Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  A man began talking. His first words were these: “And you know that bitch wanted me to come back to her motel room and piss on her?”

  Well.

  Rick had to laugh at that. From the sound of the tape it was a phone conversation between two men. Rick listened to the whole thing. It was a six minute, forty-two second litany of crimes and indiscretions, delivered in a smooth redneck swagger. One man did most of the talking while the other listened, giggling now and then, sometimes asking questions, almost like he was taking notes. The talkative man sounded vaguely familiar but neither voice belonged to Captain Jack Carter.

  Rick listened to the tape three times. Now and then he had to rewind it to figure out what the men were saying, they were so colloquial. After the third time through, some words triggered a thought. Rick rewound the tape. “Wonk I fiddihs.” He listened again. “Shiddif I know,” the one man said, the man who did most of the talking. Rewind. “Wonk I fiddihs.” Play. “Shiddif I know.” Rick laughed again. No question. It was Clay Stubblefield.

  Rick shook his head in amusement. You just have to love the quality of people you meet in radio, he thought. He switched back to the turntable and started Beggars Banquet over at the second track, No Expectations. He sat down in the big soft chair and toked the joint, wondering what had happened..

  Radio legend Captain Jack Carter had somehow ended up in McRae, Mississippi. Then he disappeared, leaving behind his possessions, chief among which was a record and tape collection worth many thousands of dollars. Okay, that was mysterious. Just as strange, in Rick’s estimation, was the absence of cassettes from Carter’s collection. He had 78's, 45's, LPS, reels, eight tracks, DATs, and CDS -- why wouldn’t he have cassettes? Very odd indeed.

  Granted, this wasn’t exactly crop circles, but these facts begged for an explanation. The only fact that had been explained was a fourth anomaly, namely, that Captain Jack’s place had been ransacked. According to Clay Stubblefield the cops had done that before declaring there were no signs of foul play in Carter’s disappearance. But given Clay’s extravagant credibility problem, Rick had no reason to believe that was true.

  And what about a car? Rick thought. Captain Jack Carter sure wasn’t walking to work from here. So what happened to his car?

  Rick rubbed his eyes. It didn’t require much imagination to see how the tape might lead to trouble. Even without the tape, though, it looked like something unusual, and probably bad, had happened. But what and why? Rick toyed with various explanations.

  Captain Jack had a reputation for an off-and-on cocaine habit. And in an industry famous for such, one had to work hard to get a reputation. Maybe he had ripped off the wrong dealer. Or maybe he’d slipped into the netherworld of crack and was in some God-forsaken place sucking on a pipe. Maybe sold his car for some rock. Rick had seen it happen.

  If it wasn’t drugs, maybe it was sex. Perhaps he’d been caught with somebody’s wife and had ended up sucking on the business end of the husband’s gun. Or maybe he’d just met with some other form of bad luck. These things happened.

  And while those were all viable avenues down which one might find an explanation for Jack’s disappearance, none of them explained the tape. Had Captain Jack bugged Stubblefield’s phone? Had he bought the tape from someone who had? A private investigator? Hired by whom and for what? And if it had been a PI, why did the tape start during the middle of the conversation instead of the beginning?

  The last track on side one of Beggar’s Banquet started. Jigsaw Puzzle. Rick smiled and thought, Yeah. Might as well try to put it together. The tape was the obvious place to start. In the course of the six-and-a-half minutes, Stubblefield bragged about several of his own sexual escapades as well as those of a few other folks. And that wasn’t the juiciest part. Clay went on to name a couple of people whom he described committing what sounded to Rick like felonies though, since he wasn’t a lawyer, he couldn’t say for sure. Rick also wasn’t an extortionist, but he felt the most likely use of this tape was obvious. And if Captain Jack had gone down that road, it might account for his scarcity.

  Jigsaw Puzzle faded out. A second later, the tone arm lifted and tracked straight across the back to its starting position. Rick loved the design of this turntable with the tone arm that didn’t come at the record from that weird angle all the others did. He didn’t know if it produced a discernibly better sound, but it sure looked cool.

  Rick sat there mulling his options. He was new in town. He didn’t know anybody. He had no hobbies. He was single and without prospects, although he had hopes for Traci Foster, whom he had known for a grand total of six hours. . . something about that eye shadow. He figured looking into the disappearance of Captain Jack could prove to be an amusing diversion.

  Suddenly hungry, Rick decided to see what Captain Jack had left in his cupboards. He pushed himself out of the chair, hoping for Oreos. But on his way to the kitchen Rick had a thought. He stopped in front of the wall of albums, his head tilted right. He squinted as if looking for something in his mind, then he reached for the wall. He pulled Robert Palmer’s 1974 gem, Sneakin’ Sally Through The Alley. He looked on the back and found the song that had come to mind. He thought for another moment, then pulled 10cc, The Original Soundtrack. It contained a song with the same title as the one on Palmer’s album. Was it the same song? Rick had never thought about it until now. He looked at the writing credits. The first was by Palmer and the late Lowell George of Little Feat fame. The other was written by 10cc’s Stewart and Gouldman. Different songs, but with the same potent one-word title: Blackmail.

  5.

  Rick woke up in the chair. The Robert Palmer album was in his lap along with what looked like a pair of small orange dice. These turned out to be carrot bits from the frozen dinner Rick had found in the freezer the night before. It wasn’t in a box, just an aluminum tray covered in foil. The dessert had been pried out long ago. The meat substance was freezer-burn gray, but Rick had guessed Salisbury steak.

  Rick squinted at a clock on the shelf. It was just after eight. He reached down for the handle on the chair and cranked it forward. He stretched and cracked his neck before getting up to shuffle into the kitchen. He found a can of Community Coffee with enough for about two decent cups. Rick knew he’d need more than that before he could decide his future. He drank what he had, then took a shower before heading back toward town. He’d seen a coffee shop cum truck stop about halfway between the station and the trailer.

  It was called Kitty’s Road Café. It looked like it had been there for half a century. It also looked like they’d retained the original waitresses, grizzled, stooped, and churlish. Depending on the food -- and assuming they served cold beer -- it was just the sort of place Rick looked for when he moved to a new town. It was his routine. One of the first things he did was find a locally owned and operated eatery. He couldn’t eat at Chilis or Fridays or Applebees or Ruby Tuesday or any of the others. He didn’t want meals that had been conceived in test kitchens and given foolish names. And he didn’t want to be subjected to pep squad food servers belting out ‘Happy Birthday’ while he tried to eat. He didn’t want meals with a Hollywood theme or a Hard Rock theme or a NASCAR theme. He just wanted good food and genuine atmosphere.

  Kitty’s was just such a place. It smelled like pork fat, coffee, and pecan pie twenty-four hours a day and it was just clean enough not to be shut down by the Health Department. Rick sat at the counter and picked up a dog eared menu that looked like it had been printed in 1967 and kept alive by the miracle of lamination. At the top it said: Home of Kitty’s Biscuits and The Original World Famous Tater Wads. Without asking, the crusty waitress behind the counter slid a cup of coffee and a sweating glass of water in front of Rick and growled, “What can I getcha, hon?”

  He looked up, pointing at the menu and said, “What’s a tater wad?”

  The waitress snatched the menu from Rick and wedged it back behind the napkin dispenser. She turned and called back to the kitchen, “Number three!�
� She looked down at Rick. “How you want the eggs?”

  “Uh, scrambled.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Scrambled!” Then she left.

  Rick figured the woman was a professional, knew what she was doing, so he let her go. He figured the answer to his tater wad question would show up with the Number Three. Meanwhile he sipped his coffee and resumed weighing his options. He didn’t want the morning show and he didn’t want to be a program director. But he didn’t want to be unemployed either. A lawsuit was too much trouble and he didn’t have enough of a financial cushion to go back to school so he could get something more akin to what his last girlfriend referred to as a grown-up job. So the path of least resistance called. He’d take the job, but try to negotiate something closer to the original offer. Worst case, he’d stick around long enough to put together a good tape and then move on.

  “Here ya go, hun.” The waitress slipped the plate onto the counter as she passed by. Four sausages that looked homemade, some scrambled eggs, toast, and a pile of what Rick assumed were Kitty’s Original World Famous Tater Wads. He speared one with his fork and popped it into his mouth. Cupped inside a crunchy crust was a preparation somewhere between hash browns and buttery mashed potatoes. He couldn’t tell if they were deep fried or browned in a skillet. There were some herbs too, thyme and something else, he wasn’t sure what. Rick’s eyes closed involuntarily as he chewed. “That’s a tater wad,” the waitress said from the far end of the counter.

  Rick looked at her. “What’s in it?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said, pointing at him.

  Rick swallowed, wiped his mouth, and asked again.

  “Ain’t tellin’,” the waitress said.

  Rick didn’t care. He’d found his place to eat. He took a bite of the sausage. Lamb, pork, and unknown spices, the best he’d ever tasted. And the location was as perfect as the Tater wads. He grabbed the menu. “Hey, can I get a couple of Kitty’s biscuits?”

  “No,” the waitress said as she pulled her order pad from her apron. “Them taters is all the starch you need for breakfast ‘less you’re fixin’ to plow a field, which I bet you ain’t.” She yanked the top page off the pad and laid it by Rick’s plate. “Come back and have the biscuits with yer dinner.” Then she walked away.

  Rick just said, “Okay.”

  6.

  Twenty minutes later Rick was at the radio station, sitting across the desk from Clay Stubblefield. “Next time try the tomato-gravy on grits,” Clay said. “Man, it’s good.” He pointed at Rick. “And get the fried grits, not the regular kind.”

  Rick nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “Regular’s fine but I like that crunch you get with the fried ones.” Clay made a snapping movement with his hand.

  “Sure,” Rick said. “I’ll do that.” He glanced around Clay’s office. Paneling from the seventies, photos from Clay’s college football days, some local service club plaques hanging on the walls, a thick glass ashtray, and a framed picture on his desk. “Now, Mr. Stubblefield--”

  “Hey, do me a favor. Call me Clay.” He rocked back in his chair, hands behind his head. “I’m not real big on formalities.”

  “Fine. Clay. So, let me ask you--”

  Clay sat forward and slapped a hand on his desk. “Oh, hey, I heard a good one last night.” He ducked his head and lowered his voice a bit. “This gal left work on a Friday after gettin’ her paycheck, right? Went straight to the bank, cashed it, and stayed out the whole weekend partyin’. Spent her whole pay check. Well, she staggered in late Sunday night and her husband’s all pissed off ‘cause he’d been stuck with the kids all weekend, right? He’d missed his tee time and a poker game so he let her have it with both barrels. Finally he stopped yellin’ and said, ‘How’d you like it if you didn’t see me for two or three days?’ She said, ‘That’d be fine with me.’ So Monday went by and she didn’t see her husband. Tuesday and Wednesday came and went with the same results. But on Thursday, the swelling went down just enough where she could see him a little out of the corner of her left eye.” Clay delivered the punch line with a wink, then slapped the top of his desk.

  Rick faked a laugh and thought, Jesus, this guy’s a serious Gomer. He hoped Clay didn’t have a million of ‘em. Then again, based on that tape, this is probably par for the course. “That’s a pretty good one,” Rick said. He folded his hands together. “So, Clay. How are we going to work out our situation? Like I said--”

  “Oh, yeah, listen. That meeting I had yesterday afternoon? Paid off. Gonna do a big station promotion to announce the new format, lots of on-air giveaways, T-shirts, hats, CDS, all that crap, plus a big cash prize at the end.”

  “That’s great but--”

  “But I’ll tell ya the best part,” Clay said. “Best part is it’s somebody else’s cash. That’s what that meetin’ was about yesterday. That and their time buy.” Clay grinned and pointed at Rick. “I mean it’s not like we got a real big budget for promotions, right?” He waved dismissively. “You’ve worked in small markets. You know what I’m talkin’ about. But I got that loan outfit to kick in the cash prize on a trade out. So anyway, you need to get on the horn with all the record reps, local car stereo places, you know, anybody who might throw something in the kitty for a little advertising, get whatever they’ll give ya. And start working up some spots, too. You know, something like . . . ” Clay dropped into his idea of an FM announcer voice. “W-A-O-RRRRRReal rock. Real cash.” Clay seemed surprised at how good that was. “That’s not bad.” He wrote it on a pad of paper. “You should use that. And use Pink Floyd’s money song.” Clay stabbed his pen at the note.

  Rick leaned forward and said, “Soon as we get our business squared away.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that.” Clay gave a reassuring chuckle. “I’m going to take care of you, like I said.” Clay wrote something else on the pad. He looked up at Rick. “Makin’ myself a note right now, talk to payroll about adjusting your situation.” He finished his note with a flourish and jabbed a period on the page, then he picked up a spiral bound document. “Here’s your employee handbook.” Clay wagged it as he said, “All the usual about insurance and all that.” He handed it to Rick. “Read it, sign it, and get it back quick as you can so we can get you on the policy.” He paused before saying, “You ain’t got any dependents, do you?”

  Rick shook his head. “Nope.”

  Clay winked and said, “At least none you know about, huh?” He picked up the framed photo from his desk. “Here’s mine,” he said, showing the standard edition family portrait with the mottled gray backdrop. Mrs. Stubblefield was an angular beauty with dark hair in a soft flip. She was seated with one child in her lap and one sitting at her feet. Clay was lording over them from behind as if it were the late nineteenth century. “Course that was taken a while ago.” He pointed at the kids one at a time. “This one’s in high school and this one’s in seventh or eighth grade. It’s hard to keep up.”

  “Very attractive woman,” Rick said.

  “Sure was.” Clay set the photo back in its place.

  Great. She’s dead. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “No, nothing like that,” Clay said with a smirk. “Shit, Lori’s still around. . . my neck, if you know what I mean.” He opened his DayTimer and glanced at his schedule. “In fact you’re bound to meet her sooner or later. She likes to drop by unannounced every now and then.”

  Rick nodded. At first he assumed that meant they were divorced and that the former Mrs. Stubblefield enjoyed picking up her alimony checks in person. Then he noticed the wedding band on Clay’s finger. So he’s either remarried or he considers Lori his millstone, Rick thought. But if he remarried he’d be more likely to have a photo of the new wife on the desk, which he doesn’t. And if Clay considers Lori his millstone, then those sexual entertainments he bragged about on the tape are more actionable indiscretions than mere escapades. And if that’s the case, it ups the number of potential blackmail victims by one Cl
ay Stubblefield, assuming he cares about his marriage. Hey, this amateur detective thing is kind of fun, Rick thought.

  “Anyway.” Clay pointed at the speaker in the ceiling. Cream’s White Room. “I assume you been listening since you’ve been here?”

  Rick shrugged. “What I heard on the drive into town and what I caught today. Sounds like you’ve already changed format.”

  “Yeah, I put a note in the control room, told everybody to start playing the old stuff. Told ‘em the new PD would be here today to narrow it down for ‘em.” Clay jutted his chin out and rubbed under his neck for a moment, waiting for Rick to say something.

  Rick listened as the DJ went from the Cream into a commercial. “Thinking about a weekend trip to the casinos? Universal Financial Services is your ticket to the tables. If you own your car, get cash today and still drive away! Quick and confidential. Car title loans, payday advances. You need money and we’ve got it! Universal Financial Services. . .”

  “I get to decide the exact format,” Rick said.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “No interference.”

  “Well, not until the next ratings book, anyway.” Another wink, then, Tch.

  Rick reached over and tapped Clay’s note pad. “And you’re gonna take care of that.”

  “Consider it done.” Clay held his hand out to shake.

  Rick knew he was going to regret doing so, but he did it anyway. It’s only rock ‘n’ roll, Rick thought. But I like it. He shook Clay’s hand. “Okay.”

  Clay looked at his watch. “Good. You need to get started promoting the new format with this contest. And hit that cash giveaway real big. Folks love the cash giveaways. I don’t care what your format is.”

  “How much?”