by Alan Orloff
Maybe Winn should retire, sooner rather than later. But which way would he go, with all that free time on his hands? Would he cut back on his drinking, free of the inevitable stresses of the day-to-day grind? Or would he sink into a deep, dark hole, where alcohol was his only pleasure, his only companion? The answer might depend on Winn’s finances.
The jackpot. The humungous pile of money at the end of the rainbow. If their deal with SatRad came to fruition, Winn would be a millionaire, several times over. He could move to a warm place, Phoenix or San Diego or Key West. Relax without any cares. No one breathing down his neck, no one telling him he’s too old to do his job.
Tropical paradises sounded nice. Rick wondered—not for the first time—what he’d do with his windfall. Barb had always wanted to sail around the Caribbean. Maybe he’d buy a big boat and hire a little crew and make his wife’s wish come true. He’d read a story once about a family that did just that, home schooling their kids during the adventure. In the end, they figured it was the best education the kids would ever get.
Rick exhaled loudly and kicked off his shoes. Settled into the couch. Was he ready for retirement? Every few weeks during normal times—every few minutes since the Rhino died—he’d felt symptoms of burnout. Irritability, anger, sleeplessness. Then something would happen and he’d get reenergized. Attack his job with a renewed vigor. But the repeating cycles were starting to wear him out. Barb always joked she wasn’t ready for his retirement. She couldn’t take him moping around the house, puttering with things that didn’t need puttering with. She was probably right, considering how things went after he “quit” the last time. She’d practically begged him to ask Celia for his job back.
Another idea—more of a selfish one, really—intrigued him. He’d often dreamed about the kind of radio station he’d run if he owned one. It would be a high-class operation, one where the employees would be treated well and compensated extravagantly. And there wouldn’t be any Chicken Killer contests. A few million dollars might be the ticket to turn dreams into reality. He could buy a small station somewhere and nurture it, feed it and tend to it until it grew into a player in its market. Or he could try to start one from scratch. Pick an underserved market and assemble all the components he needed to create his masterpiece. Everything would be under his control, from the personnel to the format to the kind of windscreens covering the mics.
Rick closed his eyes, swung his feet over the end of the couch, up over the arm. Last night had drained him. He thought about closing the door and trying to nap, but he hated the way he felt when he awoke from a midday snooze. Too groggy. Better to fight through the fatigue.
He got up, straightened his clothes. Gave his hair a quick comb-through with his hand. Maybe he should go have a talk with Tin Man. Maybe together they could figure out a way to bring First Time down.
Tin Man’s office was at the other end of the building from Rick’s. He knew the shock jock kept unorthodox hours, but he figured he’d give it a shot. Enough soloing. The more Rick thought about it, the more it made sense. United they stood a chance. Divided, more people might die. Maybe Celia was right about the fire and ice thing.
The office door was closed. Rick rapped lightly on the wood, just above a plastic sign that read Geniuses At Work. No answer. He knocked again, waited a moment, then pushed the door in.
Tin Man’s chair was empty, but Tubby sat at his desk, facing the back wall, feet up. “Hey. What’s up?” Rick stepped in, not wanting to startle him. “Hello? Anybody home?”
No response. Seemed Rick wasn’t the only one who felt like taking a nap. He spoke as he approached Tubby, hoping to wake him gently. “Hey. Wake up. Have you seen—” Rick froze. His mouth opened and he stared, unable to look away.
Tubby’s throat had been cut, an ear-to-ear smile. Blank eyes stared ahead, seeing nothing. Rick found the will to avert his gaze, fighting the bile rising in his throat. What he saw on Tubby’s desk sent the bile gushing forth.
In the bottom of Tin Man’s Giants mug, a pinkish-gray blob swam in an inch of blood.
Tubby’s tongue.
CHAPTER 50
AS SOON AS Tin Man heard about Tubby’s death, he threw all his crap into two large duffel bags, drove a few miles south, and checked into another hotel using a new alias. Goodbye, James Munrow. Hello, Jorge Washington.
Spent most of the weekend holed up in his room, watching porn until he was numb. Then he decided to play hooky as Best Of shows aired, while the powers-that-be decided what to do about the Circus. He was pretty sure he wasn’t the only non-essential one ditching work.
During those few days, Tin Man didn’t travel far from his new hotel. Donned a wig and went to the movies. Ventured to a nearby Hooters and downed some Buffalo wings in front of a college basketball game. Went through half a book of Sudoku puzzles.
He’d just finished up his room-service dinner on Wednesday night when he got the call from Celia. Management had finally decided on a course of action. Her orders were simple, and they applied to everyone at the station, from the on-air talent down to the receptionist. Go in tomorrow or be fired. No excuses. If you were too afraid, she said, pack up your things and don’t let the door hit you on the ass on your way out. Tin Man agreed before Celia had finished her second sentence.
A part of him was relieved to get back to work. He didn’t want to be in hiding for the rest of his life. Might as well get back on the stage. Let the whole world know Tin Man wasn’t a coward. A larger part of him was excited. Big things lay ahead. He tried to push his anxiety and fear aside as he readied himself for tomorrow. The biggest day of his career.
The next morning, he got dressed in his usual attire, jeans and a team logo sweatshirt. Fighting Irish. He gathered up some notes and stuffed them into his backpack. Then he took the service elevator and left the hotel through the back entrance, the one squeezed between the laundry room and the kitchen.
At the radio station, two gargantuan security guards stood sentry, just inside the front door. “See some ID, please?” One asked, without a smile.
“Yeah, sure.” Tin Man pulled his wallet out and the guard took it, holding it close to his face as he examined Tin Man’s license. He consulted his clipboard. A moment later, the guard nodded. “You’re okay.” Then he folded his arms and stepped back.
Tin Man wasn’t sure he felt “okay.” Whoever killed Tubby got into the station, somehow eluding the guards. The cops theorized someone with a key entered through the side door. Which led them to believe it was somebody on the inside, a WTLK employee. Tin Man wondered if anyone told the cops dozens of keys had been given out to female groupies by the station’s randy deejays. Himself included.
Tin Man tried to focus, needed to concentrate. Bring his A game. There was no doubt in his mind today’s show would be the most listened to in the Circus’s history. Modestly speaking, it had the chance to be one of the most listened to broadcasts of all time. It was almost surreal. Hosting a talk show where the main topic—the only topic for weeks—was the killing of the people involved with the show.
He skipped his traditional head-poke into master control to wish J.T. a good show and went straight into the studio, setting his backpack on the floor next to him. Marie was waiting for him in the co-pilot’s chair. During his discussion with Celia, she’d agreed to his proposal. Hire Marie to be his sidekick, at least until the First Time business was over.
Tin Man nodded. “Hello. Pleased you’ll be joining me. Just take your cues from me, and everything will go smoothly.” He wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. Took his seat behind the mic and settled in.
J.T. signaled him from master control.
“Good afternoon. This is Tin Man on the Afternoon Circus. With me today is Marie Templeton. She’s going to be my new partner for…for the foreseeable future,” Tin Man said. He lifted his head and nodded solemnly to J.T. and Celia in the booth. Next to them sat the ever-present technician from the police department ready to trace any calls from First Time.
Hope must spring eternal down at the police station.
The phones were already hopping. On the monitor, every incoming line had a name and topic tagged to it, but Tin Man ignored the phones, instead pulling the sheaf of papers from his backpack. Smoothed the pages out on the console before him and began. “First of all, let me extend my condolences to Tubby’s—Dewey Wilson’s—family and friends. He was a true radio talent. One who was snuffed out in the beginning of what would have been a very promising career.” Tin Man glanced into the control room. Tension gripped everyone, judging by their faces.
“Secondly, I want to thank all of the listeners for their continued support of the Afternoon Circus. During this siege, you’ve rallied around us. Kept listening to us. Showed us the love in every way imaginable.” He licked his lips. “For that, I know I speak for the whole show when I say simply, thank you.” Tin Man paused a few beats. Gathered himself. Cleared his throat.
“Finally, I’d like to address these next remarks to one person. One vile monster. First Time.” He deepened his voice and made a conscious effort to slow the words down. “You’ve killed our own. You’ve terrorized our community. You will be stopped. Together—and I’m talking about us at the Circus, our tremendous fans, and Fairfax County’s finest—we will apprehend you and bring you to justice. And if you think that’s just lip service, you’ve got another thing coming.” He hit the raucous crowd noise sound effect.
As it played, he carefully deposited his speech into the wastebasket next to the console. Took a few gulps of coffee from a blue mug with the call letters WTLK inscribed in red. The thought of Tubby’s tongue in his Giants mug almost made him puke.
“What do you say, Marie? Shall we go to the phones? See what our listeners have to say?”
Try line 4 first. J.T.’s IM flashed at him. Tin Man hit the button. “Hello Sandy. What’s on your mind today?”
“Hi Marie. Hi Tin Man.”
“Hi Sandy,” Tin Man said. “What do you say?”
“This question’s for Marie.”
“Okay, Sandy. Go ahead.” Marie leaned forward and Tin Man tried to get a read on her. The calm demeanor seemed at odds with her calling. Maybe if she were wearing a sequined turban and a silvery caftan he’d be able to accept her prophecies more readily. Like they were all part of an elaborately crafted stage show. Marie the Magnificent will amaze and astound you! But she seemed so unassuming. So normal.
Sandy said, “Can you look into the future and see what First Time’s going to do next?”
A world-weary smile appeared on Marie’s face. But the smile didn’t extend beyond the mouth. The rest of her face reflected a profound sadness. “If only it were that easy. I can’t control my visions, my sensings. Usually, I’m accurate. Sometimes, I’m not. Unfortunately, I don’t know ahead of time which it will be.” She sighed. “My abnormal sight is my burden, I guess. I don’t choose to see these things. But I can’t ignore them either. Wouldn’t be right. So here goes.” Marie stopped talking and closed her eyes.
Tin Man watched the seconds tick by in silence. Glanced into the control room. Everyone seemed mesmerized by Marie’s performance.
After another few seconds of dead air, Tin Man spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Marie? You okay? We understand how tough this is for you.”
Marie’s eyes fluttered open. She spoke into the mic. “This won’t stop. The killing will go on. First Time will keep terrorizing this city until he is caught.”
“When will that be?” Tin Man asked.
“Not sure.” Marie squinted at the far wall, focused on another place altogether. “Not weeks. Months. Maybe many months.” Tears started to form in her eyes. She brushed them away. “Oh, dear God. I hope I’m wrong.”
First Time’s call came thirty minutes later.
LINE 5. NOW. IT’S FIRST TIME.
Tin Man stabbed at the button for line five. “Hello? Who is this?”
“You know damn well who this is, a-hole. Get Rick in there. I need to speak with him right this second.” No inflection in the voice despite the harsh words.
Tin Man checked master control. J.T. was screening calls, and Celia stood next to him. The police technician had a phone up to his ear, the other arm waving wildly.
“Well, Ringmaster Rick’s segment doesn’t begin until five o’clock.” As he spoke, Tin Man tapped out an IM to J.T. Is Rick around?
“Cut the crap. He’s there somewhere. Get him. I’ll wait.”
Tin Man said, “Okay, give us a minute. We’ll see if we can locate him.” Then he moved his mouth away from the mic and called out to no one in particular, “Hey, Jimmy Intern, go get Rick Jennings. Stat.”
He adjusted his headphones so his right ear was uncovered. Then he cozied up to the mic. “Okay. Should be a couple of minutes. Can I ask you a question?” Tin Man let it hang, waiting for a response before he plunged ahead. Next to him, Marie sat motionless, hands folded on the console, tears in her eyes.
“I’ll only talk to Rick.”
“He’s on his way. In the meantime, there are millions of listeners waiting to hear what you have to say. It’s all you, buddy. Feel free to get started.” Tin Man pressed his lips together, hoping First Time would find the allure of an open mic too big a temptation to resist.
Nobody spoke for twenty seconds. There was a reason they called the silence “dead air.” Too much of it spelled death. Usually listeners wanted to hear something. If they didn’t, they switched stations. In this situation, however, Tin Man knew nobody in the country would be switching.
Tin Man moistened his lips, moved closer to the mic. Tried swallowing the lump in his throat. He heard the sharp intake of breath in his left headphone. Then the robotic voice. “You think you’re hot stuff, Mr. Shock Jock? How about this? I’m the one your listeners are tuning in to hear. Don’t believe me? Check the ratings. Before and after. You’ll see. I’m the reason for your success.”
Tin Man said, “If you’re such a big deal, why don’t you come out into the light? Show yourself? Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re a stone-cold coward. Hiding behind your phone calls and your voice-disguising equipment.”
“Get Rick.”
“Rick will be here soon.”
First Time spoke in a measured tone. “He’s got sixty seconds. And don’t worry about trying to trace the call. You haven’t been able to yet, and that’s not going to change. I’m much smarter than the cops.”
CHAPTER 51
RICK HAD BEEN in his office listening to Tin Man and Marie when First Time called. As soon as he heard that robotic voice, as soon as the first few words were uttered, he raced down to the studio and barged right in, motioning Tin Man aside. He slid into the warm seat, already talking.
“Rick Jennings here. You are live, First Time. Speak to me.” Rick focused on the mic before him, trying to slow down his thumping heart.
“Rick, Rick, Rick. Or should I say JUDAS! You betrayed me. You set me up. You put the cops on my tail. I thought we had something, you and me. But it was a farce. A sham.”
“I’m sorry First Time, I didn’t want to cause you any harm. I was trying to get you some help.” No sense pissing him off right away.
“I don’t need any goddamn help.”
“What do you need?”
First Time didn’t answer.
Rick tried again, softer, with the full Jennings gloss. “What do you need, First Time?”
“Respect. Trust. To be treated like a human being, one who matters. Not to be deceived. Manipulated.”
Rick had the feeling First Time was talking about something besides the previous night’s incident. “Who’s manipulating you?”
“I thought you were my friend. Or at least respected me. I trusted you and wham, you tried to trap me.”
“Like I said, I was trying to help.”
“You want to help? I’ll tell you how you can help. You can broadcast my message over the air. Without trying to trick me. Without getting the cops involved.”
&
nbsp; “The cops are already involved. You’ve killed people. Why don’t you give yourself up? Then you can explain everything.”
A shrill, piercing sound assaulted his ears. Electronic feedback of some sort, he guessed. Then it abated. Rick waited a beat, but there was simply silence. “Hello? Still there?”
Some clicking noises, then the voice was back. “Here’s what I want. I want you to be my radio Boswell. Speak for me. Chronicle my life.” The same monotone, but at a different pitch.
Rick’s throat was dry. He reached for his water bottle, but realized he hadn’t brought one. The only liquid within reach was something brackish in a mug Tin Man had left behind. He dry-swallowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He glanced into master control, hoping to see the police tech high-fiving everyone. Instead, he saw him standing up, hand on the top of his head. It didn’t look like the trace was going well.
“Here’s what I mean. Leave your little girl. Leave your wife. Come along with me for a while. I’ll give you a second chance.”
Rick’s heart began to beat faster and his face flushed. What did First Time know about Livvy and Barb? “For how long?”
“Hard to say. A week. A month. The rest of time.”
Rick stood, extending the mic along with him. His skin itched and he needed some air. “I see. Hard to plan for that.” His breathing became rapid and shallow. He waved to J.T. who just shrugged. No help there. Rick scratched his neck, raking the fingernails over the tender skin. The more he scratched, the more it itched.
“Yes, it is hard to plan perfection. I guess you’ll just have to trust me. So, Ringmaster Rick, what do you say? Will you join me?”
