by John Dunning
Suddenly he knew why: they turned down the radio so they could hear me coming, so I wouldn’t walk in and surprise ’em. Then, when they left, they turned it back up, but not far enough.
So they know I’m here.
He sat on the bed. The rationing show was gone, and a local announcer was talking about the oil slick and the prospects for the Festival of the Sun to go on as scheduled. An exciting Saturday lineup of local and national programming was promised, with afternoon music by Jimmy Dorsey and Lionel Hampton. At six thirty those funny fellows from Pine Ridge, Lum and Abner, would kick off the Blue Network evening schedule. The Green Hornet would air from Detroit at eight, and Ripley’s Believe-It-Or-Not from New York at ten. He turned off the radio, closed the window, and locked the door as he went out.
The sun was hot on his skin. The beach was crowded now, the road into town clogged with cars. The stores were all open and even from this distance he could see people congregating on the pier. The pavilion beckoned, promising cold beer and talk with interesting strangers. But he turned north, surprising himself.
There were a dozen reasons why he should lie low till dark, but it was too late for reasons. He felt the sand under his shoes as he hiked across the dunes toward the radio tower, shimmering in the noonday heat.
( ( ( 4 ) ))
THE radio station was in a large building a quarter mile off the main highway on the west side of the island. The parking lot on the north end was almost empty; a smaller lot to the south was half full. Beyond the building was the tower, with a small tin shed at the base of it. A stand of trees ran along the creek and around the point to the north.
He started down the hill without a plan; then, as if on demand, he was struck by a dangerous notion that grew as he walked. He would present himself as an old friend looking for Kendall. He knew he was playing blindman’s bluff with killers but he didn’t see much added risk in it. Kendall’s enemies would know him on sight anyway, so what good would a lie do?
He had a few small advantages. He had smelled them out back in California; he knew they were there but they didn’t know that. And he figured they wanted him alive yet. They could’ve killed him in Nevada, on that lonely desert road, if that’s what they’d wanted.
He crossed the oyster-shell road and was suddenly aware of the island’s marshy back side: the almost seminal scent of mud and a faintly sweet decay where sea things had died and dried out on the bank. The building was impressive: it rose at least thirty feet above the cars, tall enough for three floors but apparently only the two. There were steel doors at opposite ends of the building with no handles on the outside. Each bore a sign that said FIRE DOOR/NO ENTRY. The windows on both floors were heavily curtained.
A redbrick walk skirted the building, leading through a rock garden around the corner. The lobby opened from the west side, facing away from the highway. He absorbed this instantly, but what he saw was two women sitting at a picnic table. One was reading a magazine and eating something from a brown paper bag; the other had her head down across folded arms as if taking a nap in the sun.
He started across the gap and now saw other tables off in the trees. It looked more like a campground than a radio station, with at least two brick barbecue pits and a volleyball net staked out in the sand. He heard music, then he saw a battery radio playing softly at the end of the table. The woman reading the magazine was just into her early twenties, with an exceptional face set off by short black hair. She grew prettier as the gap between them narrowed. Her friend at first seemed plain, but as he came closer he knew that this was a comparative effect. She wore a man’s clothes, pants and a flannel shirt, sandals, and no jewelry.
The beauty spoke. “Here comes another actor, Liv.”
Jordan laughed sociably and the young one decided to smile slightly. She had a Gibson girl loveliness, an almost aching perfection like the faces painted by Harrison Fisher long ago.
“So, stranger, what’s your specialty?”
“Haven’t got one. Just drifted in looking for an old friend.”
“Friend got a name?”
“Fella named Marty Kendall.”
“Oh, Kendall hasn’t been here in ages. We were talking about him just last week. Somebody thought he might’ve gone to Chicago. There are still lots of soap shows coming out of Chicago, but I know Kendall’s voice. I know all his voices and I don’t hear him on any of those shows.”
“Then where do you think he went?”
“I’d say he’s on a bender somewhere. Would that be fair, Liv?”
The other woman said, “I guess that’s the way to bet.” She sat up straight and was very tall. A torrent of tawny hair tumbled down her back and her eyes were so pale they were almost gray. She looked his age, thirty-two, maybe a little older: she had crow’s feet around her eyes and her mouth was a little too wide. There was nothing remarkable about her face except that it was unforgettable, its exotic prettiness pulling his attention away from the classic beauty beside her.
“Seems strange for Marty to drop off the earth,” he said.
“Well, he did,” said the tall one. “Not so much as a ‘Doodah’ or a Vaya con Dios to anybody.”
“He’ll probably come back the same way he left,” said the beauty. “If he lives through it.”
The tall one sighed and the beauty said, “If he’s a friend of Kendall’s he can’t be too surprised. He’s got to know that Kendall had a problem.”
“He didn’t drink around me,” Jordan said.
The beauty changed the subject. “So if you’re not an actor, how’d you come to know Kendall?”
Keep going, he thought: do what comes naturally. “I’m a writer.”
She said, “Oh,” as if that explained everything. The tall one was more impressed. “Are you looking for work?”
“I wasn’t but I might be.”
“Because they need writers here like Hitler needs a new attitude.”
“If he’s a good writer,” said the beauty. “Why aren’t you in the army?”
She was so young and sassy she made him laugh. But her esprit seemed genuine, so he told her.
“Lucky you,” she said. “That means you’ll probably live to celebrate your next birthday. I’d trade an ear for that.”
He gestured at the table, a courtesy. Both said, “Sure,” and he straddled the bench and sat. Beauty closed her magazine and turned off her radio. “So, what do you say? Do you want to work at Harford, or not?”
The word made him flinch. “What’s Harford?”
“You’re sitting in it. That’s what we call this station. It’s radio shorthand, insider talk.”
“Most stations have nicknames,” said the tall one.
“Usually it’s the last three call letters. But ‘Harford’ is easier to say than ‘H-A-R.’ ”
“Didn’t I see that name Harford on a building downtown?”
“Now you’ve got it,” said beauty. “Harford runs the world.”
“And Harford is a man, right?”
“That’s what they tell me.” She cocked her head slightly. “Did anyone ever tell you you look like a workingman’s Gary Cooper? . . . A nice homely plainsman, long and lanky and quiet. My name’s Rue Nicholas.”
“Jordan Ten Eyck.”
The tall one offered her hand and said her name—“Livia Teasdale”—and her grip was strong and firm.
“So, Kendall’s not here,” said Miss Nicholas. “What are you going to do, keep moving or work awhile? For a writer you seem damned independent.”
“It’s sure not that. But I’ve never worked in radio before.”
He saw the question reappear in their eyes: Then how’d you come to know Kendall? He groped for a lie, something he’d never been much good at, but she let it go. She said, “If you’re fast and you can write the way people talk, you’re ahead of the game before you start. We’ve got a new station manager. Behave yourself and I’ll introduce you. Then if you work out he’ll owe me one.”
“Wha
t do you do here?”
“They say I’m an actress. Sometimes I work, sometimes I don’t. On nice days I sit out here and wait for the man to call me.” She nudged her magazine. “Sometimes I find them a story they can use, something the networks haven’t beaten half to death. If they can get the broadcast rights for next to nothing, they’ll usually let me play some part in it. Welcome to my office.”
He looked at the tall one. “Is this your office too?”
“No, what I have is a workroom. I do sound effects. With two kids I need a real job.”
Miss Nicholas broke open her lunch bag and offered him a banana. Livia had some nuts in a cloth sack, and in the sudden intimacy of shared food they were friends. Rue asked what he’d written and without thinking twice, he told her. One novel long out of print. Two stories in Esquire, another in the Atlantic, two in Harper’s, one each in Collier’s and Cosmopolitan. In the silence that followed he blinked at his own stupidity. Nothing he had just said could be proved in the name Jordan Ten Eyck.
Again Kendall was there. They would be wondering what Kendall had been doing with a literary writer, but they didn’t ask.
“For what it’s worth, probably nothing, I am truly impressed,” Rue said. “I never knew anybody who could write a novel.”
“Now you see it’s no big deal.”
“Don’t run yourself down, Jordan. When you get in there, smother that part of yourself that wants to apologize for living.”
“When I get in where?”
“When you go in for your tryout. They try anyone who asks, and they will fall all over themselves giving you a chance to pan out for them. Shall I tell you what to expect?”
“If you don’t think that’s cheating.”
Livia laughed. “Gosh, you really are something. Honesty, modesty, and manners in one package.”
“He’ll never make it in radio,” Rue said.
“They’ll give you a short test on world affairs,” Livia said. “Do you know who Pétain is?”
“French traitor.”
“You’ll be fine. They don’t get any tougher than that.”
“They’ll ask you to write some continuity,” Rue said. “Do you know what that is?”
“No idea on this earth.”
“It’s just balderdash,” Livia said. “The stuff they say between things. We come out of the network every half hour with thirty seconds to fill before the next show comes down the line.”
“All of it’s got to be written,” said Rue.
“Maybe they’ll ask you for a schedule teaser,” Livia said.
“Or a plug for a new client,” said Rue. “Just be conversational, don’t get cute, and for God’s sake don’t be literary.”
“If you run into a difficult name, give them a phonetic in parentheses.”
“There’s a book in the desk that tells you how all the tough names must be said—people, countries, everything. If they like you, they may call you back, maybe for several days. But you won’t get paid unless they actually put you on staff.”
“That’s the bad news,” Livia said.
“That and the pay you actually do get,” Rue said. “If working like hell for next to nothing’s your cup of tea, you’ll be in hog heaven. So, what do you say? I’m meeting with the man this afternoon. I’ll sic him on you if you want to take the test.”
“What have I got to lose?”
“Nothing but your soul, Jordan. Most of us lost that long ago. Now we’re all slaves to the great god radio.”
In a while a surly-looking young man came out and stood at the edge of the yard watching them.
“I guess that’s my cue,” Livia said.
“The hell with him,” Rue said. “If he wants you, let him come over and say so.”
The kid lit a smoke and said nothing till he’d smoked it down. He flipped the butt into the sand and called across the gap. “Well, are you coming, or not?”
“Of course I’m coming,” Livia said.
“If you’d rather stand around shooting the breeze all day, I can do this alone. Makes no damn difference to me.”
Livia smiled sweetly. “Nice to meet you, Jordan. See ya later, Rue.”
She walked away and the kid let a long challenging moment pass before he turned and trucked along behind her.
“There’s a boy who needs to be taught some manners,” Jordan said.
“He will be. Wait till the army gets him in boot camp next week. I’d just love to be a mouse in the corner of his barracks.”
They sat quiet now, the serendipitous texture of the hour broken. A few minutes later the kid came out and pulled a wood-paneled truck to the fire door. Then Livia appeared carrying a shotgun and a rifle and two pistols tucked in her belt. Jordan said, “Looks like they’re gonna start their own war,” but a long moment passed before Rue replied. “They’re going down to the beach to record some gunshots,” she said. “He’s supposed to be teaching her the finer points. I think I’ll throw up. She’s already forgotten more about sound than that little prick, pardon my French, will ever know.”
“Smells like company politics brewing.”
Rue smiled bitterly. “Livia’s marvelously creative and that makes them nervous. And she’s a woman, and that makes them nervous. And she’s beautiful. Don’t you think so?”
He took too long to answer and she gave him a look of disgust. “You men all think alike. You always go for the Dresden dolls like me. I’d give anything for a face like hers.”
Jordan found this remark endearing. Rue cast her eyes at him and said, “The prick’s father runs the sound department. Old Poindexter’s been here since Jesus was a cowboy. He was one of the original soundmen, back when it looked like this station might set the world on fire. Somehow that never happened and now the old man’s a worse drunk than Marty Kendall. So Poindexter’s son Alger was being groomed to take over the department. What that means is a continuation of the same old stuff. The gunshots sound just like they did in nineteen thirty-two, and this little masquerade they’re doing down on the beach won’t change that a goddamn bit. It’s just a finger exercise, something to keep her in her place. Don’t do anything really innovative, that’s the rule of the day. Don’t do anything the old man can’t do, or wouldn’t think of doing in a billion years of firing shotguns into the sand. And the kid would’ve been thrilled to continue that glorious tradition, except for two things—his number came up, and now he’s gone in the draft—and Livia’s gonna keep his job warm for the duration. They just want to make sure she doesn’t do it too well.”
She sighed. “I don’t know, Jordan. You’d probably be better off moving on. This place used to be first rate. The talent that’s gone through here is a crying shame. You can’t retrieve that, and the waste has been tragic. We should be setting the radio world on its ear every night. But it never happens. Harford lost interest in this place and everything else about five years ago.”
“What happened?”
“His wife died. One day she just got sick and died. It was very fast.” She shook her head. “You never know, do you?”
She waved at someone in the distance. “If you want to know more about this place, dig out the local newspaper from a couple of weeks ago. They had an excellent recap. There’s probably a copy around somewhere.”
She reached over and patted his hand. “Gotta go, they’re giving me the high sign in the window. Time and the new boss wait for no one.”
( ( ( 5 ) ) )
THE clock hummed faintly as the red hand made its sweep and slipped past the black hand with a little bump. It was two o’clock and the man, Mr. Jethro Kidd, had not yet returned to check his test. Nothing to do now but wait, think, endure the silence. There had been a janitor emptying wastebaskets across the hall but he was gone now. The hush had settled in gradually: it was his awareness of it that was sudden, reaching an instant peak as he finished the test and the typewriter ceased its furious clatter. Then he heard the floor creak and he pushed his chair back and loo
ked around the edge of the cubicle.
He was in an upstairs room on the southwest corner of the building, sitting in a circle of light. Only the light above him had been turned on: the far reaches of the room, away from the wall with its shaded windows, remained in deep shadow. On any given weekday this room would be alive with people: billers and bookkeepers, copywriters, salesmen, and job hunters, all elbowing one another for a flat surface with a typewriter and a telephone where an hour’s work could be done. Now there was only Jordan, and some spook back there in the dark.
He had been given a test, two dozen questions challenging his knowledge of world leaders. He had been given the station’s schedule and told to write a few lines for the four o’clock break. He had been given the morning newspaper and told to steal from it liberally.
He had been given a time limit—thirty minutes for both the test and the finished copy—but almost an hour had passed and the man had not come back for him. Too bad, he thought: he believed he had done well, and now they’d probably make him do it over again. But he would do okay: he had always read a daily newspaper and he had a good handle on the fools who ran the world. The test had taken ten minutes and he’d used his full remaining twenty minutes to write his copy.
At four o’clock the network would break away from a band remote and bring a show called Club Matinee down the line from Chicago. All he knew about Club Matinee was what was written on the continuity sheet. The host was a fellow named Ransom Sherman and he’d be followed at four thirty by the Jimmy Dorsey band. He turned his pages down, noted the time he had finished, and hoped the man would take him at his word. But he was a compulsive rewriter and now he rolled another sheet of pulpy newsprint into the machine and began to play with it. He looked outside and wrote a weather squib with a dig at Japan, then worked Dorsey into it and nailed it down in three lines. “It’s getting hot in the Coral Sea, if you happen to be a Jap. On the Jersey shoreline the weather’s naturally warm, with temperatures peaking into the high seventies and more warming expected tomorrow. Stay tuned for Ransom Sherman, and don’t forget Jimmy Dorsey plays a red-hot clarinet just thirty minutes from now. It’s all on WHAR, your Blue Network voice of the eastern seaboard, in Regina Beach.”
