to be associated with this tragedy.
Again, Marty fiddled with his tie before speaking. “I spoke with his parents. Told them what a fine addition to the show Ted had been. Offered to do what I could—what the station could—in their time of need. May God bless him.” Marty bowed his head, gripped the podium with both hands.
Celia leaned over and grabbed one arm, whispering into his ear. Marty raised his head and leaned forward to speak into the mic. “Ted was a team player. And he would have wanted what was best for us. All of us. So I don’t think it’s a stretch to think he’d want us to take advantage of every opportunity—this opportunity included—to maximize our potential. To try to broadcast our show to the largest possible audience. I truly believe that’s what would have made Ted happiest. And ultimately, life goes on for the living. Celia will outline how we plan to do that. Celia?”
Marty was a piece of work, all right. Rick felt the nausea grow in his stomach.
Marty backed away from the podium and Celia filled the void. “What happened to Ted is a tragedy. But there’s nothing we can do to change the past. We must focus on the future. Try to honor Ted’s wishes for us to become a successful radio station.” Celia smiled, but to Rick, it came across as mercenary, not sympathetic. “Let me get to the point here. The day after First Time called, we hired True Data Polling to make some calls. See what our listeners—and our non-listeners—thought of First Time and our handling of the situation.”
Rick knew how much Celia relied on pollsters and surveys and the press to tell her how she was doing her job. Her obsession wasn’t limited to the ratings.
Celia went on. “We got an extremely high response. People wanted to hear more about First Time. And they want to talk about it, too. I know it’s only been a very short time, but listeners are up, up, up. And we think they’re insatiable. The more we talk about it, the more they’ll listen.” She looked up, the cold smile still painted on her face. “And then there was the call to Tin Man.” She gestured with her open hand to Tin Man, sitting in the front. He rose part way, faced the crowd, flicked his hand a couple of times, then sat back down.
“That tells me First Time likes us. Wants to be part of our show. Wants to run away and join the Circus, as it were.” She gripped the podium with both hands. “And we are going to welcome him with open arms.”
J.T. leaned over and started whispering, but Rick shushed him. He needed to hear what Celia was planning. Sure it would involve him. Sure he wasn’t going to like it.
“I want all of our Circus segments to concentrate on matters related to the killer. Let’s try to encourage our listeners to speculate about what will happen next. Let’s discuss why we think he’s doing what he’s doing. Let’s not leave any stone unturned.”
“Why do you think he’s doing it? Calling in, I mean?” The question came from Linc Vetter, Garth the Goth’s cousin. He worked in sales, a real up-and-comer. And he was nothing at all like Garth. Linc was trim and well-dressed, preferring tailored clothes in contemporary colors over Goth Black.
Celia’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. She nodded, pursed her lips as she formulated her answer. “Well, Linc. I don’t really know why. And I guess, when you get right down to it, I don’t really care. Doesn’t pay to try to suss out a crazy man, does it? So I guess my philosophy is this: If this nut wants to call in to a radio show and expose himself, then I
’d rather it be our show. Let’s go with it. Our ultimate goal is to help catch this guy.” She nodded, the sides of her mouth turning upward slightly. “Of course, there’s nothing wrong with delivering good ratings while we catch him, is there?”
“No, but what should we tell the advertisers? I’m not sure they’ll want to associate themselves with a wacko killer,” Linc said.
Rick wondered why he was worried. Linc considered himself to be the ideal sales guy. Could sell snow in Saskatoon. All the sales reps, sitting in the same row, with ties cinched and shoes shined nodded in unison at Linc’s pronouncement. Lassita ran a tight ship. Maybe he was just trying to score Brownie points.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to be sure we help nail this guy. Then the advertisers will be glad they took part,” Celia said, to a smattering of applause. Nabbing a killer would be good for business.
Celia looked at Tin Man and nodded, then craned her head, searching the back of the theater. “Rick? You and Tin Man are the front guys on this. When First Time calls, I want you to get him talking. Get him to divulge some secrets. Drum up some clues. Who is he? Where does he live? What is he after? Why did he kill Ted? Be clever. Be forceful. Be on your game. This is an unfortunate tragedy, but let’s look at the silver lining. This could be our fast-track to satellite.”
Rick heard some murmuring. He wasn’t sure Celia’s pitch played too well to the crowd. Exploiting the death of a co-worker was cold, even for her. Celia was treading a fine line. She could easily get hung out on the clothesline.
“What if First Time doesn’t call back?” someone called out.
“He will. He’s called in twice so far. He’ll call back. He likes to hear his voice. Some of you know.” Celia grinned, and Rick could only think of a wolf spying a flock of sheep. “You know how it is, once you get a taste of it. The rush of being on-air. Your voice being heard by millions of people. Listeners hanging on your every sentence. Intoxicating. Addictive. Essential. He’ll call back. He has to. I’d bet on it.”
